The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  She was crying with the pain and the beauty of it when she heard the first high, chirpy notes of a baby—her baby. Lovin Child was picketed to a young cedar near the mouth of the Blind ledge tunnel, and he was throwing rocks at a chipmunk that kept coming toward him in little rushes, hoping with each rush to get a crumb of the bread and butter that Lovin Child had flung down. Lovin Child was squealing and jabbering, with now and then a real word that he had learned from Bud and Cash. Not particularly nice words—“Doggone” was one and several times he called the chipmunk a “sunny-gun.” And of course he frequently announced that he would “Tell a worl’” something. His head was bare and shone in the sun like the gold for which Cash and his Daddy Bud were digging, away back in the dark hole. He had on a pair of faded overalls trimmed with red, mates of the ones on the rope line, and he threw rocks impartially with first his right hand and then his left, and sometimes with both at once; which did not greatly distress the chipmunk, who knew Lovin Child of old and had learned how wide the rocks always went of their mark.

  Upon this scene Marie came, still crying. She had always been an impulsive young woman, and now she forgot that Lovin Child had not seen her for six months or so, and that baby memories are short. She rushed in and snatched him off the ground and kissed him and squeezed him and cried aloud upon her God and her baby, and buried her wet face against his fat little neck.

  Cash, trundling a wheelbarrow of ore out to the tunnel’s mouth, heard a howl and broke into a run with his load, bursting out into the sunlight with a clatter and upsetting the barrow ten feet short of the regular dumping place. Marie was frantically trying to untie the rope, and was having trouble because Lovin Child was in one of his worst kicking-and-squirming tantrums. Cash rushed in and snatched the child from her.

  “Here! What you doing to that kid? You’re scaring him to death—and you’ve got no right!”

  “I have got a right! I have too got a right!” Marie was clawing like a wildcat at Cash’s grimy hands. “He’s my baby! He’s mine! You ought to be hung for stealing him away from me. Let go—he’s mine, I tell you. Lovin! Lovin Child! Don’t you know Marie? Marie’s sweet, pitty man, he is! Come to Marie, boy baby!”

  “Tell a worl’ no, no, no!” yelled Lovin Child, clinging to Cash.

  “Aw—come to Marie, sweetheart! Marie’s own lovin’ little man baby! You let him go, or I’ll—I’ll kill you. You big brute!”

  Cash let go, but it was not because she commanded. He let go and stared hard at Marie, lifting his eyebrows comically as he stepped back, his hand going unconsciously up to smooth his beard.

  “Marie?” he repeated stupidly. “Marie?” He reached out and laid a hand compellingly on her shoulder. “Ain’t your name Marie Markham, young lady? Don’t you know your own dad?”

  Marie lifted her face from kissing Lovin Child very much against his will, and stared round-eyed at Cash. She did not say anything.

  “You’re my Marie, all right You ain’t changed so much I can’t recognize yuh. I should think you’d remember your own father—but I guess maybe the beard kinda changes my looks. Is this true, that this kid belongs to you?”

  Marie gasped. “Why—father? Why—why, father!” She leaned herself and Lovin Child into his arms. “Why, I can’t believe it! Why—” She closed her eyes and shivered, going suddenly weak, and relaxed in his arms. “I-I-I can’t—”

  Cash slid Lovin Child to the ground, where that young gentleman picked himself up indignantly and ran as far as his picket rope would let him, whereupon he turned and screamed “Sunny-gun! sunny-gun!” at the two like an enraged bluejay. Cash did not pay any attention to him. He was busy seeking out a soft, shady spot that was free of rocks, where he might lay Marie down. He leaned over her and fanned her violently with his hat, his lips and his eyebrows working with the complexity of his emotions. Then suddenly he turned and ducked into the tunnel, after Bud.

  Bud heard him coming and turned from his work. Cash was not trundling the empty barrow, which in itself was proof enough that something had happened, even if Cash had not been running. Bud dropped his pick and started on a run to meet him.

  “What’s wrong? Is the kid—?”

  “Kid’s all right” Cash stopped abruptly, blocking Bud’s way. “It’s something else. Bud, his mother’s come after him. She’s out there now—laid out in a faint.”

  “Lemme go.” Bud’s voice had a grimness in it that spelled trouble for the lady laid out in a faint “She can be his mother a thousand times—”

  “Yeah. Hold on a minute, Bud. You ain’t going out there and raise no hell with that poor girl. Lovins belongs to her, and she’s going to have him.… Now, just keep your shirt on a second. I’ve got something more to say. He’s her kid, and she wants him back, and she’s going to have him back. If you git him away from her, it’ll be over my carcass. Now, now, hold on! H-o-l-d on! You’re goin’ up against Cash Markham now, remember! That girl is my girl! My girl that I ain’t seen since she was a kid in short dresses. It’s her father you’ve got to deal with now—her father and the kid’s grandfather. You get that? You be reasonable, Bud, and there won’t be no trouble at all. But my girl ain’t goin’ to be robbed of her baby—not whilst I’m around. You get that settled in your mind before you go out there, or—you don’t go out whilst I’m here to stop you.”

  “You go to hell,” Bud stated evenly, and thrust Cash aside with one sweep of his arm, and went down the tunnel. Cash, his eyebrows lifted with worry and alarm, was at his heels all the way.

  “Now, Bud, be calm!” he adjured as he ran. “Don’t go and make a dang fool of yourself! She’s my girl, remember. You want to hold on to yourself, Bud, and be reasonable. Don’t go and let your temper—”

  “Shut your damn mouth!” Bud commanded him savagely, and went on running.

  At the tunnel mouth he stopped and blinked, blinded for a moment by the strong sunlight in his face. Cash stumbled and lost ten seconds or so, picking himself up. Behind him Bud heard Cash panting, “Now, Bud, don’t go and make—a dang fool—” Bud snorted contemptuously and leaped the dirt pile, landing close to Marie, who was just then raising herself dizzily to an elbow.

  “Now, Bud,” Cash called tardily when he had caught up with him, “you leave that girl alone! Don’t you lay a finger on her! That’s my—”

  Bud lifted his lips away from Marie’s and spoke over his shoulder, his arms tightening in their hold upon Marie’s trembling, yielding body.

  “Shut up, Cash. She’s my wife—now where do you get off at?”

  (That, o course, lacked a little of being the exact truth. Lacked a few hours, in fact, because they did not reach Alpine and the railroad until that afternoon, and were not remarried until seven o’clock that evening.)

  “No, no, no!” cried Lovin Child from a safe distance. “Tell a worl’ no, no!”

  “I’ll tell the world yes, yes!” Bud retorted ecstatically, lifting his face again. “Come here, you little scallywag, and love your mamma Marie. Cash, you old donkey, don’t you get it yet? We’ve got ’em both for keeps, you and me.”

  “Yeah—I get it, all right.” Cash came and stood awkwardly over them. “I get it—found my girl one minute, and lost her again the next! But I’ll tell yeh one thing, Bud Moore. The kid’s’ goin’ to call me grampaw, er I’ll know the reason why!”

  CASEY RYAN (Part 1)

  CHAPTER I

  From Denver to Spokane, from El Paso to Fort Benton, men talk of Casey Ryan and smile when they speak his name. Old men with the flat tone of coming senility in their voices will suck at their pipes and cackle reminiscently while they tell you of Casey’s tumultuous youth—when he drove the six fastest horses in Colorado on the stage out from Cripple Creek, and whooped past would-be holdups with a grin of derision on his face and bullets whining after him and passengers praying disjointed prayers and clinging white-knuckled to the seats.

  They say that once a flat, lanky man climbed bareheaded out at the stage station below
the mountain and met Casey coming springily off the box with whip and six reins in his hand. The lanky man was still pale from his ride, and he spluttered when he spoke:

  “Sa-ay! N-next time you’re held up and I’m r-ridin’ with yuh, b-by gosh, you s-stop. I-I’d ruther be shot t-than p-pitched off into a c-canyon, s-somewhere a-and busted up!”

  Casey is a little man. When he was young he was slim, but he always has owned a pale blue, unwinking squint which he uses with effect. He halted where he was and squinted up at the man, and spat fluid tobacco and grinned.

  “You’re here, and you’re able to kick about my drivin’. That’s purty good luck, I’d say. You ain’t shot, an’ you ain’t layin’ busted in no canyon. Any time a man gits shot outa Casey Ryan’s stage, he’ll have to jump out an’ wait for the bullet to ketch up. And there ain’t any passengers offn’ this stage layin’ busted in no canyon, neither. I bring in what I start out with.”

  The other man snorted and reached under his coat tail for the solacing plug of chewing tobacco. Opposition and ridicule had brought a little color into his face.

  “Why, hell, man! You—you come around that ha-hairpin turn up there on two wheels! It’s a miracle we wasn’t—”

  “Miracles is what happens once and lets it go at that. Say! Casey Ryan always saves wear on a coupla wheels, on that turn. I’ve made it on one; but the leaders wasn’t runnin’ right today. That nigh one’s cast a shoe. I gotta have that looked after.” He gave up the reins to the waiting hostler and went off, heading straight for the station porch where waited a red-haired girl with freckles and a warm smile for Casey.

  That was Casey’s youth; part of it. The rest was made up of fighting, gambling, drinking hilariously with the crowd and always with his temper on hair trigger. Along the years behind him he left a straggling procession of men, women and events. The men and women would always know the color of his eyes and would recognize the Casey laugh in a crowd, years after they had last heard it; the events were full of the true Casey flavor,—and as I say, when men told of them and mentioned Casey, they laughed.

  From the time when his daily drives were likely to be interrupted by holdups, and once by a grizzly that reared up in the road fairly under the nose of his leaders and sent the stage off at an acute angle, blazing a trail by itself amongst the timber, Casey drifted from mountain to desert, from desert to plain and back again, blithely meeting hard luck face to face and giving it good day as if it were a friend. For Casey was born an optimist, and misfortune never quite got him down and kept him there, though it tried hard and often, as you will presently see. Some called him gritty. Some said he hadn’t the sense to know when he was licked. Either way, it made a rare little Irishman of Casey Ryan, and kept his name from becoming blurred in the memories of those who once knew him.

  So in time it happened that Casey was driving a stage of his own from Pinnacle down to Lund, in Nevada, and making boast that his four horses could beat the record—the month’s record, mind—of any dog-gone auty-mo-bile that ever infested the trail. Infest is a word that Casey would have used often had he known its dictionary reputation. Having been deprived of close acquaintance with dictionaries, but having a facile imagination and some creative ability, Casey kept pace with progress and invented words of his own which he applied lavishly to all automobiles; but particularly and emphatically he applied the spiciest, most colorful ones to Fords.

  Put yourself in Casey’s place, and you will understand. Imagine yourself with a thirty-mile trip to make down a twisty, rough mountain road built in the days when men hauled ore down the mountain on wagons built to bump over rocks without damage to anything but human bones. You are Casey Ryan, remember; you never stopped for stage robbers or grizzlies in the past, and you have your record to maintain as the hardest driver in the West. You are proud of that record, because you know how you have driven to earn it.

  You pop the lash over the ears of your leaders and go whooping down a long, straight bit of road where you count on making time. When you are about halfway down and the four horses are running even and tugging pleasantly at the reins, and you are happy enough to sing your favorite song, which begins,

  “Hey, ole Bill! Can-n yuh play the fiddle-o?

  Yes, by gosh! I—I—kin play a liddle-o—”

  and never gets beyond that one flat statement, around the turn below you comes a Ford, rattling all its joints trying to make the hill on “high.” The driver honks wildly at you to give him the road—you, Casey Ryan! Wouldn’t you writhe and invent words and apply them viciously to all Fords and the man who invented them? But the driver comes at you honking, squawking,—and you turn out.

  You have to, unless the Ford does; and Fords don’t. A Ford will send a twin-six swerving sharply to the edge of a ditch, and even Casey Ryan must swing his leaders to the right in obedience to that raucous command.

  Once Casey didn’t. He had the patience of the good-natured, and for awhile he had contented himself with his vocabulary and his reputation as a driver and a fighter, and the record he held of making the thirty miles from Pinnacle to Lund in an hour and thirty-five minutes, twenty-six days in the month. (He did not publish his running expenses, by the way, nor did he mention the fact that his passengers were mostly strangers picked up at the railway station at Lund because they liked the look of the picturesque four-horses-and-Casey stagecoach.)

  Once Casey refused to turn out. That morning he had been compelled to wait and whip a heavy man who berated Casey because the heavy man’s wife had ridden from Pinnacle to Lund the day before and had fainted at the last sharp turn in the road and had not revived in time to board the train for Salt Lake which she had been anxious to catch. Casey had known she was anxious to catch the train, and he had made the trip in an hour and twenty-nine minutes in spite of the fact that he had driven the last mile with a completely unconscious lady leaning heavily against his left shoulder. She made much better time with Casey than she would have made on the narrow-gauge train which carried ore and passengers and mail to Lund, arriving when most convenient to the train crew. That it took half an hour to restore her to consciousness was not Casey’s fault.

  Casey had succeeded in whipping the heavy man till he hollered, but the effort had been noticeable. Casey wondered uneasily whether by any chance he, Casey Ryan, was growing old with the rest of the world. That possibility had never before occurred to him, and the thought was disquieting. Casey Ryan too old to lick any man who gave him cause, too old to hold the fickle esteem of those who met him in the road? Casey squinted belligerently at the Old-man-with-the-scythe and snorted. “I licked him good. You ask anybody. And he’s twice as big as I am. I guess they’s a good many years left in Casey Ryan yet! Giddap, you—thus-and-so! We’re ten minutes late and we got our record!”

  At that moment a Ford touring car popped around the turn below him and squawked presumptuously for a clear passage ahead. Casey pulled his lash off the nigh leader, yelled and charged straight down the road. Did they think they could honk him off the road? Hunh! Casey Ryan was still Casey Ryan. Never again would he turn out for man or devil.

  Wherefore Casey was presently extricating his leaders from the harness of his wheelers ten feet below the grade. On the road above him the driver of the Ford inspected bent parts and a smashed headlight and cranked and cranked ineffectively, and swore down at Casey Ryan, who squinted unblinkingly up under his hatbrim at the man he likewise cussed.

  They were a long while there exchanging disagreeable opinions of one another, and Casey was even obliged to climb the steep bank and whip the driver of the Ford because he had applied a word to Casey which had never failed as automatic prelude to a Casey Ryan combat. Casey was frankly winded when he finally mounted one of his horses and led the other three, and so proceeded to Lund as mad as he had ever been in his life.

  “That there settles it final,” he snorted, when the town came into view in the flat below. “They’ve pushed Casey off’n the grade for the first time and t
he last time. What pushin’ and crowdin’ and squawkin’ is done from now on, it’ll be Casey Ryan doin’ it! Faint! I’ll learn ’em something to faint about. If it’s Fords goin’ to run horses off’n the trail, you watch how Casey Ryan’ll drive the livin’ tar outa one. Dog-gone ’em, there ain’t no Ford livin’ that can drive Casey off’n the road. I’ll drive ’em till their tongues hang out. I’ll make ’em bawl like a calf, and I’ll pound ’em on the back and make ’em fan it faster.”

  So talking to himself and his team he rode into town and up to one of those ubiquitous Ford agencies that write their curly-tailed blue lettering across the continent from the high nose of Maine to the shoulder of Cape Flattery.

  “Gimme one of them dog-goned blankety bing-bing Ford auty-mo-biles,” he commanded the garage owner who came to meet Casey amiably in his shirt sleeves. “Here’s four horses I’ll trade yuh, with what’s left of the harness. And up at the third turn you’ll find a good wheel off’n the stage.” He slid down from the sweaty back of his nigh leader and stood slightly bow-legged and very determined before the garage owner, Bill Masters.

  “Wel-l—there ain’t much sale for horses, Casey. I ain’t got any place to keep ’em, nor any feed. I’ll sell yuh a Ford on time, and—”

  Casey glanced over his shoulder to make sure the horses were standing quiet, dropped the reins and advanced upon Bill.

  “You trade,” he stated flatly.

  Bill backed a little. “Oh, all right, if that’s the way yuh feel. What yuh askin’ for the four just as they stand?”

  “Me? A Ford auty-mo-bile. I told yuh that, Bill. And I want you to put on the biggest horn that’s made; one that can be heard from here to Pinnacle and back when I turn ’er loose. And run the damn thing out here right away and show me how it works, and how often you gotta wind it and when. Lucky I didn’t bring no passengers down—I was runnin’ empty. But I gotta take back a load of Bohunks to the Bluebird this afternoon, and my stage, she’s a total wreck. I’ll sign papers tonight if you got any to sign.”