by B. M. Bower
When the old man presently returned and the three sat down to the table, Casey obeyed a gesture and sat down with them. In spite of Joe’s six-shooter laid handily upon the table beside his plate, Casey ate heartily, though the food was neither well cooked nor over plentiful.
After supper he rose and filled his pipe which they had permitted him to keep. A stranger coming into the cabin might not have guessed that Casey was a prisoner. When the table was cleared and Hank set about washing the dishes, Casey picked up a grimy dish towel branded black in places where it had rubbed sooty kettles, and grinned cheerfully at Paw while he dried a tin plate. Paw eyed him dubiously over a stinking pipe, spat reflectively into the woodbox and crossed his legs the other way, loosely swinging an ill-shod foot.
“Y’ain’t told us yet what brung yuh up on the butte,” Paw observed suddenly. “Yuh wa’n’t lost—yuh ain’t got the mark uh no tenderfoot. What was yuh doin’ up in that tree?”
“Mebbe I mighta been huntin’ mountain sheep,” Casey retorted calmly.
“Huntin’ mountain sheep up a tree is a new one,” tittered Hank. “Wish you’d give me a swaller uh that brand. Must have a kick like a brindle mule.”
“More likely ‘White Mule.’” Casey cocked a knowing eye at Hank. “You’re too late, young feller. I chewed the cork day before yesterday,” he declared.
While he fished another plate out of the pan, Casey observed that Paw looked at Joe inquiringly, and that Joe moved his head sidewise a careful inch, and back again.
“Moonshine, huh?” Paw hazarded hopefully. “Yuh peddlin’ it, er makin’ it?”
Casey grinned secretively. “A man can’t be pinched without the goods,” he observed shrewdly. “I was raised in a country where they took fools out an’ brained ’em with an axe. You fellers ain’t been none too friendly, recollect. When’s your boss expected home, did yuh say? I’d kinda like to meet ’im.”
“He’ll kinda like to meet you,” Joe returned darkly. “Your actions has been plumb suspicious.
“Nothin’ suspicious about my actions,” Casey stated truculently, throwing discretion behind him. “The suspiciousness lays up here somewheres on this butte. If yuh want to know what brung me up here, Casey Ryan’s the man that can tell yuh to your faces. I come up here to find out who’s been gittin’ busy with a high-power on my camp down below. Ain’t it natural a man’d want to know who’d shot his two burros—an’ ’is pardner?” Casey had impulsively decided to throw in Barney for good measure. “Casey Ryan ain’t the man to set under a bush an’ be shot at like a rabbit. You can ask anybody if Casey ever backed up fer man er beast. I come up here huntin’. Shore I did. It wasn’t sheep I was after—that there’s my mistake. It was goats.”
“Guess I got yourn,” Hank leered “when stuck my gun in your back hair.”
“If any one’s ‘been usin’ a high-power it wasn’t on this butte,” Joe growled. “None uh this bunch done any shootin’. Pap an’ Hank, they was up here huntin’ burros an I caught yuh up a tree spyin’. We got a little band uh antelope up here we’re pertectin’. Our boss got himself made a deppity fer just such cases as yourn appears t’ be—pervidin’ your case ain’t worse.
“Now you say your pardner was shot down below in your camp. That shore looks bad fer you, old-timer. The boss’ll shore have t’ look into it when he gits here. Lucky we made up our minds t’ hold yuh—a murderer, like as not.” He filled his pipe with deliberation, while Casey, his jaw sagging, stared from one to the other.
Casey had meant to accuse them to their faces of shooting Barney and the burros from the rim-rock. It had occurred to him that if they believed Barney dead, they might reveal something of their purpose in the attack. Concealment, he felt vaguely, would serve merely to sharpen their suspicion of him. It had seemed very important to Casey that these three should not know that Barney was probably well on his way to Barstow by now.
Barney in Barstow would mean Barney bearing news that Casey Ryan was undoubtedly murdered by outlaws in the Panamints; which would mean a few officers on the trail, with Barney to guide them to the spot. Paw and Hank and Joe—outlaws all, he would have sworn would get what Casey called their needin’s. His jaw muscles tightened when he thought of that, and the prospect held him quiet under Joe’s injustice.
“I can prove anything I’m asked to prove when the time comes,” he said sourly, and began to roll himself a cigarette, since his pipe had gone out. “But I ain’t in any courtroom yet, an’ you fellers ain’t any judge an’ jury.”
“We got to hold ye,” Paw spoke up unctiously, as if the decision had been his. “Ef a crime’s been committed, like you say it has, we got to do our duty an’ hold ye. The boss’ll know what to do with ye—like I said all along; when I hauled ye down outa that tree, for instance.
“Aw, shut up, Paw, you ol’ fool, you,” Hank commanded again with filial gentleness. “He had yore tongue hangin’ out a foot when I come along an’ captured ’im. Don’t go takin’ no credit to yourself—you ain’t got none comin’. Mart’ll know what to do with ’im, all right. But yuh needn’t go an’ try to let on to Mart that you was the one that caught ’im. He had you caught. An’ he’d a killed yuh if I hadn’t showed up an’ pulled ’im off’n yuh.”
“Well now, when it comes to killin’,” Casey interjected spitefully, “I guess I coulda put the two of yuh away if I’d a wanted to right bad. Casey Ryan ain’t no killer, because he don’t have to be. G’wan an’ hold me if yuh feel that way. Grub ain’t none too good, but I can stand it till your boss comes. I want a man-to-man talk with him, anyway.”
CHAPTER FIVE
That night Casey slept soundly in a bunk built above Joe’s bed in the dugout, with Hank and Paw on the opposite side of the room with their guns handy. In the morning he thought well enough of his stomach to get up and start breakfast when Hank had built the fire. He was aware of Joe’s suspicious gaze from the lower bunk, and of the close presence of Joe’s six-shooter eyeing him balefully from underneath the top blanket. Hank, too, was watchful as a coyote, which he much resembled, in Casey’s opinion. But Casey did not mind trifles of that kind, once his mind was at ease about the breakfast and he was free to slice bacon the right thickness, and mix the hot-cake batter himself. For the first time in many weeks he sang—if you could call it singing—over his work.
When Casey Ryan sings over a breakfast fire, you may expect the bacon fried exactly right. You may be sure the hot-cakes will be browned correctly with no uncooked dough inside, and that the coffee will give you heart for whatever hardship the day may hold.
Even Paw’s surliness lightened a bit by the time he had speared his tenth cake and walloped it in the bacon grease before sprinkling it thick with sugar and settling the eleventh cake on top. Casey was eyeing the fourteenth cake on Hank’s plate when Joe looked up at him over a loaded fork.
“Save out enough dough for three good uns,” Joe ordered, “an’ fill that little coffee pot an’ set it to keep hot, before Hank hogs the hull thing. Dad, seems like you’re, too busy t’ think uh some things Mart wouldn’t want forgot.” Paw looked quickly at Casey; but Casey Ryan had played poker all his life, and his weathered face showed no expression beyond a momentary interest, which was natural.
“Other feller hurt bad?” he inquired carelessly, looking at Joe’s bandaged hand. He almost grinned when he saw the relieved glances exchanged between Joe and Paw.
“Leg broke,” Joe mumbled over a mouthful. “Dad, he set it an’ it’s doin’ all right. He’s up in another cabin.” Through Hank’s brainless titter, Joe added carefully, “Bad ground in the first right-hand drift. We had to abandon it. Rocks big as your head comin’ in on yuh onexpected. None uh them right-hand drifts is safe fer a man t’ walk in, much less work.”
Thereupon Casey related a thrilling story of a cave-in, and assured Joe that he and his partner were lucky to get off with mere broken bones. Casey, you will observe, was running contrary to his nature and leaning to diplomacy.<
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For himself, I am sure he would never have troubled to placate them. He would have taken the first slim chance that offered—or made one—and fought the three to a finish.
But there was the old woman in the rock hut above them, rocking back and forth and staring at a wall that had no visible opening save one small window to let in the light of outdoors. Prisoner she must be—though why, Casey could only guess.
Perhaps she was some desert woman, the widow of some miner who had been shot as these three had tried to shoot him and Barney Oakes. Mean, malevolent as they were, they would still lack the brutishness necessary to shoot an old woman. So they had shut her up there in the rock hut, not daring to take her back to civilization where she would tell of the crime. It was all plain enough to Casey. The story of the crippled miner made him curl his lip contemptuously when his back was safely turned from Joe.
That day Casey thought much of the old woman in the hut, and of Paw’s worse than inferior cooking. Though he did not realize the change in himself, six months of close companionship with the Little Woman had changed Casey Ryan considerably. Time was when even his soft-heartedness would not have impelled him to patient scheming that he might help an old woman whose sole claim upon his sympathy consisted of four rock walls and a look of calm despair in her eyes. Now, Casey was thinking and planning for the old woman more than for himself.
Wherefore, Casey chose the time when he was “putting in an upper” (which is miner’s parlance for drilling a hole in the upper face of the tunnel). He gritted his teeth when he swung back the single-jack and landed a glancing blow on the knuckles of his left hand instead of the drill end. No man save Casey Ryan or a surgeon could have told positively whether the metacarpal bones were broken or whether the hand was merely skinned and bruised.
Joe came up, regarded the bleeding hand sourly, led Casey out to the dugout and bandaged the hand for him. There would be no more tunnel work for Casey until the hand had healed; that was accepted without comment.
That night Casey proved to Paw that, with one hand in a sling much resembling Joe’s, he could nevertheless cook a meal that made eating a pleasure to look forward to. After that the old woman in the little stone hut had pudding, sometimes, and cake made without eggs, and pie; and the potatoes were mashed or baked instead of plain boiled. Casey had the satisfaction of seeing the dishes return empty to the dugout, and know that he was permitted to add something to her comfort and well-being. The Little Woman would be glad of that, Casey thought with a glow. She might never hear of it, but Casey liked to feel that he was doing something that would please the Little Woman.
For the first few days after Casey was installed as cook, one of the three remained always with him, making it plain that he was under guard. Two were always busy elsewhere. Casey saw that he was expected to believe that they were at work in the tunnel, driving it in to a certain contact of which they spoke frequently and at length.
At supper they would mention their footage for that day’s work, and Casey would hide a grin of derision. Casey knew rock as he knew bacon and beans and his sour-dough can. To make the footage they claimed to be making in that tunnel, they would need to shoot twice a day, with a round of, say, five holes to a shot.
As a matter of fact, two holes a day, one shot at noon and one at night, were the most Casey ever heard fired in the tunnel or elsewhere about the mine. But he did not tell them any of the things he thought; not even Joe, who had intelligence far above Paw and Hank, ever guessed that Casey listened every day for their shots and could tell, almost to an inch what progress they were actually making in the tunnel. Nor did he guess that Casey Ryan with his mouth shut was more unsafe than “giant powder” laid out in the sun until it sweated destruction.
Persistent effort, directed by an idea based solely upon an abstract theory, must be driven by a trained intelligence. In this case the abstract theory that every prisoner must be watched must support itself unaided by Casey’s behavior. Not even Joe’s intelligence was trained to a degree where the theory in itself was sufficient to hold him to the continuous effort of watching Casey.
Wherefore Paw, Hank and Joe presently slipped into the habit of leaving Casey alone for an hour or so; being careful to keep the guns out of his reach, and returning to the dugout at unexpected intervals to make sure that all was well.
Casey Ryan knew his pots and pans, and how to make them fill his days if need be. With savory suppers and his care-free, Casey Ryan grin, he presently lulled them into accepting him as a handy man around camp, and into forgetting that he was at least a potential enemy. Afoot and alone in that unfriendly land, with his left hand smashed and carried in a sling, and on his tongue an Irish joke that implied content with his captivity, Casey Ryan would not have looked dangerous to more intelligent men than these three.
They should have looked one night under the bedding in Casey’s bunk. More important still would have been the safeguarding of their “giant powder” and caps and fuse. They should not have left it in a gouged, open hollow under a boulder near the dugout. They were not burdened by the weight of their brains, I imagine.
Just here I should like to say a few words to those who are wholly ignorant of the devastating power contained in “giant powder”—which is dynamite. If you have never had any experience with the stuff, you are likely to go out with a bang and a puff of bluish-brown smoke when you go. On the other hand, you may believe the weird tales one reads now and then, of how whole mountainsides have been thrown down by the discharge of a few sticks of dynamite. Or of one man striking terror to the very souls of a group of mutinous miners by threatening to throw a piece at them. Very well, now this is the truth without any frills of exaggeration or any belittlement:
Dynamite may go off by being thrown so that it lands with a jar, but it is not likely to be so hasty as all that. Whole boxes of it have been dropped off wagons traveling over rough trails, with no worse effect than a nervous chill down the spine of the driver of the wagon. It is true that old stuff, after lying around for months and months through varying degrees of temperature, may perform erratically, exploding when it shouldn’t and refusing to explode when it should. The average miner refuses to take a chance with stale “giant” if he can get hold of fresh.
One stick the size of an ordinary candle, and from that to a maximum amount of four sticks, may be used to “load” a hole eighteen to twenty-four inches long, drilled into living rock. The amount of dynamite used depends upon the quality of rock to be broken and the skill and good judgment of the miner. In average hard-rock mining, from three to five of these holes are drilled in a space four-by-six feet in area.
A stick of dynamite is exploded by inserting in one end of the stick a high-power detonating cap which will deliver a twenty-pound blow per X—whatever that means. From three- to six-X caps are used in ordinary mining. Three-X caps sometimes fail to explode a stick of dynamite. A six-X cap, delivering a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound blow, may be counted upon to do the work without fail.
The cap itself is exploded by a spark running through a length of fuse, the length depending altogether upon the time required to reach a point of safety after the fuse is lighted. The cap is really more dangerous to handle than is the dynamite itself. The cap is a tricky thing that may go off at any jar or scratch or at a spark from pipe or cigarette. You can, if you are sufficiently careless of possible results, light the twisted paper end of a stick of dynamite and watch the dynamite burn like wax in your fingers; it may go off and set your friends to work retrieving portions of your body. More likely, it will do nothing but burn harmlessly.
Well, then, a piece of fuse is inserted in the open end of the cap, and the metal pressed tight against the fuse to hold it in place. Pressed down by the miner’s teeth, sometimes, if he has been long in the business and has grown careless about his head; otherwise he crimps the cap on with a small pair of pliers or the back of his knife blade—and feels a bit easier when it is done without losing a hand.
> You would think, unless you are accustomed to the stuff, that when five holes are loaded with, probably, ten or twelve sticks of dynamite to the lot, each hole containing a six-X exploding cap as well, that the first shot would likewise be the last shot and that the whole tunnel would cave in and the mountain behind it would shake. Nothing like that occurs. If there are five loaded holes in the tunnel face, and you do not hear, one after the other, five muffled booms, you will know that one hole failed to go off—and that the miner is worried. It happens sometimes that four holes loaded with eight sticks of dynamite explode within a foot or so of the fifth hole and yet the fifth hole remains “dead” and a menace to the miner until it is discharged.
So please don’t swallow those wild tales of a stick of dynamite that threw down a mountainside. I once read a story—it was not so long ago—of a Chinaman who wiped out a mine with a little piece of dynamite which he carried in his pocket. I laughed.
Casey Ryan, on the first day when he was left alone with his crippled hand and his pots and pans for company, did nothing whatever that he would not have done had one of the three been present. He was suspicious of their going and thought it was a trap set to catch him in an attempted escape.
On the second day when the three went off together and left him alone, Casey went out gathering wood and discovered just where the “powder,” fuse and caps were kept under a huge, black boulder between the tunnel portal and the dugout. On the third day he also gathered wood and helped himself to two sticks of dynamite, three caps and eighteen inches of fuse. Not enough to be missed unless they checked their supply more carefully than Casey believed they did; but enough for Casey’s purpose nevertheless.
That night, while the moon shone in through the dingy window at the head of his bunk and gave him a little light to work by, Casey sat up in bed and snored softly and with a soothing rhythm while he cut a stick of dynamite in two, capped five inches of fuse for each piece working awkwardly with his one good hand and pinching the caps tight with his teeth, which might have sent him with a bang into Kingdom Come—and very carefully worked the caps into the powder until no more than three inches of fuse protruded from the end of the half stick. It would have been less dangerous to land with a yell in the middle of the floor and fight the three men with one bare hand, but Casey’s courage never turned a hair.
