by B. M. Bower
But as an understudy for Ananias, Casey Ryan would have been a failure. In two hours or less he had made easy trail acquaintance with six different men, and he had unconsciously managed to vary his vague account of himself six different times. Wherefore he was presently asked cautiously concerning his thirst.
“They’s times,” said Casey, hopefully lowering an eyelid, “when a feller dassent take a nip, no matter how thirsty he gits.”
The questioner stared at him for a minute and slowly nodded. “You’re darn’ right,” he assented. “I scursely ever touch anything, myself.” And he added vaguely, “Quite a lot of it peddled out here in this camp, I guess. Tourists comin’ through are scared to pack it themselves—but they sure don’t overlook any chances to take a snort.”
“Yeah?” Casey cocked a knowing eye at the speaker. “They must pay a pretty fair price fer it, too. Don’t the cops bother folks none?”
“Some—I guess.”
Casey filled his pipe and offered his tobacco sack to the man. The fellow took it, nodding listless thanks, and filled his own pipe. The two sat down together on the knee of a deformed sycamore and smoked in circumspect silence.
“Arizona, I see.” The man nodded toward the license plates on Casey’s car.
“Uh-huh.” Casey glanced that way. “Know a man name of Kenner?” He asked abruptly.
The fellow looked at Casey sidelong, without turning his head.
“Some. Do you?”
“Some.” Casey felt that he was making headway, though it was a good deal like playing checkers with the king row wide open and only two crowned heads to defend his men.
“Friend uh yours?” The fellow turned his head and looked straight at Casey.
Casey returned him a pale, straight-lidded stare. The man’s glance flickered and swung away.
“Who wants to know?” Casey asked calmly.
“Oh, you can call me Jim Cassidy. I just asked.” He removed his pipe from his mouth and inspected it apathetically. “He’s a friend of Bill Masters, garage man up at Lund. Know Bill?”
“Any man says I don’t, you can call ’im a liar.” Casey also inspected his pipe. “Bought that car off’n Kenner,” Casey added boldly. Getting into trouble, he discovered, carried almost the thrill of trying to keep out of it.
“Yeah?” The self-styled Jim Cassidy looked at the Ford more attentively. “And contents?”
Casey snorted. “What do you know about goats, if anything?” he asked mysteriously.
Jim Cassidy eyed Casey sidelong through a silence. Then he brought his palm down flat on his thigh and laughed.
“You pass,” he stated, with a relieved sigh. “He’s a dinger, ain’t he?”
“You know ’im, all right.” Casey also laughed and put out his hand. “If you’re a friend of Kenner’s, shake hands with Casey Ryan! He’s damned glad to meet yuh—an’ you can ask anybody if that ain’t the truth.”
After that the acquaintance progressed more smoothly. By the time Casey spread his bed close alongside the car—he knew just how much booze Jim Cassidy carried, just what Cassidy expected to make off the load, and a good many other bits of information of no particular use to Casey.
A strange, inner excitement held Casey awake long after Jim Cassidy was asleep snoring. He lay looking up into the leafy branches of the sycamore beside him and watched a star slip slowly across an open space between the branches. Farther up the grove a hilarious group of young hikers sang snatches of songs to the uncertain accompaniment of a ukelele. A hundred feet away on his right, occasional cars went coasting past on the down grade, coming in off the desert, or climbed more slowly with motors working, on their way up from the valley below. The shifting brilliance from their headlights flicked the grove capriciously as they went by. Now and then a car stopped. One, a big, high-powered car with one dazzling spotlight swung into the narrow driveway and entered the grove.
Casey lifted his head like a desert turtle and blinked curiously at the car as it eased past him a few feet and stopped. A gloved hand went out to the spotlight and turned it slowly, lighting the grove foot by foot and pausing to dwell upon each silent, parked car. Casey sat up in the blankets and waited.
Luck, he told himself, was grinning at him from ear to ear. For this was Smiling Lou himself, and none other. He was alone,—a big, hungry, official fish searching the grove greedily. Casey swallowed a grin and tried to look scared. The light was slowly working around in his direction.
I don’t suppose Casey Ryan had ever looked really scared in his life. His face simply refused to wear so foreign an expression. Therefore, when the spotlight finally revealed him, Casey blinked against it with a half-hearted grin, as if he had been caught at something foolish. The light remained upon him, and Smiling Lou got out of the car and came back to him slowly.
Not even Casey thought of calling Smiling Lou a fool. He couldn’t be and play the game he was playing. Smiling Lou said nothing whatever until he had looked the car over carefully (giving the license number a second sharp glance) and had regarded Casey fixedly while he made up his mind.
“Hullo! Where’s your pardner?” he demanded then.
“I’m in pardnerships with myself this trip,” Casey retorted. He waited while Smiling Lou looked him over again, more carefully this time.
“Where did you get that car?”
“From Kenner—for sixteen-hundred and seventeen dollars and five cents.” Casey fumbled in the blankets—Smiling Lou following his movements suspiciously—and got out the makings of a cigarette.
“Got any booze in that car?” Smiling Lou might have been a traffic cop, for all the trace of humanity there was in his voice.
Casey cocked an eye up at him, sent a quick glance toward the Ford, and looked back into Smiling Lou’s face. He hunched his shoulders and finished the making of his cigarette.
“I wisht you wouldn’t look,” he said glumly. “I got half my outfit in there an’ I hate to have it tore up.”
Smiling Lou continued to look at him, seeming slightly puzzled. But indecision was not one of his characteristics, evidently. He stepped up to the car, pulled a flashlight from his pocket and looked in.
Casey was up and into his clothes by the time Smiling Lou had uncovered a box or two. Smiling Lou turned toward him, his lips twitching.
“Lift this stuff out of here and put it in my car,” he commanded, elation creeping into his voice in spite of himself. “My Lord! The chances you fellows take! Think a dab of paint is going to cover up a brand burnt into the wood?”
Casey looked startled, glancing down into the car to where Smiling Lou pointed.
“The boards is turned over on all the rest,” he muttered confidentially. “I dunno how that darned Canadian Club sign got right side up.”
“What all have you got?” Smiling Lou lowered his voice when he asked the question. Casey tried not to grin when he replied. Smiling Lou gasped,
“Well, get it into my car, and make it snappy.”
Casey made it as snappy as he could, and kept his face straight until Smiling Lou spoke to him sharply.
“I won’t take you in tonight with me. I want that car. You drive it into headquarters first thing in the morning. And don’t think you can beat it, either. I’ll have the road posted. You can knock a good deal off your sentence if you crank up and come in right after breakfast. And make it an early breakfast, too.”
His manner was stern, his voice perfectly official. But Casey, eyeing him grimly, saw distinctly the left eyelid lower and lift again.
“All right—I’m the goat,” he surrendered and sat down again on his canvas-covered bed. He did not immediately crawl between the blankets, however, because interesting things were happening over at Jim Cassidy’s car.
Casey watched Jim Cassidy go picking his way amongst the tree roots and camp litter, his back straightened under the load of hootch he was carrying to Smiling Lou’s car. With Jim Cassidy also, Smiling Lou was crisply official. When the last of the hootch
had been transferred, Casey heard Smiling Lou tell Jim Cassidy to drive in to headquarters after breakfast next morning—but he did not see Smiling Lou wink when he said it.
After that, Smiling Lou started his motor and drove slowly up through the grove, halting to scan each car as he passed. He swung out through the upper driveway, turned sharply there and came back down the highway speeding up on the downhill grade to San Bernardino.
Jim Cassidy came furtively over and settle down for a whispered conference on Casey’s bed.
“How much did he get off’n you?” he asked inquisitively. “Did he clean yuh out?”
“Clean as a last year’s bone in a kioty den,” Casey declared, hiding his satisfaction as best he could. “Never got my roll though.”
“He wouldn’t—not with you workin’ on the inside. Guess it must be kinda touchy around here right now. New officers, mebby. He wouldn’t a’ cleaned us out if we’d a’ been safe. He never came into camp before—not when I’ve been here. Made that same play to you, didn’t he—about givin’ yourself up in the morning? Uh course yuh know what that means—don’t!”
“He shore is foxy, all right,” Casey commented with absolute sincerity. “You can ask anybody if he didn’t pull it off like the pleasure was all his’n. No L. A. traffic cop ever pinched me an I looked like he enjoyed it more.”
“Oh, Lou’s cute, all right. They don’t any of ’em put anything over on Lou. You must be new at the business, ain’t yuh?”
“Second trip,” Casey informed him with an air of importance—which he really felt, by the way. “What Casey’s studyin’ on now, is the next move. No use hangin’ around here empty. What do you figger on doin’?”
“Well, Lou didn’t give no tip—not to me, anyway. So I guess it’ll be safe to drive on in to the city and load up again. I got a feller with me—he caught a ride in to San Berdoo; left just before you drove in. Know where to go in the city? ’Cause I can ride in with you, an’ let him foller.”
“That’ll suit me fine,” Casey declared. And so they left it for the time being, and Cassidy went back to bed.
A great load had dropped from Casey’s shoulders, and he was asleep before Jim Cassidy had ceased to turn restlessly in his blankets. Getting the White Mule out of his car and into the car of Smiling Lou had been the task which Nolan had set for him. What was to happen thereafter Casey could only guess, for Nolan had not told him. And such was the Casey Ryan nature that he made no attempt to solve the problems which Mack Nolan had calmly reserved for himself.
He did not dream, for instance, that Mack Nolan had watched him load the stuff into Smiling Lou’s car. He did know that an unobtrusive Cadillac roadster was parked at the next campfire. It had come in half an hour behind him, but the driver had not made any move toward camping until after dark. Casey had glanced his way when the car was parked and the driver got out and began fussing around the car, but he had not been struck with any sense of familiarity in the figure.
There was no reason why he should. Thousands and thousands of men are of Mack Nolan’s height and general build. This man looked like a doctor or a dentist perhaps. Beyond the matter of size, similarity to Mack Nolan ceased. The Cadillac man wore a vandyke beard and colored glasses, and a panama and light gray business suit. Casey set him down in his mental catalog as “some town feller” and assumed that they had nothing in common.
Yet Mack Nolan heard nearly every word spoken by Smiling Lou, Casey and Jim Cassidy. (Readers are so inquisitive about these things that I felt I ought to tell you—else you’ll be worrying as hard as Casey Ryan did later on. I’m soft-hearted, myself; I never like to worry a reader more than is absolutely necessary. So I’m letting you in, hoping you’ll get an added kick out of Casey’s further maneuvers).
The Cadillac car, I should explain, was only one of Mack Nolan’s little secrets. There is a very good garage at Goffs, not many miles from Juniper Wells. A matter of an hour’s driving was sufficient at any time for Mack Nolan to make the exchange. And no man at Goffs would think it very strange that the owner of a Cadillac should prefer to drive a Ford over rough, desert trails to his prospect in the mountains. Mack Nolan, as I have told you before, had a way with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
With a load of booze in the car and Jim Cassidy by his side, Casey Ryan drove down the long, eucalyptus-shaded avenue that runs past the balloon school at Arcadia and turned into the Foothill Boulevard. Half a mile farther on a Cadillac roadster honked and slid past them, speeding away toward Monrovia. But Casey Ryan was busy talking chummily with Jim Cassidy, and he scarcely knew that a car had passed.
The money he had been given for Smiling Lou had been used to pay for this new load of whisky, and Casey found himself wishing that he could get word of it to Mack Nolan. Still, Nolan’s oversight in the matter of arranging for communication between them did not bother Casey much. He was doing his part; if Mack Nolan failed to do his, that was no fault of Casey Ryan’s.
At Fontana, where young Kenner had stopped for gas on that eventful first trip of Casey’s, Casey slowed down also, for the same purpose, half tempted to call up the Little Woman on long distance while the gas tank was being filled. But presently the matter went clean from his mind—and this was the reason:
A speed cop whose motorcycle stood inconspicuously around the corner of the garage, came forward and eyed the Ford sharply. He drew his little book from his pocket, turned a few leaves, found what he was looking for and eyed again the car. The garage man, slowly turning the crank of the gasoline pump, looked at him inquiringly; but the speed cop ignored the look and turned to Casey.
“Where’d you get this car?” he demanded, in much the same tone which Smiling Lou had used the night before.
“Bought it,” Casey told him gruffly.
“Where did you buy it?”
“Over at Goffs, just this side of Needles.”
“Got a bill of sale?”
“You got Casey Ryan’s word fer it,” Casey retorted, with a growing heat inside, where he kept his temper when he wasn’t using it.
“Are you Casey Ryan?” The speed cop’s eyes hardened just a bit.
“Anybody says I ain’t, you send ’em to me—an’ then come around in about ten minutes an’ look ’em over.”
“What’s your name?” The officer turned to Jim Cassidy.
“Tom Smith. I was just ketchin’ a ride with this feller. Don’t go an’ mix me in—I ain’t no ways concerned; just ketchin’ a ride is all. If I’d ’a’ knowed—”
“You can explain that to the judge. Get in there, you, and drive in to San Berdoo. I’ll be right with you, so you needn’t forget the road!” He stepped back to his motorcycle and pushed it forward.
“Hey! Don’t I git paid fer my gas?” the garage man wailed, pulling a dripping nozzle from Casey’s gas tank.
“Aw, go tahell!” Casey grunted, and threw a wadded bank note in his direction. “Take that an’ shut up. What yuh cryin’ around about a gallon uh gas, fer? You ain’t pinched!”
The money landed near the motorcycle and the officer picked it up, smoothed out the bill, glanced at it and looked through tightened lids at Casey.
“Throwin’ money around like a hootch-runner!” he sneered. “I guess you birds need lookn’ after, all right. Git goin’!”
Casey “got going.” Twice on the way in the officer spurted up alongside and waved him down for speeding. Casey had not intended to speed, either. He was merely keeping pace unconsciously with his thoughts.
He had been told just what he must do if he were arrested for bootlegging, but he was not at all certain that his instructions would cover an arrest for stealing an automobile. Nolan had forgotten about that, he guessed. But Casey’s optimism carried him jauntily to jail in San Bernardino, and while he was secretly a bit uneasy, he was not half so worried as Jim Cassidy appeared to be.
Casey was booked—along with “Tom Smith”—on two charges: theft of one Ford car, motor number so-and-so, serial n
umber this-and-that, model, touring, year, whatever-it-was. And, unlawful transportation of spirituous liquor. He tried to give the judge the wink, but without any happy result. So he eventually found himself locked in a cell with Jim Cassidy.
Just at first, Casey Ryan was proud of the part he was playing. He could look with righteous toleration upon the limpness of his fellow prisoner. He could feel secure in the knowledge that he, Casey Ryan, was an agent of the government engaged in helping to uphold the laws of his country.
He waited for an hour or two, listening with a superior kind of patience to Jim Cassidy’s panicky unbraidings of his luck. At first Jim was inclined to blame Casey rather bitterly for the plight he was in. But Casey soon stopped that. Young Kenner was the responsible party in this mishap, as Casey very soon made plain to Jim.
“Well, I dunno but what you’re right. It was kind of a dirty trick—workin’ a stole car off onto you. Why didn’t he pick some sucker on the outside? Don’t line up with Kenner, somehow. Well, I guess mebby Smilin’ Lou can see us out uh this hole all right—only I don’t like that car-stealin’ charge. Mebby Kenner an’ Lou can straighten it up, though.”
Casey wondered if they could. He wondered, too, how Nolan was going to find out about Smiling Lou getting the camouflaged White Mule. Nolan had not explained that to Casey—but Casey was not worrying yet. His faith in Mack Nolan was firm.
Came bedtime, however, with no sign of official favor toward Casey Ryan. Casey began to wonder. But probably, he consoled himself with thinking, they meant to wait until Jim Cassidy was asleep before they turned Casey loose. He lay on the hard bunk and waited hopefully, listening to the stertorous breathing of Jim Cassidy, who had forgotten his troubles in sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At noon the next day Casey was still waiting—but not hopefully. “Patience on a monument” couldn’t have resembled Casey Ryan in any particular whatever. He was mad. By midnight he had begun to wonder if he was not going to be made a goat again. By daylight, he was positive that he was already a goat. By the time the trusty brought his breakfast, Casey was applying to Mack Nolan the identical words and phrases which he had applied to young Kenner when he was the maddest. Don’t ask me to tell you what they were.
