As he turned with her, the lamplight fell full on his face, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot! He also saw something that had hitherto escaped his notice. He saw the whisky bottle on the shelf in the cupboard. She had neglected to close the cupboard door.
"I'll have a short drink first," he said, and dragged her to the cupboard.
He was holding her left-handed. She was on the wrong side to reach his gun. Nevertheless she swung her body in front of him and snatched wildly at the pistol butt.
He did not divine her intention but thought she was trying to keep him away from the whisky. The result was the same, for he wrenched her back with a twist that started the tears in her eyes.
Holding the bottle in one hand, he drew the cork with his teeth, spat it out and applied his lips to the bottle neck. He swallowed long and generously. Hazel saw his Adam's apple slide up and down a dozen times. At such a rate the man would be a fiend in no time.
"Let me get my clothes," she begged.
Anything to get him away from the liquor. But Rafe was not so easily separated from his old friend.
"Wait a minute," he said peevishly, lowering the bottle and fixing her with his bloodshot gaze. "Don't be in such a hurry. Here, have one yourself."
He thrust the bottle toward her. She took it from him, held it to her mouth and then the bottle seemed to slip from her fingers. She snatched at it, juggled it a split second and—the bottle smashed in bits on a corner of the stove.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried, quite as if she had not contrived the catastrophe on purpose.