by B. M. Bower
Still snoring mildly, he held up to the moonlight two deadly weapons and surveyed them with much satisfaction. They would not be so quick, as fiction would have them, but if his aim was accurate in throwing, they would be deadly enough. Moreover, he could count with a good deal of certainty upon a certain degree of terror which the sight of them in his hand would produce.
When Casey Ryan cooked breakfast next morning, he carried two half-sticks of loaded dynamite under his hand in the sling. Can you wonder that even he shied at standing over the stove cooking hot cakes and complained that his broken hand pained him a lot and that the heat made it worse? But a shrewd observer would have noticed on his face the expression of a cat that has been shut in the pantry over night.
Joe volunteered to take another look at the hand and see if blood poison was “setting in”; but Casey said it didn’t feel like blood poison. He had knocked it against the bunk edge in his sleep, he declared. He’d dose ’er with iodine after a while, and she’d be all right.
Joe let it go at that, being preoccupied with other matters at which Casey could only guess. He conferred with Paw outside the dugout after breakfast, called Hank away from the dish-washing and the three set off toward the tunnel with a brisker air than usually accompanied them to work. Casey watched them go and felt reasonably sure of at least two hours to himself.
The first thing Casey did after he had made sure that he was actually alone was to remove the deadly stuff from the sling and lay it on a shadowed shelf where it would be safe but convenient to his hand. Then, going to his bunk, he reached under the blankets and found the other stick of dynamite which he had not yet loaded. This he laid on the kitchen table and cut it in two as he had done last night with the other stick. With his remaining cap he loaded a half and carried it back to his bunk. He was debating in his mind whether it was worth while purloining another cap from a box under the boulder when another fancy took him and set him grinning.
Four separate charges of dynamite, he reasoned, would not be necessary. It was an even chance that the sight of a piece with the fuse in his hand would be sufficient to tame Paw or Hank or Joe—or the three together, for that matter—without going further than to give them a sight of it.
With that idea uppermost, Casey split the paper carefully down the side of the remaining half-stick, took out the contents in a tin plate and carried it outside where he buried it in the sand beneath a bush. Returning to the dugout he made a thick dough of leftover pancake batter and molded it into the dynamite wrapping with a fragment of harmless fuse protruding from the opened end. When the thing was dry, Casey thought it would look very deadly and might be useful. After several days of helplessness for want of a weapon, Casey was in a mood to supply himself generously.
He finished the dish-washing, working awkwardly with one hand. After that he put a kettle of beans on to boil, filled the stove with pinon sticks and closed the drafts. He armed himself with the two loaded pieces of dynamite from the cupboard, filled his pockets with such other things as he thought he might need, and went prospecting on his own account.
At the portal of the tunnel he stopped and listened for the ping-g, ping-g of a single-jack striking steadily upon steel. But the tunnel was silent, the ore car uptilted at the end of its track on the dump. Yet the three men were supposedly at work in the mine, had talked at breakfast about wanting to show a certain footage when the boss returned, and of needing to hurry.
Casey went into the tunnel, listening and going silently; sounds travel far in underground workings. At the mouth of the first right-hand drift he stopped again and listened. This, if he would believe Joe, was the drift where the bad ground had caused the accident to Joe and his partner whose leg had been broken. Casey found the drift as silent as the main tunnel. He went in ten feet or so and lighted the candle he had pulled from inside his shirt. With the candle held in the swollen fingers of his injured hand, and a prospector’s pick taken from the portal in his other, Casey went on cautiously, keeping an eye upon the roof which, to his wise, squinting eyes, looked perfectly solid and safe.
If a track had ever been laid in this drift it had long since been removed. But a well-defined path led along its center with boot tracks going and coming, blurring one another with much passing. Casey grinned and went on, his ears cocked for any sound before or behind, his shoes slung over his arm by their tied laces.
So he came, in the course of a hundred feet or so, to a crude door of split cedar slabs, the fastening padlocked on his side. Casey had vaguely expected some such bar to his path, and he merely gave a grunt of satisfaction that the lock was old and on his side of the door.
With his jackknife Casey speedily took off one side of the lock and opened it. Making the door appear locked behind him when he had passed through was a different matter, and Casey did not attempt it. Instead, he merely closed the door behind him, carrying the padlock in with him.
As Casey reviewed his situation, being on the butte at all was a risk in itself. One detail more or less could not matter so much. Besides, he was a bold Casey Ryan with two loaded half-sticks of dynamite in his sling.
A crude ladder against the wall of a roomy stope beyond the door did not in the least surprise him. He had expected something of this sort. When he had topped the ladder and found himself in a chamber that stretched away into blackness, he grunted again his mental confirmation of a theory working out beautifully in fact. His candle held close to the wall, he moved forward along the well-trodden path, looking for a door. Mechanically he noticed also the formation of the wall and the vein of ore—probably high-grade in pockets, at least—that had caused this chamber to be dug. The ore, he judged, had long since been taken out and down through the stope into the tunnel and so out through the main portal. These workings were old and for mining purposes abandoned. But just now Casey was absorbed in solving the one angle of the mystery which he had stumbled upon at first, and he gave no more than a glance and a thought to the silent testimony of the rock walls.
He found the door, fastened also on the outside just as he had expected it would be. Beside it stood a rather clever heating apparatus which Casey did not examine in detail. His Irish heart was beating rather fast while he unfastened the door. Beyond that door his thoughts went questing eagerly but he hesitated nevertheless before he lifted his knuckles and rapped.
There was no reply. Casey waited a minute, knocked again, then pulled the door open a crack and looked in. The old woman sat there rocking back and forth, steadily, quietly. But her thin fingers were rolling a corner of her apron hem painstakingly, as if she meant to hem it again. Her eyes were fixed absently upon the futile task. Casey watched her as long as he dared and cleared his throat twice in the hope that she would notice him. But the old woman rocked back and forth and rolled her apron hem; unrolled it and carefully rolled it again.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said Casey, clearing his throat for the third time and coming a step into the room with his candle dripping wax on the floor.
For just an instant the uneasy fingers paused in their rolling of the apron hem. For just so long the rockers hesitated in their motion. But the old woman did not reply nor turn her face toward him; and Casey pushed the door shut behind him and took two more steps toward her.
“I come to see if yuh needed anything, ma’am; a friend, mebbe.” Casey grinned amiably, wanting to reassure her if it were possible to make her aware of his presence. “They had yuh locked in, ma’am. That don’t look good to Casey Ryan. If yuh wanta get out—if they got yuh held a prisoner here, or anything like that, you can trust Casey Ryan any old time. Is—can I do anything for yuh, ma’am?” The old woman dropped her hands to her lap and held them there, closely clasped. Her head swung slowly round until she was looking at Casey with that awful, fixed stare she had heretofore directed at the wall or the floor.
“Tell those hell-hounds they have a thousand years to burn—every one of them!” she said in a deep, low voice that had in it a singing resonance
like a chant. “Every cat, every rat, every mouse, every louse, has a thousand year’s to burn. Tell Mart the hounds of hell must burn!” Her voice carried a terrible condemnation far beyond the meaning of the words themselves. It was as if she were pronouncing the doom of the whole world. “Every cat, every rat, every mouse, every louse—”
Casey Ryan’s jaw dropped an inch. He backed until he was against the door. He had to swallow twice before he could find his voice, and those of you who know Casey Ryan will appreciate that. He waited until she had finished her declaration.
“No, ma’am, you’re wrong. I come up here to see if I could help yuh.”
“Hounds of hell—black as the bottomless pit that spewed you forth to prey upon mankind! The world will have to burn. Tell those hounds of hell that bay at the gibbous moon the world will have to burn. Every cat, every rat, every mouse, every louse has a thousand years to burn!”
Casey Ryan, with his mouth half open and his eyes rather wild, furtively opened the door behind him. Still meeting fixedly the dull glare of the old woman’s eyes, Casey slid out through the door and fastened it hastily behind him. With an uneasy glance now and then over his shoulder as if he feared the old woman might be in pursuit of him, he hurried back down the ladder to the closed door in the drift, pulled the door shut behind him and put the padlock in place before he breathed naturally.
He stopped then to put on his shoes, made his way to the drift opening and listened again for voices or footsteps. When he found the way clear he hurried out and back to the dugout. The first thing he did was to fill his pipe and light it. Even then the sonorous voice of the old woman intoning her dreadful proclamation against the world rang in his ears and sent occasional ripples of horror down his spine. Seen through the window, she had looked a sad, lonely old lady who needed sympathy and help. At closer range she was terrible. Casey was trying to forget her by busying himself about the stove when Joe walked in unexpectedly.
Joe stood just inside the door, staring at Casey with a glassy look in his eyes. Something in Joe’s face warned Casey of impending events; but with that terrible old woman still fresh in his mind, Casey was in the mood to welcome distraction of any sort. He shifted his hand in the sling so that his concealed weapons lay more comfortably therein, secure from detection, and waited.
Joe leaned forward, lifted an arm slowly and aimed a finger at Casey accusingly.
“Pap says that you’re a Federal officer!” he began, waggling his finger at Casey. “Pap thinks you come here spyin’ around t’ see what we’re up to on this here butte. Now, you can’t pull nothin’ like that! You can’t get away with it.
“Hank, he wants t’ bump yuh off an’ say nothin’ to anybody. Now, I come t’ have it out with yuh. If you’re a Federal officer we’re goin’ t’ settle with yuh an’ take no chances. Mart, he’s more easy-goin’ in some ways, on account of havin’ his crazy ol’ mother on ’is hands t’ take care of. Mart don’t want no killin’—on account of his mother goin’ loony when ’is dad got killed. But Mart ain’t here. Pap an’ Hank, they been at me all mornin’ t’ let ’em bump yuh off.
“But Pap an’ Hank, they’re drunk, see? I’m the only sober man left on the job. So I come up here t’ settle with yuh myself. Takes a sober man with a level head t’ settle these things. Now, if you come up here spyin’ an’ snoopin’, you git bumped off an’ no argument about it. Mart’s got his mother t’ take care of—an’ we aim t’ pertect Mart. If you’re a Federal officer, I want t’ know it here an’ now. If yuh ain’t, I want yuh t’ sample some uh the out-kickin’est ‘White Mule’ yuh ever swallered. Now which are yuh, and what yuh goin’ t’ do? I want my answer here an’ now, an’ no argument an’ no foolin’!”
Casey blinked but his mouth widened in a grin. “Me, I never went lookin’ fer nothin, I wouldn’t put under my vest, Joe,” he declared convincingly. So that was it! He was thinking against time. Moonshiners as well as would-be murderers they were—and Joe drunk and giving them away like a fool. Casey wished that he knew where Hank and Paw were at this moment. He hoped, too, that Joe was right—that Hank and Paw were drunk. He’d have the three of them tied in a row before dark, in any case. The thing to do now was to humor Joe along—leave it to Casey Ryan!
Joe was uncorking a small, flat bottle of pale liquor. Now he held it out to Casey. Casey took it, thinking he would pretend to drink, would urge Joe to take a drink; it would be simple, once he got Joe started. But Joe had a few ideas of his own concerning the celebration. He pulled a gun unexpectedly, leaned against the closed door to steady himself and aimed it full at Casey.
“In just two minutes I’m goin’ t’ shoot if that there bottle ain’t empty,” he stated gravely, nodding his head with intense pride in his ability to handle the situation. “If you’re a Federal officer, yuh won’t dast t’ drink. If yuh ain’t, you’ll be almighty glad to. Anyway, it’ll be settled one way or t’other. Drink ’er down!”
Casey blinked again, but this time he did not grin. He debated swiftly his chance of scaring Joe with the dynamite before Joe would shoot. But Joe had his finger crooked with drunken solemnity upon the trigger. The time for dynamite was not now.
“Pap an’ Hank, they lap up anything an’ call it good. I claim that’s got a back-action kick to it. Drink ’er down!”
Casey drank ’er down. It was like swallowing flames. It was a half-pint flask, and it was full when Casey, with Joe’s eyes fixed upon him, tilted it and began to drink. Under Joe’s baleful glare Casey emptied the flask before he stopped.
Joe settled his shoulders comfortably against the doorway and watched Casey make for the water bucket.
“I claim that’s the out-kickin’est stuff that ever was made on Black Butte. How’d yuh like it?”
“All right,” Casey bore witness, keeping his eyes fixed on Joe and the gun and trying his best to maintain a nonchalant manner. “I’d call it purty fair hootch.”
“It’s good hootch!” Joe declared impressively, apparently quite convinced that Casey was not a Federal officer. “Can yuh feel the kick’to it?”
Casey backed until he sat on the edge of the table his good right hand supporting his left elbow outside the sling. He grinned at Joe and while he still keenly realized that he was playing a part for the sole purpose of gaining somehow an advantage over Joe, he was conscious of a slight giddiness. An unprejudiced observer would have noticed that his grin was not quite the old, Casey Ryan grin. It was a shade foolish.
“Bet your life I can feel the kick!” he agreed, nodding his head. “You can ask anybody.” Then Casey discovered something strange in Joe’s appearance. He lifted his head, held it very still and regarded Joe attentively.
“Say, Joe, what yuh tryin’ to do with that six-gun? Tryin’ to write your name in the air with it?”
Joe looked inquiringly down at the gun, eyeing it as if it were a new and absolutely unknown object. He satisfied himself apparently beyond all doubt that the gun was doing nothing it should not do, and finally turned his attention to Casey sitting on the table and grinning at him meaninglessly.
“Ain’t writin’ nothin’,” Joe stated solemnly. “It’s yore eyes. Gun’s all right—yo’r seein’ crooked. It’s the hootch. Back-action kick to it. Ain’t that right?”
“That’s right,” nodded Casey and he added, grinning more foolishly, “Darn right, that’s right! Back-action kick—bet your life.”
Joe pushed the gun inside his waistband and crooked his finger at Casey, beckoning mysteriously. “C’mon an’ I’ll show yuh how it’s made,” he invited with heavy enthusiasm. “Yore a judge uh hootch all right—I can see that. I’ll show yuh how we do it. Best White Mule in Nevada. Ain’t that right? Ain’t that the real hootch?”
“’S right, all right,” Casey agreed earnestly. “Puttin’ the hoot in hootch—you fellers. You can ask anybody if that ain’t right.”
Joe laughed hoarsely. “Puttin’ the hoot in hootch—that’s right. I knowed you was all right. Didn�
�t I say you was? I told Hank an’ Pap you wasn’t no Federal officer. They know it, too. I was foolin’ back there. I knowed you didn’t need no gun pulled on yuh t’ make yuh put away the hootch. Lapped it up like a thirsty hound. I knowed yuh would—I was kiddin’ yuh, runnin’ that razoo with the gun. Ain’t that right?”
“Darn right, that’s right! I knew you was foolin’ all along. You knew Casey Ryan’s all right—sure, you knowed it!” Casey laid his good hand investigatively against his stomach. “Pretty hot hootch—you can ask anybody if it ain’t! Workin’ like an air drill a’ready.”
He blinked inquisitively at Joe, who stared back inquiringly. “Who’s your friend?” Casey demanded pugnaciously. “He sneaked in on yuh. I never seen ’im come in.”
Joe turned slowly and looked behind him at the blank boards of the unpainted door. Just as slowly he turned back to Casey. A slow grin split his leathery face.
“Ain’t nobody. It’s the hootch. Told yuh, didn’t I? Gittin’ the best of yuh, ain’t it? C’mon—I’ll show yuh how it’s made.”
“Take a barr’l t’ git the besta—Casey Ry’n,” Casey boasted, his words blurring noticeably. “Where’s y’r White Mule? Let ’er kick—Casey Ry’n can lead ’er an’ tame ’er—an’ make’r eat outa ’s hand!” Following Joe, Casey stepped high over a rock no bigger than his fist.
With a lurch he straightened and tried to pull his muddled wits out of the fog that was fast enveloping them. Dimly he sensed the importance of this discovery which Joe had forced upon him. In flashes of normalcy he knew that he must see all he could of their moonshine operations. He must let them think he was drunk until he knew all their secrets. He assured himself vaguely that he must, above all things, keep his head.