B.M. Bower

The Trail of the White Mule

Warsaw 2018

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER I

CASEY RYAN, hunched behind the wheel of a large, dark blue touring car with a kinked front fender and the glass gone from the left headlight, slid out from the halted traffic, shied sharply away from a hysterically clanging street car, crossed the path of a huge red truck coming in from his right, missed it with two inches to spare and was halfway down the block before the traffic officer overtook him.

The traffic officer was Irish too, and bigger than Casey, and madder. For all that, Casey offered to lick the livin’ tar outa him before accepting a pale, expensive ticket which he crumbled and put into his pocket without looking at it.

“What I know about these here fancy city rules ain’t sufficient to give a horn-toad a headache–but it’s a darn sight more’n I care,” Casey declaimed hotly. “I never was asked what I thought of them tin signs you stick up on the end of a telegraft pole, to tell folks when to go an’ when to quit goin’. Mebby it’s all right fer these here city drivers–”

“This’ll mean thirty days for you,” spluttered the officer. “I ought to call the patrol right now–”

“Get the undertaker on the line first!” Casey advised him ominously.

Traffic was piling up behind them, and horns were honking a blatant chorus that extended two blocks up the street. The traffic officer glanced into the troubled gray eyes of the Little Woman beside Casey and took his foot off the running board.

“Better go put up your bail and then forfeit it,” he advised in a milder tone. “The judge will probably remember you; I do, and my memory ain’t the best in the world. Twice you’ve been hooked for speeding through traffic; and parking by fire-plugs and in front of the No Park signs and after four, seems to be your big outdoor sport. Forfeit your bail, old boy–or it’s thirty days for you, sure.”

Casey Ryan made bitter retort, but the traffic cop had gone to untangle two furious Fords from a horse-drawn mail wagon, so he did not hear. Which was good luck for Casey.

“Why do you persist in making trouble for yourself?” the Little Woman beside him exclaimed. “It can’t be so hard to obey the rules; other drivers do. I know that I have driven this car all over town without any trouble whatever.”

Casey hogged the next safety-zone line to the deep disgust of a young movie star in a cream-and-silver racer, and pulled in to the curb just where he could not be passed.

“All right, ma’am. You can drive, then.” He slid out of the driver’s seat to the pavement, his face a deeper shade of red than usual.

“For pity’s sake, Casey! Don’t be silly,” his wife cried sharply, a bit of panic in her voice.

“You was in a hurry to git home,” Casey pointed out to her with that mildness of manner which is not mild. “I was hurryin’, wasn’t I?”

“You aren’t hurrying now–you’re delaying the traffic again. Do be reasonable! You know it costs money to argue with the police.”

“Police be damned! I’m tryin’ to please a woman, an’ I’m up agin a hard proposition. You can ask anybody if I’m the unreasonable one. You hustled me out of the show soon as the huggin’ commenced. You wouldn’t even let me stay to see the first of Mutt and Jeff. You said you was in a hurry. I leaves the show without seein’ the best part, gits the car an’ drills through the traffic tryin’ to git yuh home quick. Now you’re kickin’ because I did hurry.”

“Hey! Whadda yuh mean, blockin’ the traffic?” a domineering voice behind him bellowed. “This ain’t any reception hall, and it ain’t no free auto park neither.”

Another traffic officer with another pencil and another pad of tickets such as drivers dread to see began to write down the number of Casey’s car. This man did not argue. He finished his work briskly, presented another notice which advised Casey Ryan to report immediately to police headquarters, waved Casey peremptorily to proceed, and returned to his little square platform to the chorus of blatting automobile horns.

“The cops in this town hands out tickets like they was Free Excursion peddlers!” snorted Casey, his eyes a pale glitter behind his half-closed lids. “They can go around me, or they can honk and be darned to ‘em. Git behind the wheel, ma’am–Casey Ryan’s drove the last inch he’ll ever drive in this darned town. If they pinch me again, it’ll have to be fer walkin’.”

The Little Woman looked at him, pressed her lips together and moved behind the wheel. She did not say a word all the way out to the white apartment house on Vermont which held the four rooms they called home. She parked the car dexterously in front and led the way to their apartment (ground floor, front) before she looked at me.

“It’s coming to a show-down, Jack,” she said then with a faint smile. “He’s on probation already for disobeying traffic rules of one sort and other, and his fines cost more than the entire upkeep of the car. I think he really will have to go to jail this time. It just isn’t in Casey Ryan to take orders from any one, especially when his own personal habits of driving a car are concerned.”

“Town life is getting on his nerves,” I tried to defend Casey, and at the same time to comfort the Little Woman. “I didn’t think it would work, his coming here to live, with nothing to do but spend money. This is the inevitable result of too much money and too much leisure.”

“It sounds much better, putting it that way,” murmured Mrs. Casey. “I think you’re right–though he did behave back there as if it were too much matrimony. Jack, he’s been looking forward to your visit. I’m sorry this has happened to spoil it.”

“It isn’t spoiled,” I grinned. “Casey Ryan is, always and ever shall be Casey Ryan. He’s running true to form, though tamer than one would expect. When do you think he’ll show up?”

Mrs. Casey did not know. She ventured a guess or two, but there was no conviction in her tone. With two nominal arrests in five minutes chalked against him, and with his first rebellion against the Little Woman to rankle in his conscience and memory, she owned herself at a loss.

With a cheerfulness that was only conversation deep, we waited for Casey and finally ate supper without him. The evening was enlivened somewhat by Babe’s chatter of kindergarten doings; and was punctuated by certain pauses while steps on the sidewalk passed on or ended with the closing of another door than the Ryans’. I fought the impulse to call up the police station, and I caught the eyes of the Little Woman straying unconsciously to the telephone in the hall while she talked of things remote from our inner thoughts. Margaret Ryan is game, I’ll say that. We played cribbage for an hour or two, and the Little Woman beat me until finally I threw up my hands and quit.

“I can’t stand it any longer, Mrs. Casey. Do you think he’s in jail, or just sulking at a movie somewhere?” I blurted. “Forgive my butting in, but I wish you’d talk about it. You know you can, to me. Casey Ryan is a friend and more than a friend: he’s a pet theory of mine–a fad, if you prefer to call him that.

“I consider him a perfect example of human nature in its unhampered, unbiased state, going straight through life without deviating a hair’s breadth from the viewpoint of youth. A fighter and a castle builder; a sort of rough-edged Peter Pan. Till he gums soft food and hobbles with a stick because the years have warped his back and his legs, Casey Ryan will keep that indefinable, bubbling optimism of spiritual youth. So tell me all about him. I want to know who has licked, so far; luxury or Casey Ryan.”

The Little Woman laughed and picked up the cards, evening their edges with sensitive fingers that had not been manicured so beautifully when first I saw them.

“Well-sir,” she drawled, making one word of the two and failing to keep a little twitching from her lips, “I think it’s been about a tie, so far. As a husband–Casey’s a darned good bachelor.” Her chuckle robbed that statement of anything approaching criticism. “Aside from his insisting on cooking breakfast every morning and feeding me in bed, forcing me to eat fried eggs and sour-dough hotcakes swimming in butter and honey–when I crave grapefruit and thin toast and one French lamb chop with a white paper frill on the handle and garnished with fresh parsley–he’s the soul of consideration. He wants four kinds of jam on the table every meal, when fresh fruit is going to waste. He’s bullied the laundryman until the poor fellow’s reached the point where he won’t stop if the car’s parked in front and Casey’s liable to be home; but aside from that, Casey’s all right.

“After serving time in the desert and rustling my own wood and living on bacon and beans and sour-dough bread, I’m perfectly willing to spend the rest of my life doing painless housekeeping with all the modern built-in features ever invented; and buying my bread and cakes and salads from the delicatessen around the corner. I never want to see a sagebush again as long as I live, or feel the crunch of gravel under my feet. I expect to die in French-heeled pumps and embroidered silk stockings and the finest, silliest silk things ever put in a show window to tempt the soul of a woman. But it took just two weeks and three days to drive Casey back to his sour-dough can.”

“He craved luxury more than you seemed to do,” I remembered aloud.

“He did, yes. But his idea of luxury is sitting down in the kitchen to a real meal of beans and biscuits and all the known varieties of jam and those horrible whitewashed store cookies and having the noise of the phonograph drowned every five minutes by a passing street car. Casey wants four movies a day, and he wants them all funny. He brings home silk shirts with the stripes fairly shrieking when he unwraps them–and he has to be thrown and tied to get a collar on him.

“He will get up at any hour of the night to chase after a fire engine, and every whipstitch he gets pinched for doing something which is perfectly lawful and right in the desert and perfectly awful in the city. You saw him,” said the Little Woman, “to-day.” And she added wistfully, “It’s the first time since we were married that he has ever talked back–to me.

“And you know,” she went on, shuffling the cards and stopping to regard the joker attentively (though I am sure she didn’t know what card she was looking at), “just chasing around town and doing nothing but square yourself for not playing according to the rules costs money without getting you anywhere. Fifty-five thousand dollars isn’t so much just to play with, in this town. Casey’s highest ambition now seems to be nickel disk wheels on a new racing car that can make the speed cops go some to catch him. His idea of economy is to put six or seven thousand dollars into a car that will enable him to outrun a twenty-dollar fine!

“We have some money invested,” she went on. “We own this apartment house–and fortunately it’s in my name. So long as the housing problem continues critical, I think I can keep Casey going without spending our last cent.”

“He did one good stroke of business,” I ventured, “when he bought this place. Apartment houses are good as gold mines these days.”

The Little Woman laughed. “Well-sir, it wasn’t so much a stroke as it was a wallop. Casey bought it just to show who was boss, he or the landlord. The first thing he did when we moved in was to take down the nicely framed rules that said we must not cook cabbage nor onions nor fish, nor play music after ten o’clock at night, nor do any loud talking in the halls.

“Every day for a week Casey cooked cabbage, onions and fish. He sat up nights to play the graphophone. He stayed home to talk loudly and play bucking bronk with Babe all up and down the stairs and in the halls. Our rent was paid for a month in advance, and the landlord was too little and old to fight. So he sold out cheap–and it really was a good stroke of business for us, though not deliberate.

“Well-sir, at first we lost tenants who didn’t enjoy the freedom of their neighbors’ homes. But really, Jack, you’d be surprised to know how many people in this city just love cabbage and onions and fish, and to have children they needn’t disown whenever they go house-hunting. I had ventilator hoods put over every gas range in the house, and turned the back yard into a playground with plenty of sand piles and swings. I raised the price, too, and made the place look very select, with a roof garden for the grown-ups. We have the house filled now with really nice families–avoiding the garlic brand–and as an investment I wouldn’t ask for anything better.

“Casey enjoyed himself hugely while he was whipping things into shape, but the last month he’s been going stale. The tenants are all so thankful to do as they please that they’re excruciatingly polite to him, no matter what he does or says. He’s tired of the beaches and he has begun to cuss the long, smooth roads that are signed so that he couldn’t get lost if he tried. It does seem as if there’s no interest left in anything, unless he can get a kick out of going to jail. And, Jack, I do believe he’s gone there.”

The telephone rang and the Little Woman excused herself and went into the hall, closing the door softly behind her.

I’m not greatly given to reminiscence, but while I sat and watched the flames of civilization licking tamely at the impregnable iron bark of the gas logs, the eyes of my memory looked upon a picture:

Desert, empty and with the mountains standing back against the sky, the great dipper uptilted over a peak and the stars bending close for very friendliness. The licking flames of dry greasewood burning, with a pungent odor in my nostrils when the wind blew the smoke my way. The far-off hooting of an owl, perched somewhere on a juniper branch watching for mice; and Casey Ryan sitting cross-legged in the sand, squinting humorously at me across the fire while he talked.

I saw him, too, bolting a hurried breakfast under a mesquite tree in the chill before sunrise, his mind intent upon the trail; facing the desert and its hardships as a matter of course, with never a thought that other men would shrink from the ordeal.

I saw him kneeling before a solid face of rock in a shallow cut in the hillside, swinging his “single-jack” with tireless rhythm; a tap and a turn of the steel, a tap and a turn–chewing tobacco industriously and stopping now and then to pry off a fresh bit from the plug in his hip pocket before he reached for the “spoon” to muck out the hole he was drilling.

I saw him larruping in his Ford along a sandy, winding trail it would break a snake’s back to follow, hot on the heels of his next adventure, dreaming of the fortune that finally came. . . .

The Little Woman came in looking as if she had been talking with Destiny and was still dazed and unsteady from the meeting.

“Well-sir, he’s gone!” she announced, and stopped and tried to smile. But her eyes looked hurt and sorry. “He has bought a Ford and a tent and outfit since he left us down on Seventh and Broadway, and he just called me up on long-distance from San Bernardino. He’s going out on a prospecting trip, he says. I’ll say he’s been going some! A speed cop overhauled him just the other side of Claremont, he told me, and he was delayed for a few minutes while he licked the cop and kicked him and his motorcycle into a ditch. He says he’s sorry he sassed me, and if I can drive a car in this darned town and not spend all my loose change paying fines, I’m a better man than he is. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back–and there you are.”

She sat down wearily on the arm of an over-stuffed armchair and looked up at the gilt-and-onyx clock which I suspected Casey of having bought. “If he isn’t lynched before morning,” she sighed whimsically, “he’ll probably make it to the Nevada line all right.”

I rose, also glancing at the clock. But the Little Woman put up a hand to forbid the plan she read in my mind.

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