The Trail of the White Mule

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The highway north from the Santa Fe Railroad just west of Needlesclimbs an imperceptible grade across barren land to where the mesachanges and becomes potentially fertile. Up this road, going north, acloud of yellow dust rolled swiftly. See at close range, the nose of adingy Ford protruded slightly in front of the enveloping cloud--andbehind it Casey Ryan, hard-eyed and with his jaw set to the fightingmood, gripped the wheel and drove as if he had a grudge against theroad.

  At the first signpost Casey canted a malevolent eye upward and wentlurching by at top speed. The car bulked black for a moment, dimmed,and merged into the fleeing cloud that presently seemed no more than adust-devil whirling across the mesa. At the second signpost Caseyslowed, his eyes dwelling speculatively upon the legend:

  "JUNIPER WELLS 3 M"

  The arrow pointed to the right where a narrow, little-used trail angledcrookedly away through the greasewood. Casey gave a deciding twist tothe steering wheel and turned into the trail.

  Juniper Wells is not nearly so nice a place as it sounds. But it isthe first water north of the Santa Fe, and now and then a wayfarer ofthe desert leaves the main highway and turns that way, driven bynecessity. It is a secluded spot, too unattractive to tempt people tolinger; because of its very seclusion it therefore tempted Casey Ryan.

  When a man has driven a Ford fifteen hours without once leaving thewheel or taking a drink of water or a mouthful of food, however greathis trouble or his haste, his first thought will be of water, food andrest. Even Casey's deadly rage at the diabolical trick played upon himcould not hold his thoughts from dwelling upon bacon and coffee and agood sleep afterwards.

  Wind and rain and more wind, buffeting that trail since the last carhad passed, made "heavy going." The Ford labored up small hills andacross gullies, dipping downward at last to Juniper Wells; there Caseystopped close beside the blackened embers left by some forgottentraveler of the wild. He slid stiffly from behind the wheel to thevacant seat beside him, and climbed out like the old man he had lastnight determined never to become. He walked away a few paces, turnedand stood glaring back at the car as if familiarizing himself with anobject little known and hated much.

  Fate, he felt, had played a shabby trick upon an honest man. Here hestood, a criminal in the eyes of the law, a liar in the eyes of themissus. An honest man and a truthful, here he was--he, CaseyRyan--actually afraid to face his fellow men.

  "HE wasn't no friend of Bill Masters; the divil himself wouldn'ta ownedhim fer a friend!" snarled Casey, thinking of Kenner. "Me--CASEYRYAN!--with a load uh booze wished onto me--and a car that may havebeen stolen fer all I know--an' not a darn' nickel to my name! They canmake a goat uh Casey Ryan once, but watch clost when they try it thesecond time! Casey MAY be gittin' old; he might possibly havesoftenin' of the brain; but he'll git the skunk that done this, oryou'll find his carcass layin' alongside the trail bleachin' like ablowed-out tire! I'll trail 'im till my tongue hangs down to my knees!I'll git 'im an' I'll drown 'im face down in a bucket of his ownbooze!" Whipped by emotion, his voice rose stridently until it crackedjust under a shout.

  "That sounds pretty businesslike, old man," a strange voice spokewhimsically behind Casey. "Who's all this you're going to trail tillyour tongue hangs down to your knees? Going to need any help?"

  Casey whirled belligerently upon the man who had walked quietly upbehind him.

  "Where the hell did YOU come from?" he countered roughly.

  "Does it matter? I'm here," the other parried blandly. "But by theway! If you've got the makings of a meal in your car--and you look tooold a hand in the desert to be without grub--I won't refuse to have asnack with you. I hate to invite myself to breakfast, but it's that orgo hungry--and an empty belly won't stand on ceremony."

  The hard-bitten features of Casey Ryan, tanned as they were by wind andsun to a fair imitation of leather, were never meant to portray mixedemotions. His face, therefore, remained impassive except for a queer,cornered look in his eyes. With a sick feeling at the pit of hisstomach he wondered just how much of his impassioned soliloquy the manhad overheard; who and what this man was, and how he had managed toapproach within six feet of Casey without being overheard. With asicker feeling, he wondered if there were any grub in the car; and ifso, how he could get at it without revealing his contraband load tothis stranger.

  But Casey Ryan was nothing if not game. He reached for his trusty plugof tobacco and pried off a corner with his teeth. He lifted his lefthand mechanically to the back of his head and pushed his black felt hatforward so that it rested over his right eyebrow at a devil-may-careangle. These preparations made involuntarily and unconsciously, CaseyRyan was himself again.

  "All right--if you're willin' to rustle the wood an' start a fire, I'llsee if I can dig up somethin'." He cocked an eye up at the sun. "I etmy breakfast long enough ago so I guess it's settled. I reckon mebby Ic'd take on some bacon an' coffee myself. Feller I had along with me Iditched, back here at the railroad. He done the packin' up--an' I'dhate to swear to what he put in an' what he left out. Onery cuss--Iwouldn't put nothin' past him. But mebby we can make out a meal."

  The stranger seemed perfectly satisfied with this arrangement andstudied preamble. He started off to gather dead branches ofgreasewood; and Casey, having prepared the way for possibledisappointment, turned toward the car.

  Fear and Casey Ryan have ever been strangers; yet he was conscious of adistinct, prickly chill down his spine. The glance he cast over hisshoulder at the stranger betrayed uneasiness, best he could do. Heturned over the roll of bedding and cautiously began a superficialsearch which he hoped would reveal grub in plenty--without revealinganything else. He wished now that he had taken a look over hisshoulder when young Kenner was unloading the car at Smiling Lou'scommand. He would be better prepared now for possible emergencies. Heremembered, with a bit of comfort, that the bootlegger had piled a gooddeal of stuff upon the ground before Casey first heard the clink ofbottles.

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

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

  Black coffee, drunk hot and strong, gave the world a brighter aspect.Casey decided that the situation was not so desperate, after all. Easyenough to bluff it out--easiest thing in the world! He would just goalong 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 inhis car, unless he carried a badge of an officer of the law. Even withthe badge, Casey told himself sternly, a man would have to show awarrant before he could touch a finger to his outfit.

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

  He had shown a perfect familiarity with cooking over a campfire, andhad 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 MackNolan. Immediately afterward he had grinned and added the superfluousinformation that he was Irish and didn't care who knew it.


  "Well, I'm Irish, meself," Casey returned approvingly and with morethan his usual brogue. "You can ask anybody if Casey Ryan has evershowed shame fer the blood that's in' 'im. 'Tis the Irish that neverbacks up from a rough trail or a fight." He poured a fourth cup ofcoffee into a chipped enamel cup and took his courage in his two hands.Mack Nolan, he assured himself optimistically, couldn't possibly knowwhat 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.