The highway north from the Santa Fe Railroad just west of Needles
climbs an imperceptible grade across barren land to where the mesa
changes and becomes potentially fertile. Up this road, going north, a
cloud of yellow dust rolled swiftly. See at close range, the nose of a
dingy Ford protruded slightly in front of the enveloping cloud--and
behind it Casey Ryan, hard-eyed and with his jaw set to the fighting
mood, gripped the wheel and drove as if he had a grudge against the
road.
At the first signpost Casey canted a malevolent eye upward and went
lurching by at top speed. The car bulked black for a moment, dimmed,
and merged into the fleeing cloud that presently seemed no more than a
dust-devil whirling across the mesa. At the second signpost Casey
slowed, his eyes dwelling speculatively upon the legend:
"JUNIPER WELLS 3 M"
The arrow pointed to the right where a narrow, little-used trail angled
crookedly away through the greasewood. Casey gave a deciding twist to
the steering wheel and turned into the trail.
Juniper Wells is not nearly so nice a place as it sounds. But it is
the first water north of the Santa Fe, and now and then a wayfarer of
the desert leaves the main highway and turns that way, driven by
necessity. It is a secluded spot, too unattractive to tempt people to
linger; because of its very seclusion it therefore tempted Casey Ryan.
When a man has driven a Ford fifteen hours without once leaving the
wheel or taking a drink of water or a mouthful of food, however great
his trouble or his haste, his first thought will be of water, food and
rest. Even Casey's deadly rage at the diabolical trick played upon him
could not hold his thoughts from dwelling upon bacon and coffee and a
good sleep afterwards.
Wind and rain and more wind, buffeting that trail since the last car
had passed, made "heavy going." The Ford labored up small hills and
across gullies, dipping downward at last to Juniper Wells; there Casey
stopped close beside the blackened embers left by some forgotten
traveler of the wild. He slid stiffly from behind the wheel to the
vacant seat beside him, and climbed out like the old man he had last
night determined never to become. He walked away a few paces, turned
and stood glaring back at the car as if familiarizing himself with an
object little known and hated much.
Fate, he felt, had played a shabby trick upon an honest man. Here he
stood, a criminal in the eyes of the law, a liar in the eyes of the
missus. An honest man and a truthful, here he was--he, Casey
Ryan--actually afraid to face his fellow men.
"HE wasn't no friend of Bill Masters; the divil himself wouldn'ta owned
him fer a friend!" snarled Casey, thinking of Kenner. "Me--CASEY
RYAN!--with a load uh booze wished onto me--and a car that may have
been stolen fer all I know--an' not a darn' nickel to my name! They can
make a goat uh Casey Ryan once, but watch clost when they try it the
second time! Casey MAY be gittin' old; he might possibly have
softenin' of the brain; but he'll git the skunk that done this, or
you'll find his carcass layin' alongside the trail bleachin' like a
blowed-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 own
booze!" Whipped by emotion, his voice rose stridently until it cracked
just under a shout.
"That sounds pretty businesslike, old man," a strange voice spoke
whimsically behind Casey. "Who's all this you're going to trail till
your tongue hangs down to your knees? Going to need any help?"
Casey whirled belligerently upon the man who had walked quietly up
behind him.
"Where the hell did YOU come from?" he countered roughly.
"Does it matter? I'm here," the other parried blandly. "But by the
way! If you've got the makings of a meal in your car--and you look too
old a hand in the desert to be without grub--I won't refuse to have a
snack with you. I hate to invite myself to breakfast, but it's that or
go hungry--and an empty belly won't stand on ceremony."
The hard-bitten features of Casey Ryan, tanned as they were by wind and
sun to a fair imitation of leather, were never meant to portray mixed
emotions. His face, therefore, remained impassive except for a queer,
cornered look in his eyes. With a sick feeling at the pit of his
stomach he wondered just how much of his impassioned soliloquy the man
had overheard; who and what this man was, and how he had managed to
approach within six feet of Casey without being overheard. With a
sicker feeling, he wondered if there were any grub in the car; and if
so, how he could get at it without revealing his contraband load to
this stranger.
But Casey Ryan was nothing if not game. He reached for his trusty plug
of tobacco and pried off a corner with his teeth. He lifted his left
hand mechanically to the back of his head and pushed his black felt hat
forward so that it rested over his right eyebrow at a devil-may-care
angle. These preparations made involuntarily and unconsciously, Casey
Ryan was himself again.
"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.