by B. M. Bower
Casey thrust out a pugnacious chin. “Say! D’ you know Bill Masters, too? That’s all I wanta know!”
“Bill Masters? Why, is he the fellow who stepped out from under this load of hootch? If he is, he must have picked himself a new name; I never heard it.”
Casey glared suspiciously for twenty seconds before he settled back glumly into his mental corner.
“Ryan, I’ve been all day sizing you up. I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and tell you why I think you’re straight—although you must admit the evidence is rather against you.
“I happened to be right close when you drove down in here and stopped. As a matter of fact, I was behind that little clump of junipers. Had you driven around them instead of stopping this side, you couldn’t have failed to see me.
“You came down here mad at the trick that had been played you. You were so mad, you started talking to yourself as a safety valve—blowing off mental steam. You’ve spent a lot of time in the desert—alone. Men like that frequently talk aloud their thoughts, just to hear a human voice. You made matters pretty plain to me before you knew there was any one within miles of you. For instance, you’re not at all sure this car you’ve got wasn’t stolen. You’re inclined to think it was. You’re broke—robbed, I take it, by the men who somehow managed to leave you with the car and a load of booze on your hands. The trick must have been turned this morning; down at the railroad, I imagine—because you hadn’t taken time to stop and size up the predicament you were in until you got here.
“Your main idea was to get off somewhere out of sight. You were scared. You didn’t hear me behind you until I spoke—which proves you’re a green hand at dodging. And that, Ryan, is a very good recommendation to a man in my line of work. But you’re shrewd, and you’re game—dead game. You’re a peach at thinking up schemes to get yourself out of a hole. Of course, being new at it, you don’t think quite far enough. For instance, because you found me afoot it never occurred to you that I might know something about a car; but the rest of your plan was a dandy.
“Your idea of backing down there around the turn and burying the booze was all right. With almost any other man it would have worked. Once you got that hootch off your mind, I rather think you’d have been glad to have me along with you, instead of giving me broad hints to leave. But you haven’t got the booze buried yet, and you’ve been figuring all the evening. You don’t see how the devil you’re going to manage it with me around.
“I’ll do a little more guessing, now: I guess you’ve doped it out that you’ll pack the bedroll up here, tuck me in and pray to the Lord I’ll sleep sound. You’re hoping you can cache the booze and make your getaway while I’ve gone bye-low. Or possibly, if you got the booze put away safe from my prying eyes, you might come back to bed and I’d find you here in the morning just as if nothing had happened. How Is that for guesswork?”
“You go tahell!” growled Casey, swallowing a sickly grin. He pressed down the tobacco in his pipe, eyeing Nolan queerly. “If them damn’ lizards had uh let yuh alone, I wouldn’t have nothin’ on m’ mind now but my hat.” He looked across the fire and grinned again.
“Keep on; you’ll be tellin’ me what the missus an’ I was arguin’ about last night over long-distance. I’ve heard tell uh this four-bit mind reading an’ forecastin’ your horrorscope fer a dime; but I never met up with it before. If you’re aimin’ to take up a collection after the show, you’ll fare slim. I’ve been what a feller called ‘dusted off’.” He added, after a pause that was eloquent, “They done it thorough!”
Mack Nolan laughed. “They usually are thorough, when they’re ‘dusting off a chump’, as I believe they call it.”
Casey grunted. “‘Chump’ is right, mebby. But anyways, you’re too late, Mr. Nolan. I’m cleaned.”
Mack Nolan rolled another cigarette, lighted it and flipped the match into the campfire. He smoked it down to the last inch, staring into the fire and saying nothing the while. When the cigarette stub followed the match, he leaned back upon one elbow and began tracing a geometrical figure in the sand with a stick.
“Ryan,” he said abruptly, “you’re square and I know it. The very nature of my business makes me cautious about trusting men—but I’m going to trust you.” He stopped again, taking great pains with the point of a triangle he was drawing.
Casey knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a rock. “Puttin’ it that way, Mr. Nolan, the man’s yet to live that Casey Ryan ever double-crossed. Cops I got no use for; nor yet bootleggers. Whether I got any use for you, Mr. Nolan, I can say better when I’ve heard yuh out. A goat I’ve been for the last time. But I’m willin’ to hear yuh out—and that there’s more’n what I’d uh said this morning.”
“And that’s fair enough, Ryan. If you jumped into things with your eyes shut, I don’t think I’d want you with me.”
Casey squirmed, remembering certain times when he had gone too headlong into things.
“I’m going to ask you, Ryan, to tell me the whole story of this car and its load of whisky. Before you do that, I’ll tell you this much to show good faith and prove to you how much I trust you: I’m an officer, and my special work right now is to clean up a gang of bootleggers and the crooked officers who are protecting them. What I know about your case leads me to believe that you’ve run afoul of them and that you’re the man I’ve been looking for that can help me set a trap for them. Would you like to do that?”
“If it’s that bunch you’re after, Mr. Nolan, I’d ruther land ’em in jail than to find a ledge of solid gold ten feet thick an’ a mile long. One thing I’d like to know first. Are yuh or ain’t yuh huntin’ mules?”
Mack Nolan laughed. “I am, yes. But the mule I’m hunting is white!”
Casey studied that until he had the fresh pipeful of tobacco going well. Then he looked up and grinned understandingly.
“So it’s White Mule you’re trailin’.” He kicked a stub of greasewood branch back into the flames and laughed. “Well, the tracks is deep an’ plenty, and if that’s the trail you’re takin’, I’m with yuh. You ain’t a cop—leastways you don’t spread your arms every time you turn around. Gosh, I hate them wing-floppin’ kind! They’s one thing an’ one only that I hate worse—an’ that’s bootleggers an’ moonshiners. If you got a scheme to give them cusses their needin’s, you can ask anybody if Casey Ryan ain’t the feller you can bank on.”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been thinking. Now, I wish you’d tell me exactly what you’ve been up against. Don’t leave out anything, however trivial it might seem to you.”
Wherefore, Casey sat with the firelight flickering across his seamed, Irish face and told the story of his wrongs. Trivial details Nolan had asked for—and he got them with the full Casey Ryan flavor. Even the old woman who rocked, Casey pictured—from his particular angle. Mack Nolan sat up and listened, his eyes steady and his mouth, that had curved to laughter many times during the recital, once more firm and somewhat pitiless when Casey finished.
“This Smiling Lou; you’d know him again, of course?”
“Know him! Say, I’d know him after he’d fried a week in hell!” Casey’s tone left no doubt of his meaning.
“And I suppose you could tell this man Kenner a mile off and around a corner. Now, I’ll tell you what I want you to do, Casey. This may jar you a little—until I explain. I want you—” Mack Nolan paused, his lips twitching in a faint smile—“to do a little bootlegging yourself.”
“Yuh—what?” In the firelight Casey’s eyes were seen to bulge.
“I want you to bootleg this whisky you’ve got in the car.” Nolan’s eyes twinkled. “I want you to go back and peddle this booze, and I want you to do it so that Smiling Lou or one of his bunch will hold you up and highjack you. Do you see what I mean? You don’t—so I’ll tell you. We’ll put it in marked bottles. I have the bottles and the seals and labels for every brand of liquor to be had in the country today. With marked money and marked bottles, we ought to be abl
e to get the goods on that gang.”
Casey thought of something quite suddenly and held out an imperative, pointing finger.
“There’s something else that feller told me was in the car!” he cried agitatedly. “He said he had forty pints of French champagne cached in a false bottom under the front seat. And he said the front cushion had a blind pocket around the edges that was full uh dope. Hop, he called it.”
Mack Nolan whistled under his breath.
“And he turned the whole outfit over to you for sixteen hundred dollars or so?” He stared thoughtfully into the fire. Abruptly he looked at Casey.
“What the deuce had you done to him, Ryan?” he asked, with a quizzical intentness. “He must have been scared stiff, to let go of all that stuff for sixteen hundred. Why, man, the ‘junk’—that’s dope—alone must be worth more than that. And the champagne—forty pints, you say? He ought to get twenty dollars a pint for that. Figure it yourself. I hope,” he added seriously, “the fellow wasn’t too scared to show up again.”
“Well,” Casey said grimly, “I dunno how scart he is—but he knows darn’ well I’ll kill ’im. I told im I would.”
Again Mack Nolan laughed. “Catching’s much better than killing, Ryan. It hurts a man worse, and it lasts a heap longer. What do you say to turning in? Tomorrow we’ll have a full day at my private bottling works.”
They moved their cooking outfit down near the Ford for safety’s sake. While it was wholly improbable that the car would be robbed in the night, Mack Nolan was a man who took as few chances as possible. It happened that the excavation Casey had so hopefully made that morning formed a convenient level for their bed; wherefore they spread it there, talking in low tones of their plans until they went to sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dawn was just thinning the curtain of darkness when Nolan woke Casey with a shake of the shoulder.
“I think we’d better be moving from here before the world’s astir. You can back on down this draw, Ryan, and strike an old trail that cuts over the ridge and up the next gulch to an old, deserted mine where I’ve made headquarters. It isn’t far, and we can have breakfast at my camp.”
Casey swallowed his astonishment, and for once in his life he did as he was told without argument.
Mack Nolan’s camp was fairly accessible by roundabout trail with a few tire tracks to point the way for Casey. Straight across the ridges, it would not have been more than two miles to Juniper Wells. Nevertheless not one man in a year would be tempted to come this way, unless it were definitely known that some one lived here.
As the camp of a man who was prospecting for pastime rather than for a grubstake, the place was perfect. Mack Nolan had taken possession of a cabin dug into the hill at the head of a long draw. A brush-covered shed of makeshift construction sheltered a car of the ubiquitous Ford make. Fifty yards away and in full sight of the cabin, the mouth of a tunnel yawned blackly under a rhyolite ledge.
Casey swept the camp with an observant glance and nodded approval as and stopped before the cabin.
“As a prospector, Mr. Nolan, I’ll say ’tis a fine layout you got here. An’ tain’t the first time an honest-lookin’ mine has been made to cover things far off from minin’. Like the Black Butte bunch, f’r instance. But if any one was to ride up on yuh unexpected here, I’ll say yuh could meet ’em with a grin an’ feel easy about your secrets.”
“That’s praise indeed, coming from an old hand like you,” Nolan declared. “Now I’ll tell you something else. With Casey Ryan in the camp the whole thing’s twice as convincing. Come in. I want to show you what I call an artistic interior.”
Grinning, Casey followed him inside and exclaimed profanely in admiration of Mack Nolan’s genius. The cabin showed every mark of the owner’s interest in the geologic formation of that immediate district.
On the floor along the wall lay specimens of mineralized rock, a couple of prospector’s picks, a single-jack and a set of drills; a sample sack, grimed and with a hole in the corner mended by the simple process of gathering the cloth together around it and tying it tightly with a string, hung from a nail above the tools. On the window sill were specimens of ore; two or three of the pieces showed a richness that lighted Casey’s eyes with the enthusiasm of an old prospector. Mining journals and a prospector’s manual lay upon a box table at the foot of the bunk. For the rest, the cabin looked exactly what it was—the orderly home of a man quite accustomed to primitive living far off from his fellows.
They had a very satisfactory breakfast cooked by Mack Nolan from his own supplies and eaten in a leisurely manner while Nolan talked of primary formations and secondary, and of mineral intrusions and breaks. Casey listened and learned a few things he had not known, for all his years of prospecting. Mack Nolan, he decided, could pass anywhere as a mining expert.
“And now,” said Nolan briskly, when he had hung up the dishpan and draped the dishcloth over it to dry, “I’ll show you the bottling works. We’ll have to do the work by lantern-light. There’s not one chance in fifty that any one would show up here—but you never can tell. We could get the stuff out of sight easily enough while the car was coming up the gulch. But the smell is a different matter. We’ll take no chances.”
At the head of the bunk, a curtained space beneath a high shelf very obviously did duty as a wardrobe. A leather motor coat hung there, one sleeve protruding beyond the curtain of flowered calico. Other garments bulged the cloth here and there. Nolan, smiling over his shoulder at Casey, nodded and pushed the clothing aside. A door behind opened inward, admitting the two into a small recess from which another door opened into a cellar dug deep into the hill.
Undoubtedly this had once been used as a frost-proof storeroom. A small ventilator pipe opened—so Nolan told Casey—in the middle of a greasewood clump. Nolan lighted a gasoline lantern that shed a white brilliance upon the room. On the long table which extended down one side of the room, Casey saw boxes of bottles and other supplies which he did not at the moment recognize.
“We’ll have to rebottle all the whisky,” said Nolan.
“You’ll see a certain mark blown into the bottom of each one of these. The champagne, I’m afraid, I must either confiscate and destroy or run the risk of marking the labels. The hop we’ll lay aside for further consideration.”
Casey grinned, thinking of the speedy downfall of his enemies, Smiling Lou and Kenner—and, as a secondary consideration other crooks of their type.
“So now we’ll unload the stuff, Ryan, and get to work here.” Nolan adjusted the white flame in the mantle of the gasoline lantern and led the way outside. “Take in the seat-cushion, Casey. I don’t fancy opening it outside, even in this howling wilderness.”
“I think I’ll just pack in the kegs first, Mr. Nolan.” For the first time since the shock of Mr. Nolan’s “mind-reading” the night before, Casey ventured a suggestion. “Anybody comes along, it’s the kegs they’d look at cross-eyed. Cushions is expected in Fords—if I ain’t buttin’ in,” he added meekly.
“Which you’re not. You’re acting as my agent now, Ryan, and it will take two heads to put this over without a hitch. Sure, put the kegs out of sight first. The bottles next—and then we’ll make short work of the dope in the cushion.”
Casey carried in the kegs while Nolan kept watch for inopportune visitors. It was thought inadvisable to unload the camp outfit from the car until the whisky was all removed. The outfit effectually hid what was below—and they were taking no chances. They both breathed freer when the two kegs were in the cellar. Nolan was pleased; too, when Casey came out with the sample bag and announced that he would carry the bottles in the bag. Then Nolan fancied he heard a car, and walked away to where he would have a longer view down the gulch. He would whistle, he said, and warn Casey if someone was coming.
He had not proceeded fifty yards when Casey yelled and brought him back at a run. Casey was rummaging in the car, throwing things about with a recklessness which ill-became an agent o
f the self-possessed Mack Nolan.
“There ain’t a damn’ bottle here!” he bellowed indignantly. “Them crooks gypped me outa ten gallons uh good, bottle whisky! Now what do you know about that, Mr. Nolan? That feller said it was high-grade stuff he had packed away at the bottom. He lied. There ain’t nothin’ here but a set uh skid chains an’ a jack. An’ the champagne, mebby, under the front seat!”
Mack Nolan’s eyes narrowed. “I think Ryan, I’ll have a look under that front seat.”
He had a look—several looks, in fact. There was the false bottom under the seat, but there was nothing in it. He took his pocket knife, opened a blade and split the edge of the seat-cushion at the bottom. He inserted a finger and thumb and drew out a bit of hair stuffing. He stood up and eyed Casey sharply, and Casey stared back defensively.
“He was a darned liar from start t’ finish. He said there was champagne an’ he said there was hop,” Casey stated flatly.
“I wondered at his letting go of stuff as valuable as that,” said Nolan. “I think we’d better take a look at those kegs.”
They went into the cellar and took a look at the kegs. Both kegs. Afterward they stood and looked at each other. Casey’s hands went to his hips, and the muscles along his jaw hardened into lumps. He spat into the dirt of the cellar floor.
“Water!” He snorted disgustedly. “Casey Ryan with the devil an’ all scart outa him, thinkin’ he had ownership of a load uh booze an’ hop sufficient t’ hang ’im!” His hand slid into his trousers pocket, reaching for the comforting plug of tobacco. “Stuck up an’ robbed is what happens t’ Casey. You can ask anybody if it ain’t highway robbery!”