The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “All right—if you’re willin’ to rustle the wood an’ start a fire, I’ll see if I can dig up somethin’.” He cocked an eye up at the sun. “I et my breakfast long enough ago so I guess it’s settled. I reckon mebby I c’d take on some bacon an’ coffee myself. Feller I had along with me I ditched, back here at the railroad. He done the packin’ up—an’ I’d hate to swear to what he put in an’ what he left out. Onery cuss—I wouldn’t put nothin’ past him. But mebby we can make out a meal.”

  The stranger seemed perfectly satisfied with this arrangement and studied preamble. He started off to gather dead branches of greasewood; and Casey, having prepared the way for possible disappointment, turned toward the car.

  Fear and Casey Ryan have ever been strangers; yet he was conscious of a distinct, prickly chill down his spine. The glance he cast over his shoulder at the stranger betrayed uneasiness, best he could do. He turned over the roll of bedding and cautiously began a superficial search which he hoped would reveal grub in plenty—without revealing anything else. He wished now that he had taken a look over his shoulder when young Kenner was unloading the car at Smiling Lou’s command. He would be better prepared now for possible emergencies. He remembered, with a bit of comfort, that the bootlegger had piled a good deal of stuff upon the ground before Casey first heard the clink of bottles.

  A grunt of relief signaled his location of a box containing grub. A moment later he lifted out a gunny sack bulging unevenly with cooking utensils. He fished a little deeper, turned back a folded tarp and laid naked to his eyes the top of a whisky keg. With a grunt of consternation he hastily replaced the tarp, his heart flopping in his chest like a fresh-landed fish.

  The stranger was kneeling beside a faintly crackling little pile of twigs, his face turned inquiringly toward Casey. Casey, glancing guiltily over his shoulder, felt the chill hand of discovery reaching for his very soul. It was as if a dead man were hidden away beneath that tarp. It seemed to him that the eyes of the stranger were sharp, suspicious eyes, and that they dwelt upon him altogether too attentively for a perfectly justifiable interest even in the box of grub.

  Black coffee, drunk hot and strong, gave the world a brighter aspect. Casey decided that the situation was not so desperate, after all. Easy enough to bluff it out—easiest thing in the world! He would just go along as if there wasn’t a thing on his mind heavier than his thinning, sandy hair. No man living had any right or business snooping around in his car, unless he carried a badge of an officer of the law. Even with the badge, Casey told himself sternly, a man would have to show a warrant before he could touch a finger to his outfit.

  Over his third cup of coffee Casey eyed the stranger guardedly. He did not look like an officer. He was not big and burly, with arrogant eyes and the hint of leashed authority in his tone. Instead, he was of medium height, owned a pair of shrewd gray eyes and an easy drawl, and was dressed in the half military style so popular with mining men, surveyors and others who can afford to choose what garb they will adopt for outdoor living.

  He had shown a perfect familiarity with cooking over a campfire, and had fried the bacon in a manner which even Casey could not criticize. Before the coffee was boiled he had told Casey that his name was Mack Nolan. Immediately afterward he had grinned and added the superfluous information that he was Irish and didn’t care who knew it.

  “Well, I’m Irish, meself,” Casey returned approvingly and with more than his usual brogue. “You can ask anybody if Casey Ryan has ever showed shame fer the blood that’s in’ ’im. ’Tis the Irish that never backs up from a rough trail or a fight.” He poured a fourth cup of coffee into a chipped enamel cup and took his courage in his two hands. Mack Nolan, he assured himself optimistically, couldn’t possibly know what lay hidden under the camp outfit in the Ford. Until he did know, he was harmless as anybody, so long as Casey kept an eye on him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  During the companionable smoke that followed breakfast, Casey learned that Mack Nolan had spent some time in Nevada, ambling through the hills, examining the geologic formation of the country with a view to possible future prospecting in districts yet undeveloped.

  “The mineral possibilities of Nevada haven’t been more than scratched,” Mack Nolan observed, lying back with one arm thrown up under his head as a makeshift pillow and the other hand negligently attending to the cigarette he was smoking. His gray army hat was tilted over his eyes, shielding them from the sun while they dwelt rather studiously upon the face of Casey Ryan.

  “Every spring I like to get out and poke around through these hills where folks as a rule don’t go. Never did much prospecting—as such. Don’t take kindly enough to a pick and shovel for that. What I like best is general field work. If I run across something rich, time enough then to locate a claim or two and hire a couple of strong backs to do the digging.

  “I’ve been out now for about three weeks; and night before last, just as I stopped to make camp and before I’d started to unpack, my two mules got scared at a rattler and quit the country. Left me flat, without a thing but my clothes and six-shooter, and what I had in my pockets.” He lifted the cigarette from between his lips—thin, they were, and curved and rather pitiless, one could guess, if the man were sufficiently roused.

  “I wasted all yesterday trying to trail ’em. But you can’t do much tracking in these rocks back here toward the river. I was hitting for the highway to catch a ride if I could, when I saw you topping this last ridge over here. Don’t blame me much for bumming a breakfast, do you?” And he added, with a sigh of deep physical content, “It sure-lee was some feed!”

  His lids drooped lower as if sleep were overtaking him in spite of himself. “I’d ask yuh if you’d seen anything of those mules—only I don’t give a damn now. I wish this was night instead of noon; I could sleep the clock around after that bacon and bannock of yours. Haven’t a care in the world,” he murmured drowsily. “Happy as a toad in the sun, first warm day of spring. How soon you going to crank up?”

  Casey stared at him unwinkingly through narrowed lids. He pushed his hat forward with a sharp tilt over his eyebrow—which meant always that Casey Ryan had just O. K.’d an idea—and reached for his chewing tobacco.

  “Go ahead an’ take a nap if yuh want to,” he urged. “I got some tinkerin’ to do on the Ford, an’ I was aimin’ to lay over here an’ do it. I’m kinda lookin’ around, myself, for a likely prospect; I got all the time there is. I guess I’ll back the car down the draw a piece where she’ll set level, an’ clean up ’er dingbats whilst you take a sleep.”

  Casey left the breakfast things where they were, as a silent reassurance to Mack Nolan that the car would not go off without him. It was a fine, psychological detail of which Casey was secretly rather proud. A box of grub, a smoked coffee pot and dirty breakfast dishes left beside a dead campfire establishes evidence, admissible before any jury, that the owner means to return.

  Casey went over and cranked the Ford, grimly determined to make the coffee pot lie for him if necessary. He backed the car down the draw a good seventy-five yards, to where a wrinkle in the bank hid him from the breakfast camp. He stopped there and left the engine running while he straddled out over the side and went forward to the dip of the front fender to see if the Ford were still visible to Mack Nolan. He was glad to find that by crouching and sighting across the fender he could just see the campfire and the top of Nolan’s hat beyond it. The man need only lift his head off his arm to see that the Ford was standing just around the turn of the draw.

  “The corner was never yet so tight that Casey Ryan couldn’t find a crack somewhere to crawl through,” he told himself vaingloriously. “An’ I hope to thunder the feller sleeps long an’ sleeps solid!”

  For fifteen minutes the mind of Casey Ryan was at ease. He had found a shovel in the car, placed conveniently at the side where it could be used for just such an emergency as this. For fifteen minutes he had been using that shovel in a shelving bank of loose gravel just und
er an outcropping of rhyolite a rod or so behind the car and well out of sight of Nolan.

  He was beginning to consider his excavation almost deep enough to bury two ten-gallon kegs and forty bottles of whisky, when the shadow of a head and shoulders fell across the hole. Casey did not lift the dirt and rocks he had on his shovel. He froze to a tense quiet, goggling at the shadow.

  “What are yuh doing, Casey? Trying to outdig a badger?” Mack Nolan’s chuckle was friendliness itself.

  Casey’s head snapped around so that he could cock an eye up at Nolan. He grinned mechanically. “Naw. Picked up a rich-lookin’ piece uh float. Thought I’d just see if it didn’t mebby come from this ledge.”

  Mack Nolan stepped forward interestedly and looked at the ledge.

  “Where’s the piece you found?” he very naturally inquired. “The formation just here wouldn’t lead me to expect gold-bearing rock; but of course, anything is possible with gold. Let’s have a look at the specimen.”

  Casey had once tried to bluff a stranger with two deuces and a pair of fives, and two full stacks of blue chips pushed to the center to back the bluff. The stranger had called him, with three queens and a pair of jacks. Casey felt like that now.

  He had laughed over his loss then, and he grinned now and reached carelessly to the bank beside him as if he fully expected to lay his hand on the specimen of gold-bearing rock. He went so far as to utter a surprised oath when he failed to find it. He felt in his pockets. He went forward and scanned the top of the ledge almost convincingly. He turned and stood a-straddle, his hands on his hips, and gazed on the pile of dirt he had thrown out of the hole. Last, he pushed his hat back so that with the next movement he could push it forward again over his eyebrow.

  “Now if that there lump uh high-grade ain’t went an’ slid down the bank an’ got covered up with the muck!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “I’m a son of a gun if Fate ain’t playin’ agin’ Casey Ryan with a flock uh aces under its vest!”

  Mack Nolan laughed, and Casey slanted a look his way. “Thought I left you takin, a nap,” he said brazenly. “What’s the matter? Didn’t your breakfast set good?”

  Mack Nolan laughed again. It was evident that he found Casey Ryan very amusing.

  “The breakfast was fine,” he replied easily. “A couple of lizards got to playing tag over me. That woke me up, and the sun was so hot I just thought I’d come down and crawl into the car and go to sleep there. Go ahead with your prospecting, Casey—I won’t bother you.”

  Casey went on with his digging, but his heart was not in it. With every laggard shovelful of dirt, he glanced over his shoulder apprehensively, watching Mack Nolan crawl into the back of the car and settle himself, with an audible sigh of satisfaction, on top of the load. He had one wild, wicked impulse to lengthen the hole and make it serve as a grave for more than bootleg whisky; but it was an impulse born of desperation, and it died almost before it had lived.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Casey left his digging and returned to the Ford, still determined to carry on the bluff and pretend that much tinkering was necessary before he could travel further. With a great show of industry he rummaged for pliers and wrenches, removed the hood from the motor and squinted down at the little engine.

  By that time Mack Nolan was snoring softly in deep slumber. Casey listened suspiciously, knowing too well how misleading a snore could be. But his own eyelids were growing exceeding heavy, and the soporific sound acted hypnotically upon his sleep-hungry brain. He caught himself yawning, and suddenly threw down the wrench.

  “Aw, hell!” he muttered disgustedly, and went and crawled under the back of the car where it was shady.

  The sun was nearly down when Casey awoke and crawled out. Mack Nolan was still curled comfortably in the car, his back against the bed roll. He opened his eyes and yawned when Casey leaned and looked in upon him.

  “By Jove, that was a fine sleep I had,” he announced cheerfully, lifting himself up and dangling his legs outside the car. “Strike anything yet?”

  “Naw.” Casey’s grunt was eloquent of the mood he was in.

  “Get the car fixed all right?” Mack Nolan’s cheerfulness seemed nothing less than diabolical to Casey.

  “Naw.” Then Casey added grimly, “I’m stuck. I dunno what ails the damned thing. Have to send to Vegas fer new parts, I guess. It’s only three miles out here to the road. Mebby you better hike over to the highway an’ ketch a ride with somebody. I might send in for a timer an’ some things, too. No use waitin’ fer me, Nolan—can’t tell how long I’ll be held up here.”

  Mack Nolan climbed out of the car. Casey’s spirits rose instantly. Nolan came forward and looked down at the engine as casually as he would glance at a nickel alarm clock.

  “She was hitting all right when you backed down here,” Nolan remarked easily. “I’ll just take a look at her myself. Fords are cranky sometimes. But I’ve assembled too many of them in the factory to let one get the best of me in the desert.”

  Casey could almost hear his heart when it slumped down into his boots. But he wasn’t licked yet.

  “Aw, let the darned thing alone till we eat,” he said, pushing his hat forward to hurry his wits.

  “Well—I can throw a Ford together in the dark, if necessary,” smiled Mack Nolan. “Eat, it is, if you want it that way. That breakfast I put away seems to have sharpened my appetite for supper. Tell you what, Ryan. I’ll do a little trouble-shooting here while you cook supper. How’ll that be?”

  That wouldn’t be, if Casey could prevent it. His pale, narrow-lidded eyes dwelt upon Nolan unwinkingly.

  “Well, mebby I’m kind of a crank about my car,” he hedged, with a praiseworthy calmness. “Fords is like horses, to me. I drove stage all m’ life till I took to prospectin’—an’ I never could stand around and let anybody else monkey with my teams. I ain’t a doubt in the world, Mr. Nolan, but what you know as much about Fords as I do. More, mebby. But Casey Ryan’s got ’is little ways, an’ he can’t seem to ditch ’em. We’ll eat; an’ then mebby we’ll look ’er over together.

  “At the same time,” he went on with rising courage, “I’m liable to stick around here for awhile an’ prospect a little. If you wanta find them mules an’ outfit, don’t bank too strong on Casey Ryan. He’s liable to change ’is mind any old time. Day or night, you can’t tell what Casey might take a notion to do. That there’s a fact. You can ask anybody if it ain’t.”

  Mack Nolan laughed and slapped Casey unexpectedly on the shoulder. “You’re a man after my own heart, Casey Ryan,” he declared enigmatically. “I’ll stick to you and take a chance. Darn the mules! Somebody will find them and look after them until I show up.”

  Casey’s spirits, as he admitted to himself, were rising and falling like the hammer of a pile driver; and like the pile driver, the hammer was driving him deeper and deeper into hopelessness. He would have given an ear to know for certain whether Mack Nolan were as innocent and friendly as he seemed. Until he did know, Casey could see nothing before him but to wait his chance to give Nolan the slip.

  Sitting cross-legged in the glow of the campfire after supper, with a huge pattern of stars drawn over the purple night sky, Casey pulled out the old pipe with which he had solaced many an evening and stuffed it thoughtfully with tobacco. Across the campfire, Mack Nolan sat with his hat tilted down over his eyes, smoking a cigarette and seeming at peace with all the world.

  Casey hoped that Nolan would forget about fixing the Ford. He hoped that Nolan would sleep well tonight. Casey was perfectly willing to sacrifice a good roll of bedding and the cooking outfit for the privilege of traveling alone. No man, he told himself savagely, could ask a better deal than he was prepared to give Nolan. He bent to reach a burning twig for his pipe, and found Nolan watching him steadily from under his hat brim.

  “What sort of looking fellows were those, Ryan, that left a load of booze on your hands?” Nolan asked casually when he saw that he was observed.

  Casey burned
his fingers with the blazing twig. “Who said anything about any fellers leavin’ me booze?” he evaded sharply. “If it’s a drink you’re hintin’ for, you won’t get it. Casey Ryan ain’t no booze peddler, an’ now’s as good a time as any to let that soak into your system.”

  Mack Nolan’s gray eyes were still watching Casey with a steadfastness that was disconcerting to a man in Casey’s dilemma.

  “It might help us both considerably,” he said quietly, “if you told me all about it. You can’t cache that booze you’ve got in the car—I won’t let you, for one thing; for another, that would be merely dodging the issue, and if you’ll forgive my frankness, dodging doesn’t seem to be quite in your line.”

  Casey puffed hard on his pipe. “The world’s gittin’ so darned full uh crooks, a man can’t turn around now’days without bumpin’ into a few!” he exploded bitterly. “What kind uh hold-up game you playin’, Mr. Nolan? If that’s your name,” he added fiercely.

  Mack Nolan laughed to himself and rubbed the ash from his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. “Why,” he answered genially, “my game is holding up bootleggers—and crooked cops. Speaking off-hand (which I don’t often do) I should say you have a fine chance to sit in with me. I’m just guessing, now,” he added dryly, “but I’m tolerably good at guessing; a man’s got to be, these days.”

  “A man’s got to do better than guess—with Casey Ryan,” Casey remarked ominously. “The last man that guessed Casey Ryan, guessed ’im plumb wrong.”

  “Meaning that you’d refuse to help me round up bootleggers and the officers that protect them?” A steel edge crept into Mack Nolan’s voice. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into Casey’s mind.

  “Man, don’t stall with me! You’ve got brains enough to know that if I were a crook I’d have held you up long before now. You gave me three splendid opportunities to stick a gun in your back—and I could have made others. And,” he added with a smile, “if I had thought that you were a bootlegger or a crook of any other kind, I’d have had you in Las Vegas jail by this time. You’re no more a crook than I am. You’ve got neither the looks nor the actions of a slicker. I may say I know you pretty well—”