"Mister Marston! Mister Marston!"
Marston stopped splashing water on his face and cocked an ear. The shouting had a frenzied quality to it.
"Please sir! Come quick! We got big trouble!" The back door opened with a slam and the petitioner was suddenly in the hall. An agitated rapping on his bedroom door followed.
He tossed his towel into the wash basin and threw open the door. It was O'Flynn, wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot. "Mister Marston, Toby says you got to come! It's real bad, sir!"
Horrific visions of dingoes in the lambing pens flashed through his mind. "What's wrong?"
"It's Lushy, sir. She's..." O'Flynn gulped in air. "She's decided to make a real breakfast again."
Marston stared in disbelief. "Oh...my...God!" He grabbed his boots, pulled them on and set out for the cookhouse at a fast sprint, damning Matthew Quigley with every step.
The American sharpshooter had made an indelible impression on Marston Ranch and its inhabitants. In addition to killing a number of the men, he had inspired the aborigines who worked on the ranch to return to their own people and homes. The result was that changes had to be made in the way things were run.
The men had been replaced without too much trouble or expense. Additional women had been recruited to serve the men in their own unique feminine way. But to date Marston had been unsuccessful in finding a cook to replace his aboriginal servant. Experienced and skilled cooks preferred to remain in the towns where they were assured of work and renown. Few were willing to venture into the outback to slave over hot ranges under the burning sun for ranch hands with simple tastes and poor palates.
A compromise had been worked out with the women whereby they would take turns producing the meals every day. The result was that the variety of food offered was minimal but edible, and the grumbling of the reluctant chefs was kept within bounds.
Except for Lushy.
Lushy had arrived at the ranch in the same wagon as Quigley and Crazy Cora. Her name was really Lucy but with her strong southern American drawl and her constant state of slight inebriation, it came out sounding like Lushy and so it remained.
While the other women preferred to ignore anything that didn't pertain to themselves, Lushy had expressed a real interest in the workings of the ranch. She asked questions about the animals, listened keenly to the men describe their work and could be relied on to offer personal rewards or consolations commensurate with what kind of day they'd had. That she often forgot what she was told within hours of hearing it, that she gave the sheep and oxen individual pet names like "Sugarball" and "Sweetcakes" and that she referred to the dingoes that preyed on the livestock as "doggies" were admitted by the men but forgiven; they were felt to be small quirks in an otherwise attractive personality.
She was also the only woman who threw herself into the cooking chores. She perused the old cookbooks she found and searched out innovative recipes. She cheerfully spent hours over the range in even the hottest weather, experimenting with different ingredients and flavors. If her talents had approximated even one-tenth of her enthusiasm, the men would have been in culinary paradise.
The crowd of men around the cookhouse door fell back when Marston arrived. They greeted him with silent, pathetic stares. Toby, the ranch foreman, exhaled with unmistakable relief. "She's in there, Boss," he whispered.
"Let me handle this." Marston paused on the threshold. "Keep away from the windows and don't let her see you. We don't want her to get spooked and do something rash."
The men stampeded around the corner of the building. Marston pushed open the door and entered the cookhouse.
The room was empty except for the half-dressed woman stirring something in a bowl on the worktable, humming to herself. A large pot stood on the range, wafting the wholesome scent of oatmeal on the air. Beside it a large cast iron frying pan filled almost to the brim with lard sizzled and spat evilly.
Lushy looked up with an unfocussed smile. "Mahnin', Mistah Maahr-ston. You lookin' for breakfast?" She groped with one hand along the table and lifted a half-full glass to her lips.
Marston cursed silently. Someone had left the stockroom door unlocked again and allowed Lushy to get her hands on the rum.
"Good morning, Lushy. Are you making something special?" He inched his way to the end of the table and smiled back at her.
"Sho' nuff, sir. Some real down-home fritters." She saluted him with the now empty glass. "Stick to yer ribs lak a mustard plaster."
"That's very thoughtful of you." He strolled along the length of the table. "You take good care of us."
"You bet, sir." She giggled and winked.
The end of the table was within his reach when she suddenly whirled over to the stove, clutching the bowl with one hand. Marston held his breath as she fumbled with the spoon, her sleeve dipping close to the hot fat. At least she'd left her glass behind and there was no sign of a bottle.
"It jest plum breaks mah heart to keep feeding those hard-workin' boys that mush every mahnin'." Lushy dug out a spoonful of batter the size of her fist and held it over the frying pan. "Stuff ain't fit for hawgs back home."
"But the men like it, Lushy." He looked at the large pot out of the corner of one eye. The oatmeal was close to bubbling over. "It's really very good."
"Mistah Maahr-ston, you are in for a real treat." The batter hit the lard with a splat and hissed like a wounded tiger. She leaned over the pan to examine the results. Marston was behind her in two quick strides.
Small flames appeared where dollops of fat had landed on the range. Lushy frowned at them. "Don't want a fire." She reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the missing bottle of rum. "Stuff's mostly water anyway." She threw the contents on the heated surface.
WHUMPFF!
A sheet of flame raced up the wall and along a portion of the ceiling.
"Well, damn!" Lushy stared open-mouthed at the range. Marston wrapped his arms around her waist and leaped backward.
Catching the back of his knees against the nearest chair, he landed on the floor with Lushy on top of him. He opened his eyes and saw a column of flame rising from the frying pan. Black smoke poured out of the windows and door. On the range the oatmeal gave a loud burp and boiled over the edge of the large pot. Outside the nearest window, a collective groan was heard.
Ten minutes later, Sam Flanagan was shaken out of a troubled sleep by Elliott Marston. She goggled at the bedraggled apparition beside the bed, reeking of smoke, animal fat and rum.
"Miss Flanagan, if you want a job on my ranch, I'm prepared to discuss terms."
Marston stopped splashing water on his face and cocked an ear. The shouting had a frenzied quality to it.
"Please sir! Come quick! We got big trouble!" The back door opened with a slam and the petitioner was suddenly in the hall. An agitated rapping on his bedroom door followed.
He tossed his towel into the wash basin and threw open the door. It was O'Flynn, wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot. "Mister Marston, Toby says you got to come! It's real bad, sir!"
Horrific visions of dingoes in the lambing pens flashed through his mind. "What's wrong?"
"It's Lushy, sir. She's..." O'Flynn gulped in air. "She's decided to make a real breakfast again."
Marston stared in disbelief. "Oh...my...God!" He grabbed his boots, pulled them on and set out for the cookhouse at a fast sprint, damning Matthew Quigley with every step.
The American sharpshooter had made an indelible impression on Marston Ranch and its inhabitants. In addition to killing a number of the men, he had inspired the aborigines who worked on the ranch to return to their own people and homes. The result was that changes had to be made in the way things were run.
The men had been replaced without too much trouble or expense. Additional women had been recruited to serve the men in their own unique feminine way. But to date Marston had been unsuccessful in finding a cook to replace his aboriginal servant. Experienced and skilled cooks preferred to remain in the towns where they were assured of work and renown. Few were willing to venture into the outback to slave over hot ranges under the burning sun for ranch hands with simple tastes and poor palates.
A compromise had been worked out with the women whereby they would take turns producing the meals every day. The result was that the variety of food offered was minimal but edible, and the grumbling of the reluctant chefs was kept within bounds.
Except for Lushy.
Lushy had arrived at the ranch in the same wagon as Quigley and Crazy Cora. Her name was really Lucy but with her strong southern American drawl and her constant state of slight inebriation, it came out sounding like Lushy and so it remained.
While the other women preferred to ignore anything that didn't pertain to themselves, Lushy had expressed a real interest in the workings of the ranch. She asked questions about the animals, listened keenly to the men describe their work and could be relied on to offer personal rewards or consolations commensurate with what kind of day they'd had. That she often forgot what she was told within hours of hearing it, that she gave the sheep and oxen individual pet names like "Sugarball" and "Sweetcakes" and that she referred to the dingoes that preyed on the livestock as "doggies" were admitted by the men but forgiven; they were felt to be small quirks in an otherwise attractive personality.
She was also the only woman who threw herself into the cooking chores. She perused the old cookbooks she found and searched out innovative recipes. She cheerfully spent hours over the range in even the hottest weather, experimenting with different ingredients and flavors. If her talents had approximated even one-tenth of her enthusiasm, the men would have been in culinary paradise.
The crowd of men around the cookhouse door fell back when Marston arrived. They greeted him with silent, pathetic stares. Toby, the ranch foreman, exhaled with unmistakable relief. "She's in there, Boss," he whispered.
"Let me handle this." Marston paused on the threshold. "Keep away from the windows and don't let her see you. We don't want her to get spooked and do something rash."
The men stampeded around the corner of the building. Marston pushed open the door and entered the cookhouse.
The room was empty except for the half-dressed woman stirring something in a bowl on the worktable, humming to herself. A large pot stood on the range, wafting the wholesome scent of oatmeal on the air. Beside it a large cast iron frying pan filled almost to the brim with lard sizzled and spat evilly.
Lushy looked up with an unfocussed smile. "Mahnin', Mistah Maahr-ston. You lookin' for breakfast?" She groped with one hand along the table and lifted a half-full glass to her lips.
Marston cursed silently. Someone had left the stockroom door unlocked again and allowed Lushy to get her hands on the rum.
"Good morning, Lushy. Are you making something special?" He inched his way to the end of the table and smiled back at her.
"Sho' nuff, sir. Some real down-home fritters." She saluted him with the now empty glass. "Stick to yer ribs lak a mustard plaster."
"That's very thoughtful of you." He strolled along the length of the table. "You take good care of us."
"You bet, sir." She giggled and winked.
The end of the table was within his reach when she suddenly whirled over to the stove, clutching the bowl with one hand. Marston held his breath as she fumbled with the spoon, her sleeve dipping close to the hot fat. At least she'd left her glass behind and there was no sign of a bottle.
"It jest plum breaks mah heart to keep feeding those hard-workin' boys that mush every mahnin'." Lushy dug out a spoonful of batter the size of her fist and held it over the frying pan. "Stuff ain't fit for hawgs back home."
"But the men like it, Lushy." He looked at the large pot out of the corner of one eye. The oatmeal was close to bubbling over. "It's really very good."
"Mistah Maahr-ston, you are in for a real treat." The batter hit the lard with a splat and hissed like a wounded tiger. She leaned over the pan to examine the results. Marston was behind her in two quick strides.
Small flames appeared where dollops of fat had landed on the range. Lushy frowned at them. "Don't want a fire." She reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the missing bottle of rum. "Stuff's mostly water anyway." She threw the contents on the heated surface.
WHUMPFF!
A sheet of flame raced up the wall and along a portion of the ceiling.
"Well, damn!" Lushy stared open-mouthed at the range. Marston wrapped his arms around her waist and leaped backward.
Catching the back of his knees against the nearest chair, he landed on the floor with Lushy on top of him. He opened his eyes and saw a column of flame rising from the frying pan. Black smoke poured out of the windows and door. On the range the oatmeal gave a loud burp and boiled over the edge of the large pot. Outside the nearest window, a collective groan was heard.
Ten minutes later, Sam Flanagan was shaken out of a troubled sleep by Elliott Marston. She goggled at the bedraggled apparition beside the bed, reeking of smoke, animal fat and rum.
"Miss Flanagan, if you want a job on my ranch, I'm prepared to discuss terms."