by B. M. Bower
Jim Cassidy still clung desperately to his faith in Smiling Lou; but Casey’s faith hadn’t so much as a finger-hold on anything. What kind of a government was it, he asked himself bitterly, that would leave a trusted agent twenty-four hours shut up in a cell with a whining crook like Jim Cassidy? If, he added pessimistically, he were an agent of the government. Casey doubted it. So far as he could see, Casey Ryan wasn’t anything but the goat.
His chief desire now was to get out of there as soon as possible so that he could hunt up Mack Nolan and lick the livin’ tar wit of him—or worse. He wanted bail and he wanted it immediately. Not a soul bad come near him, save the trusty, in spite of certain mysterious messages which Casey had sent to the office, asking for an interview with the judge or somebody; Casey didn’t care who. Locked in a cell, how was he going to do any of the things Nolan had told him to do if he happened to find himself arrested by an honest officer?
When they hauled him before the police judge, Casey hadn’t been given the chance to explain anything to anybody. Unless, of course, he wanted to beller out his business before everybody; and that, he told himself fiercely, was not Casey Ryan’s idea of the way to keep a secret. Moreover, that damned speed cop was standing right there, just waiting for a chance to wind his fingers in Casey’s collar and choke him off if he tried to say a word. And how the hell, Casey would like to know, was a man going to explain himself when he couldn’t get a word in edgeways?
So Casey wanted bail. There were just two ways of getting it, and it went against the grain of his pride to take either one. That is why Casey waited until noon before his Irish stubbornness yielded a bit and he decided to wire me to come. He had to slip the wire out by the underground method—meaning the good will of the trusty. It cost Casey ten dollars, but he didn’t grudge that.
He spent that afternoon and most of the night mentally calling the trusty a liar and a thief because there was no reply to the message. As a matter of fact, the trusty sent the wire through as quickly as possible and the fault was mine if any one’s. I was too busy hurrying to the rescue to think about sending Casey word that I was coming. Casey said afterwards that my thoughtlessness would be cured for life if I were ever locked in jail and waiting for news.
As it happened, I wired the Little Woman that Casey was in jail again, and caught the first train to San “Berdoo”—coming down by way of Barstow. I could save two or three hours that way, I found, so I told the Little Woman to meet me there and bring all the money she could get her hands on. Not knowing just what Casey was in for this time, it seemed well to be prepared for a good, stiff bail. She beat me by several hours, and between us we had ten thousand dollars.
At that it was a fool’s errand. Casey was out of jail and gone before either of us arrived. So there we were, holding the bag, as you might say, and our ten thousand dollars’ bail money.
“It’s no use asking questions, Jack,” the Little Woman told me pensively when we had finished our salad in the best cafe in town, and were waiting for the fish. “I’ve asked questions of every uniform in this town, from the district judge down to the courthouse janitor. Nobody knows a thing. I did find that Casey was booked yesterday for having a stolen car and a load of booze in his possession, but he isn’t in jail—or if he is, they’re keeping him down in some dungeon and have thrown away the key. It was hinted in the police court that he was dismissed for want of evidence; but they wouldn’t say anything, and so there you are!”
We finished our fish in a thoughtful silence. Then, when the waiter had removed the plates, the Little Woman looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Well-sir, there’s something I want to tell you, Jack. I believe Casey has put this town on the run. They can’t tell me! Something’s happened, over around the courthouse. A lot of the men I talked with had a scared look in their eyes, and they were nervous when doors opened, and looked around when people came walking along. I don’t know what he’s been doing—but Casey Ryan’s been up to something. You can’t tell me! I know how our laundry boy looks when Casey’s home.”
“And didn’t you get any line at all on his whereabouts?” I asked her. Given three hours the start of me, I knew perfectly well that the Little Woman had found out all there was to know about Casey.
“Well-sir—I’ve got this to go on,” the Little Woman drawled and held a telegram across the table. “You’ll notice that was sent from Goffs. It’s ten days old, but I’ve been getting ready ever since it arrived. I’ve put Babe in a boarding-school, and I leased the apartment house. I kept three dressmakers ruining their eyes with nightwork, Jack, making up some nifty sports clothes. If Casey’s bound to stay in the desert—well, I’m his wife—and Casey does kind of like to have me around. You can’t tell me.
“So I’ve got the twin-six packed with the niftiest camp outfit you ever saw, Jack. I’ve got a yellow and red beach umbrella, and two reclining chairs, and—well-sir, I’m going to rough it de luxe. I don’t expect to keep Casey in hand—I happen to know him. But it’s just possible, Jack, that I can keep him in sight!”
Of course I told her—as I’ve told her often enough before—that she was a brick. I added that I would go along, if she liked; which she did. Not even the Little Woman should ever attempt to drive across the Mojave alone.
We started out as soon as we had finished the meal. A Cadillac roadster came up behind us and honked for clear passing as we swung into the long, straight stretch that leads up the Cajon. The Little Woman peered into the rear vision mirror and pressed the toe of her white pump upon the accelerator.
“There’s only one man in the world that can pass me on the road,” the Little Woman drawled, “and he doesn’t wear a panama!”
As we snapped around the turns of Cajon Grade, I looked back once or twice. The Cadillac roadster was still following pertinaciously, but it was too far back to honk at us. When we slid down to the Victorville garage and stopped for gas, the Cadillac slid by. The driver in the panama gave us one glance through his colored glasses, but I felt, somehow, that the glance was sufficiently comprehensive to fix us firmly in his memory. I inquired at the garage concerning Casey Ryan, taking it for granted he would be driving a Ford. A man of that description had stopped at the garage for gas that forenoon, the boy told me. About nine o’clock, I learned from further questioning.
“Well-sir, that gives him five hours the start,” the Little Woman remarked, as she eased in the clutch and slid around the corner into the highway to Barstow. “But you can’t tell me I can’t run down a Ford with this car. I know to the last inch what a Jawn Henry is good for. I drove one myself, remember. Now we’ll see.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At Dagget, the big, blue car with a lady driver sounded the warning signal and passed Mack Nolan and the Cadillac roadster. Like Casey Ryan, Nolan is rather proud of his driving, and with sufficient reason. He was already hurrying, not to overhaul Casey, but to arrive soon after him.
Women drivers loved to pass other cars with a sudden spurt of speed, he had found by experience. They were not, however, consistently fast drivers. Mack Nolan was conscious of a slight irritation when the twin-six took the lead. Somewhere ahead—probably in one of the rough, sandy stretches—he would either have to pass that car or lag behind. Your expert driver likes a clear road ahead.
So Mack Nolan drove a bit harder, and succeeded in getting most of the dust kicked up by the big, blue car. He counted on passing before they reached Ludlow, but he could never quite make it. In that ungodly stretch of sand and rocks and chuck-holes that lies between Ludlow and Amboy, Nolan was sure that the woman driver would have to slow down. He swore a little, too, because she would probably slow down just where passing was impossible. They always did.
They went through Amboy like one party, the big, blue car leading by twenty-five yards. It was a long drive for a woman to make; a hard drive to boot. He wondered if the two in the big car ever ate.
Five miles east of Amboy, when a red sunset was d
arkening to starlight, the blue car, fifty yards in the lead, overhauled a Ford in trouble. In the loose, sandy trail the big car slowed and stopped abreast of the Ford. There was no passing now, unless Mack Nolan wanted to risk smashing his crank-case on a lava rock, millions of which peppered that particular portion of the Mojave Desert. He stopped perforce.
A pair of feet with legs attached to them, protruded from beneath the running board of the Ford. The Little Woman in the big car leaned over the side and studied the feet critically.
“Casey Ryan, are those the best pair of shoes you own?” she drawled at last. “If you wouldn’t wear such rundown heels, you know, you wouldn’t look so bow-legged. I’ve told you and told you that your legs aren’t so bad when you wear straight heels.”
Casey Ryan crawled out and looked up at her grinning sheepishly.
“They was all right when I left home, ma’am,” he defended his shoes mildly. “Desert plays hell with shoe leather—you can ask anybody.” Then he added, “Hullo, Jack! What you two think you’re doin’, anyway. Tryin’ t’ elope?”
“Why, hello, Ryan!” Mack Nolan greeted, coming up from the Cadillac. “Having trouble with your car?” Casey whirled and eyed Nolan dubiously.
“Naw. This ain’t no trouble,” he granted. “I only been here four hours or so—this is pastime!”
There was an awkward silence. We in the blue car wanted to know (not at that time knowing) who was the man in the Cadillac roadster, and how he happened to know Casey so well. Nolan, no doubt, wanted to know who we were. And there was so much that Casey wanted to know and needed to know that he couldn’t seem to think of anything. However, Casey was the hardest to down. He came up to the side of the blue car, reached in with his hands all greasy black, and took the Little Woman’s hand from the wheel and kissed it. The Little Woman made a caressing sound and leaned out to him—and Nolan and I felt that we mustn’t look. So our eyes met.
He came around to my side of the car and put out his hand.
“I’m pretty good at guessing,” he smiled. “I guess you’re Jack Gleason. Casey has talked of you to me. I’m right glad to meet you, too. My name is Mack Nolan, and I’m Irish. I’m Casey Ryan’s partner. We have a good—prospect.”
Casey looked past the Little Woman and me, straight into Mack Nolan’s eyes. I felt something of an electric quality in the air while their gaze held.
“I’m just getting back from a trip down in the valley,” Nolan observed easily. “You never did see me in town duds, did you, Casey?” His eyes went to the Little Woman’s face and then to me. “I suppose you know what this wild Irishman has just pulled off back there,” he said, tilting his head toward San Bernardino, many a mile away to the southwest. “You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he surely has thrown a monkey wrench into as pretty a bootlegging machine as there is in the country. It’s such confidential stuff, of course, that you may call it absolutely secret. But for once I’m telling the truth about it.
“Your husband, Mrs. Casey Ryan, holds a commission from headquarters as a prohibition officer. A deputy, it is true,—but commissioned nevertheless. He’s just getting back from a very pretty piece of work. A crooked officer named Smiling Lou was arrested last night. He had all kinds of liquor cached away in his house. Casey can tell you sometime how he trapped him.
“Of course, I’m just an amateur mining expert on a vacation, myself.” His eyes met Casey’s straight. “I wasn’t with him when he pulled the deal, but I heard about it afterwards, and I knew he was planning something of the sort when he left camp. How I happened to know about the commission,” he added, reaching into his pocket, “is because he left it with me for safe keeping. I’m going to let you look at it—just in case he’s too proud to let it out of his hands once I give it back.
“Now, of course, I’m talking like an old woman and telling all Casey’s secrets—and you’ll probably see a real Irish fight when he gets in reach of me. But I knew he hadn’t told you exactly what he’s doing, and—I personally feel that his wife and his best friend are entitled to know as much as his partner knows about him.”
The Little Woman nodded absently her thanks. She was holding Casey’s commission under the dash-light to read it.
I saw Casey gulp once or twice while he stared across the car at Mack Nolan. He pushed his dusty, black hat forward over one eyebrow and reached into his pocket.
“Aw, hell,” he grunted, grinning queerly. “You come around here oncet, Mr. Nolan, where I can git my hands on yuh!”
THE UPHILL CLIMB (Part 1)
CHAPTER I
“Married! And I Don’t Know Her Name!”
Ford lifted his arms above his head to yawn as does a man who has slept too heavily, found his biceps stiffened and sore, and massaged them gingerly with his finger-tips. His eyes took on the vacancy of memory straining at the leash of forgetfulness. He sighed largely, swung his head slowly from left to right in mute admission of failure to grasp what lay just behind his slumber, and thereby discovered other muscles that protested against sudden movement. He felt his neck with a careful, rubbing gesture. One hand strayed to his left cheekbone, hovered there tentatively, wandered to the bridge of his nose, and from there dropped inertly to the bed.
“Lordy me! I must have been drunk last night,” he said aloud, mechanically taking the straight line of logic from effect to cause, as much experience had taught him to do.
“You was—and then some,” replied an unemotional voice from somewhere behind him.
“Oh! That you, Sandy?” Ford lay quiet, trying to remember. His finger-tips explored the right side of his face; now and then he winced under their touch, light as it was.
“I must have carried an awful load,” he decided, again unerringly taking the backward trail from effect to cause. Later, logic carried him farther. “Who’d I lick, Sandy?”
“Several.” The unseen Sandy gave one the impression of a man smoking and speaking between puffs. “Can’t say just who—you did start in on. You wound up on—the preacher.”
“Preacher?” Ford’s tone matched the flicker of interest in his eyes.
“Uhn-hunh.”
Ford meditated a moment. “I don’t recollect ever licking a preacher before,” he observed curiously.
Life, stale and drab since his eyes opened, gathered to itself the pale glow of awakening interest. Ford rose painfully, inch by inch, until he was sitting upon the side of the bed, got from there to his feet, looked down and saw that he was clothed to his boots, and crossed slowly to where a cheap, flyspecked looking-glass hung awry upon the wall. His self-inspection was grave and minute. His eyes held the philosophic calm of accustomedness.
“Who put this head on me, Sandy?” he inquired apathetically. “The preacher?”
“I d’ know. You had it when you come up outa the heap. You licked the preacher afterwards, I think.”
Sandy was reading a ragged-backed novel while he smoked; his interest in Ford and Ford’s battered countenance was plainly perfunctory.
Outside, the rain fell aslant in the wind and drummed dismally upon the little window beside Sandy. It beat upon the door and trickled underneath in a thin rivulet to a shallow puddle, formed where the floor was sunken. A dank warmth and the smell of wet wood heating to the blazing point pervaded the room and mingled with the coarse aroma of cheap, warmed-over coffee.
“Sandy!”
“Hunh?”
“Did anybody get married last night?” The leash of forgetfulness was snapping, strand by strand. Troubled remembrance peered out from behind the philosophic calm in Ford’s eyes.
“Unh-hunh.” Sandy turned a leaf and at the same time flicked the ashes from his cigarette with a mechanical finger movement. “You did.” He looked briefly up from the page. “That’s why you licked the preacher,” he assisted, and went back to his reading.
A subdued rumble of mid-autumn thunder jarred sullenly overhead. Ford ceased caressing the purple half-moon which inclosed his left eye and began
moodily straightening his tie.
“Now what’n hell did I do that for?” he inquired complainingly.
“Search me,” mumbled Sandy over his book. He read half a page farther. “Do what for?” he asked, with belated attention.
Ford swore and went over and lifted the coffeepot from the stove, shook it, looked in, and made a grimace of disgust as the steam smote him in the face. “Paugh!” He set down the pot and turned upon Sandy.
“Get your nose out of that book a minute and talk!” he commanded in a tone beseeching for all its surly growl. “You say I got married. I kinda recollect something of the kind. What I want to know is who’s the lady? And what did I do it for?” He sat down, leaned his bruised head upon his palms, and spat morosely into the stove-hearth. “Lordy me,” he grumbled. “I don’t know any lady well enough to marry her—and I sure can’t think of any female lady that would marry me—not even by proxy!”
Sandy closed the book upon a forefinger and regarded Ford with that blend of pity, amusement, and tolerance which is so absolutely unbearable to one who has behaved foolishly and knows it. Ford would not have borne the look if he had seen it; but he was caressing a bruise on the point of his jaw and staring dejectedly into the meager blaze which rimmed the lower edge of the stove’s front door, and so remained unconscious of his companion’s impertinence.
“Who was the lady, Sandy?” he begged dispiritedly, after a silence.
“Search me” Sandy replied again succinctly. “Some stranger that blew in here with a license and the preacher and said you was her fee-ancy.” (Sandy read romances, mostly, and permitted his vocabulary to profit thereby.) “You never denied it, even when she said your name was a nomdy gair; and you let her marry you, all right.”
“Are you sure of that?” Ford looked up from under lowering eyebrows.
