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Ambrose Bierce - "An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge"

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick - "Love or Fame; and Other Poems"

Alfred Tennyson - "The Princess"

Thornton W. Burgess - "The Burgess Animal Book for Children"

The Trail of the White Mule

B >> B. M. Bower >> The Trail of the White Mule




"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 number
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.

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 darkening 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!"

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