“Sure,” grinned Curly. “Plenty.”
His grin was erased, and the Texans became tense, as the big woman’s voice filled the barroom.
“Curly! Curleeee!”
“What in blue blazes …?” began Stretch.
“When she hollers like that,” fretted Curly, “I know what to expect.”
“ Curleeee …!” bellowed Dora, with such volume that the kitchen china vibrated.
“She’s off again,” sighed the barkeep. “Another big one—another jag.”
“You mean she’ll get drunk?” challenged Larry.
“In the worst way,” Curly grimly assured him, as he whirled and dashed back into the barroom.
The Texans traded thoughtful glances. Then, firmly, Larry said:
“Time enough later for checkin’ the cellar. Lower the trapdoor, big feller.”
Stretch obeyed. By the time he was returning the lamp to the table, Larry was back in the barroom. The taller Texan followed. Kurt Osmond was departing through the main entrance but they didn’t notice him, because all their attention was focused on the massive woman atop the stairs. She was gesticulating wildly, yelling orders to the boss-barkeep.
“Fetch it—and fetch it fast! Don’t keep me waitin’!” She hustled back to the office.
Curly was behind the bar now. From a bottom shelf, he took a dark green bottle.
“Hagen’s Special, it’s called,” he sadly informed the drifters. “You never tasted strong poison till you taste this stuff. And, for the sake of your innards, I hope you never do.”
“Rotgut?” prodded Larry.
“Firewater,” nodded Curly. “When the boss is feelin’ all wrought up, she drinks this stuff raw. It’s bad for her, and She knows it, but there’s just no way of stoppin’ her.”
Larry extended a hand and snapped his fingers, saying: “Let’s have it, Curly.”
“The bottle?” frowned Curly.
“The bottle,” nodded Larry.
“I’m supposed to take it up to her,” said Curly. “If I don’t she’ll cuss up a storm. I could smash this bottle, but it wouldn’t make no difference. She’d only come get another.”
“I’ll take her the bottle,” insisted Larry. “If she’s in a cussin’ mood, let her cuss me.”
“Well—just what’re you fixin’ to do?” demanded Curly. “Somebody,” opined Larry, “ought to try and stop her.”
“When the boss is in this kind of mood,” sighed Curly, “there’s nothin’ can stop her. I know, because I’ve worked for her a long time. I’ve seen her this way before.”
“I’ll tell you somethin’ else about a woman in a mood,” said Larry. “If the mood is sad and mean, she needs to talk. That’s a fact, Curly. They need to get it all said.”
“Friend,” said Curly, “there never was a man could talk that woman out of a drinkin’ jag—but you’re welcome to take a whirl at it.”
Larry took the bottle and headed for the stairs, with his partner in tow. In the gallery, he approached the open doorway of Big Dora’s office with the green bottle cradled in his arm.
She was seated at her desk, clenching and unclenching her hands, trembling, pallid, obviously plagued by some all-consuming emotion. When she glared at them, it was as though she were seeing them for the first time.
“What in blazes,” she wildly demanded, “do you want? I hollered for Curly!”
“Stretch,” frowned Larry, “shut the door.”
Stretch did that. The big woman focused on what Larry held in the crook of his left arm.
“I’ll take that bottle!” she snapped.
“What for?” countered Larry. He flicked a glance to the dock on the wall behind her desk. “It’s less than twenty minutes since we were talkin’ to you, Dora. You were worried then, but you weren’t a fool.” Grim-faced, he studied the bottle. “Are you gonna be a fool now, Dora? This is mighty strong medicine. You drink enough of it, and you won’t be able to think straight. Is that what you want?”
“You bet your Texas hide it’s what I want!” she breathed. “Now hand it over!”
“Will you feel any easier,” he challenged, “when the bottle’s empty, when you’ve slept off your jag? You have to wake up some time, Dora. What happens then? Do you holler for Curly—start on another bottle?” He helped himself to a chair, eyed her steadily. “Now you listen to me. You’re big and rough and salty but, for my money, you’re still a Texas lady. Texans don’t quit, Dora.”
“That’s easy enough to say,” she mumbled, “when you don’t understand—when you don’t know …!”
“I want to understand,” he assured her. “But it’s up to you, Dora. Anything you tell us—we’ll keep under our hats. Stretch and me would never spill a secret. Talk it out, and maybe we can help you.”
“The only man I could talk to was The Professor,” she sighed. “He understood, but he couldn’t help me. You’d understand, but you couldn’t help either. Nobody can help me, Larry.”
“No matter how big a problem you got,” he opined, “it won’t hurt to talk it over.” Again, he exhibited the bottle. “You’re no coward. You don’t really need this.”
“I guess,” she frowned, “I could count on you boys to keep your mouths shut.”
“You got our word on it,” said Larry. He held out the big bottle. “Big feller—take care of this.”
Stretch took the bottle, toted a chair to the corner nearest the door and seated himself. While he listened, he fiddled with the cork. Larry rolled and lit a cigarette, his eyes never straying from that over-painted, triple chinned face. Softly at first, the big woman told her tale of woe. She began by describing Kurt Osmond’s first visit, his threat to expose her as the mother of a wealthy and highly-respected ’Frisco lady. She told of the letter received by Mayor Marriot, and the impulsive action of the money-hungry Bessie. From then on, she spoke louder, her voice edged with emotion.
“So now she’s likely on her way, headed straight for New Strike, and there’s no way of stoppin’ her! That Marriot woman will meet her and bring her to me. I’ll have to face her and—and I don’t know if I have—the strength to do that.” In this rowdy, hard-boiled community of miners and mercenaries, Big Dora had rarely been seen in her present condition. Her eyes were watering. The tears were trickling down her bedaubed cheeks. Larry felt a twinge of regret. Over by the window, Stretch heaved a sigh and absent-mindedly uncorked the green bottle. “How can I face her—and lie to her? But—but that’s what I got to do, Larry. She must never know the truth!”
“Dora,” frowned Larry, “I scarce ever read a big city newspaper, so I wouldn’t know about this Dexter lady. You’ll have to tell me.”
“Mrs. Vernon Dexter the Third,” murmured Dora. “She got wed just a little while back. Her husband—well—I guess he’s a good man. Rich? Sure. He inherits the Dexter shipping outfit, biggest transportation outfit on the west coast. Before the marriage, she was Leona Storley, daughter of William Marcus Storley. You ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Larry.
“A long time ago,” she sighed, “Will Storley came to North Texas. I was a lot younger then, just a sassy orphan in a satin gown, workin’ for a percentage in a Warrentown hell-house. Will’s folks were in the bankin’ business. He came to Warrentown to start a branch office, you know? Well, he was there almost three years. We met. He started buyin’ presents for me, courtin’ me. Courtin’ me, of all people! When he said he wanted to marry me, I just knew it couldn’t last. I was trash. He was quality. But I went ahead and married him anyway. I just had to, Larry. I loved that man.”
Stretch heaved another sigh, lifted the green bottle and transferred a generous quantity of Hagen’s Special to his interior. Rightaway, he wondered why Curly Beck had handled this bottle so gingerly, why he had described this rare blend as firewater. It settled comfortably. The taste was appealing. He felt fine—so he swigged a few more mouthfuls.
“Go on, Dora,” urged Larry.
&
nbsp; “I was a mighty happy woman,” she recalled, “happy and proud, when our daughter was born. You never saw a young’un as purty as little Leona. Will was happy, too.”
“And proud?” challenged Larry.
Her face clouded over.
“Proud of Leona—but not of me. It showed in a lot of ways, Larry. Oh, he was never cruel to me. It was just—he couldn’t forget what kind of man he was, all the traditions he had to live up to, the family name, the great reputation. And he couldn’t—he couldn’t forget what kind of woman I was.”
“So you split up?” prodded Larry.
“I knew I couldn’t hold him,” she shrugged. “There was nothin’ to keep him in Texas. His folks ordered him back to ’Frisco, and he was itchin’ to shake the dust of Warrentown off his boots. That’s when I knew it was all a crazy mistake. I ought never have married him. What chance would I have in ’Frisco, tryin’ to act like them high-born folks that rubbed shoulders with the Storleys? I said I couldn’t go. Then Will got mad and said he’d divorce me. He wanted to take Leona with him.”
“You let him do that?”
“Is that so hard to understand, Larry? Sure, I let ’im take Leona. There never was a divorce. Will warned me. We had a big fight, and he warned me that, as soon as she was old enough to understand, he’d tell Leona her ma was dead. He claimed this was the only way. If his fancy ’Frisco friends ever learned that she was mothered by a saloon-girl—well—there’d be no future for her. She couldn’t get educated at any of those expensive schools, couldn’t hope to marry a real gentleman. Anyway, that’s how Will felt about it.”
“So you had to make a choice, huh, Dora?”
“Some choice!” She gestured helplessly. “Keep Leona—and have her grow up like me, just another no-account frontier gal hustlin’ drunks in some lousy hell-house. Or let Will take her—never see her again. That way, she’d get everything she deserved, everything I never had.” Vehemently, she asserted, “That’s what I really wanted for her, Larry! Yeah. That was my big dream. Nothin’ but the best for Leona. The fine clothes, the schoolin’, the high-class friends. And there was only one way I could give her those things. I’d have to let her go—and pretend I never knew her.”
“That’s the saddest sing I ever heard,” interjected Stretch.
“Cork that joy-juice,” Larry sourly advised, “before it pickles your innards.”
Defiantly, Stretch took another swig, and informed him, “I can handle it. It’s meal riled—I mean real wild.”
“Wild is right,” scowled Larry.
“I mean it’s mild,” frowned Stretch. “I could drink a whole bottle and feel nothin’.”
“That,” said Larry, “is what I’m afraid of.” He looked at the big woman again. “Dora, haven’t you ever changed your mind about Leona? D’you still feel the same way?”
“Exactly the same,” she declared, with great fervor. “It was important when she was little. It’s more important now. How’d you suppose she’d feel—if she saw me—if she found out that I’m her mother?”
“That’s a hard question for me to answer,” he muttered. “About some things, I savvy plenty. About other things, I savvy nothin’.”
“Well, I reckon I can answer it,” breathed Dora. “She’d start off by feelin’ sorry for me, Larry. Then, because she lived more than twenty years of her life thinkin’ I was dead, she’d feel ashamed, and maybe obligated. She’d figure she ought to let the whole damn world know the truth—just to prove she ain’t ashamed of me. Yeah. If she’s got one pint of my blood in her veins, that’s how she’d feel. Obligated. Beholden.”
“Maybe,” he grunted.
“I can’t let it happen,” she declared. “When she braces me, I’m gonna look her in the eye and tell her a string of lies. What’s more, she’ll have to believe those lies!” She eyed him earnestly, appealingly. “Will you help me?”
“Why, sure,” he frowned. “I’ll help any way I can—only ...”
“Only What?” she demanded.
“I told you before,” he Shrugged. “There’s some things I savvy, and some things I don’t. This is one time I—well—I wouldn’t know where to start, what to do or what to say. How do I help you with a thing like this?”
“One thing you can do,” she frowned, “is never breathe a word of this to a single livin’ soul. I’ve told you things I’ve told no other man—except The Professor.”
“Don’t you fret on our account,” mumbled Stretch. “We’ll keep our shouse mut. Uh—what I mean—we’ll keep our mouths shut.” He examined the bottle critically. “Hey. Maybe I was wrong about this stuff—and maybe Curly was right. Runt? How many bottles did you take off him?”
“One,” growled Larry. “How many do you see?”
“Three,” said Stretch.
“Curly was right,” sighed Larry. He got to his feet and offered Dora a few words of comfort. “You likely will convince her.”
“I sure aim to try,” said Dora. “There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do, Larry, to keep her from learnin’ the truth.”
“You’ll be all right now?” he asked.
“If you’ll promise me somethin’,” she murmured.
“Anything,” he assured her.
“When the big moment comes,” said Dora, “when I have to face Leona and—and lie to her—I’d like for you boys to be with me. I’ll need to have friends standin’ by, you know? With you and Stretch on hand, I won’t feel so damn helpless.”
“Count on it,” said Larry. “If the lady comes to New Strike, you won’t have to face her all by yourself.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, big feller.”
“Comin’,” said Stretch.
He rose from his chair, took two paces forward, then sagged at the knees and flopped, pitching flat on his face. Horrified, he rolled over and struggled to his knees.
“Holy Hannah!” he gasped. “I swear I ain’t drunk!”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Larry unsympathetically retorted.
“Larry,” frowned Dora, “you’d better lend him a hand.”
“Keep away from me!” panted Stretch. “By golly—there’ll never come a day when this child can’t rise up onto his own two feet—after a couple little sips of redeye. I’m Texan, damn it all, and us Texans can hold our liquor!”
He proved, during the next several minutes, that he was possessed of great stamina, persistence and courage. He also proved that the contents of the green bottle were every bit as powerful as Curly Beck had claimed. Three times, he got to his feet. Just as often, he collapsed. The fourth time, he remained perpendicular and became mobile, only to be beset by a navigation problem. He couldn’t seem to move forward. Every step he took was a backward step. He steered a course for where Larry stood in the open office doorway, but found himself back at the window, halfway through it and almost onto the balcony.
“Take my arm, you doggone jackass,” offered Larry, and he made to move forward.
“Nope!” gasped Stretch. “No siree, runt. Stay right where you are and—when I make it to that doorway—jump clear of me.”
He had devised a counter to his navigational fault. By turning and walking backwards, he managed to cross the office and pass through the doorway. Larry flashed Dora an encouraging grin, before shutting the door. He turned and seized Stretch’s arm.
“I’ll make it,” the taller Texan insisted. “Leave go of me! What d’you think I am? Helpless?”
“Have it your way,” shrugged Larry.
He released his grip, strode on towards the stairs. Just as he reached them, Stretch came hustling past. He made another grab for his partner’s arm, but missed. Stretch kept going, this time downwards; he wasn’t yet capable of negotiating a flight of stairs. The green bottle was still clutched firmly in his left hand. Larry noticed that, as he watched the taller Texan perform three ungraceful somersaults.
Curly Beck was watching, too, from his position behind the bar. His eyes were on the green bottle. In his right hand, he h
eld a brimming tumbler of some indescribable liquid. He winced, as the loudly-cursing Stretch finished his descent in an upside-down position. Larry came down unhurriedly and, with rock-like patience, untangled his partner’s limbs and hauled him to his feet. He then brought Stretch to the bar, gripping him by both arms. “Can you mix up somethin’ to …?” he began.
“Got it mixed and ready,” muttered the barkeep. “Mixed it when I spotted him atop the stairs. Knew for sure he’d been fillin’ himself with Hagen’s.” Deftly, he removed the green bottle from Stretch’s grasp and gave him the tumbler. “Drink that down, amigo, if you hope to get straightened out.”
“What’s this—more Hagen’s?” asked Stretch.
He raised the glass and began drinking. When it was half-empty, he made to lower it. Larry seized him by his short hairs and his right wrist and, with much exertion, forced him to drink it all.
“How much of that firewater,” asked Curly, “did the boss put away?”
“Nary a drop,” said Larry. “We managed to talk her out of it.”
Curly heaved a sigh of relief, and remarked:
“That’d take a heap of talkin’. Your tongue must be as fast as your gunhand. Well? You still goin’ down to the cellar?”
“Sure am,” nodded Larry. “Because I’m still curious.” Stretch rallied somewhat, as he followed his partner out to the kitchen, but Larry wasn’t taking any chances. Fearing the rare whiskey —or the antidote—might be inflammable, he refused to permit Stretch to light the lamp. Having raised the trapdoor again, he took the lamp and announced:
“I’ll go down first.”
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Stretch.
“You tag me,” Larry ordered, “and try not to fall and break your fool neck.”
That sizeable cellar had a stone-flagged floor and boarded walls. There was space, all the space Dora was ever apt to need for the storage of liquor. Stretch, followed Larry down and, somewhat wistfully, eyed the stacked cases of whiskey, the innumerable barrels of beer.
“Man, oh man!” He whistled softly. “Will you look at that stuff?”
“Yeah.” Larry was equally impressed. “Hundreds and hundreds of headaches.”
Larry and Stretch 17 Page 8