Trail of the White Mule (eBook)

B. M. Bower (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018
603 Seiten
Seltzer Books (Verlag)
978-1-4553-6088-8 (ISBN)

Infos

Classic western. According to Wikipedia: 'Bertha Muzzy Sinclair or Sinclair-Cowan, née Muzzy (November 15, 1871 - July 23, 1940), best known by her pseudonym B. M. Bower, was an American novelist who wrote fictional stories about the American Old West. .. She wrote 57 Western novels, several of which were turned into films.'

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Classic western. According to Wikipedia: "e;Bertha Muzzy Sinclair or Sinclair-Cowan, nee Muzzy (November 15, 1871 - July 23, 1940), best known by her pseudonym B. M. Bower, was an American novelist who wrote fictional stories about the American Old West. .. She wrote 57 Western novels, several of which were turned into films."e;

Textauszug

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

Casey left his digging and returned to the Ford, still determined to carry on the bluff and pretend that much tinkering was necessary before he could travel further.  With a great show of industry he rummaged for pliers and wrenches, removed the hood from the motor and squinted down at the little engine.

 

By that time Mack Nolan was snoring softly in deep slumber. Casey listened suspiciously, knowing too well how misleading a snore could be.  But his own eyelids were growing exceeding heavy, and the soporific sound acted hypnotically upon his sleep-hungry brain. He caught himself yawning, and suddenly threw down the wrench.

 

"Aw, hell!" he muttered disgustedly, and went and crawled under the back of the car where it was shady.

 

The sun was nearly down when Casey awoke and crawled out.  Mack Nolan was still curled comfortably in the car, his back against the bed roll.  He opened his eyes and yawned when Casey leaned and looked in upon him.

 

"By Jove, that was a fine sleep I had," he announced cheerfully, lifting himself up and dangling his legs outside the car. "Strike anything yet?"

 

"Naw."  Casey's grunt was eloquent of the mood he was in.

 

"Get the car fixed all right?"  Mack Nolan's cheerfulness seemed nothing less than diabolical to Casey.

 

"Naw." Then Casey added grimly, "I'm stuck.  I dunno what ails the damned thing.  Have to send to Vegas fer new parts, I guess.  It's only three miles out here to the road.  Mebby you better hike over to the highway an' ketch a ride with somebody.  I might send in for a timer an' some things, too.  No use waitin' fer me, Nolan-- can't  tell how long I'll be held up here."

 

Mack Nolan climbed out of the car.  Casey's spirits rose instantly. Nolan came forward and looked down at the engine as casually as he would glance at a nickel alarm clock.

 

"She was hitting all right when you backed down here," Nolan remarked easily.  "I'll just take a look at her myself.  Fords are cranky sometimes.  But I've assembled too many of them in the factory to let one get the best of me in the desert."

 

Casey could almost hear his heart when it slumped down into his boots. But he wasn't licked yet.

 

"Aw, let the darned thing alone till we eat," he said, pushing his hat forward to hurry his wits.

 

"Well--I can throw a Ford together in the dark, if necessary," smiled Mack Nolan.  "Eat, it is, if you want it that way. That breakfast I put away seems to have sharpened my appetite for supper.  Tell you what, Ryan.  I'll do a little trouble-shooting here while you cook supper.  How'll that be?"

 

That wouldn't be, if Casey could prevent it.  His pale, narrow-lidded eyes dwelt upon Nolan unwinkingly.

 

"Well, mebby I'm kind of a crank about my car," he hedged, with a praiseworthy calmness.  "Fords is like horses, to me. I drove stage all m' life till I took to prospectin'--an' I never could stand around and let anybody else monkey with my teams.  I ain't a doubt in the world, Mr. Nolan, but what you know as much about Fords as I do.  More, mebby.  But Casey Ryan's got 'is little ways, an' he can't seem to ditch 'em.  We'll eat; an' then mebby we'll look 'er over together.

 

"At the same time," he went on with rising courage, "I'm liable to stick around here for awhile an' prospect a little.  If you wanta find them mules an' outfit, don't bank too strong on Casey Ryan. He's liable to change 'is mind any old time.  Day or night, you can't tell what Casey might take a notion to do.  That there's a fact.  You can ask anybody if it ain't."

 

Mack Nolan laughed and slapped Casey unexpectedly on the shoulder. "You're a man after my own heart, Casey Ryan," he declared enigmatically.  "I'll stick to you and take a chance.  Darn the mules! Somebody will find them and look after them until I show up."

 

Casey's spirits, as he admitted to himself, were rising and falling like the hammer of a pile driver; and like the pile driver, the hammer was driving him deeper and deeper into hopelessness.  He would have given an ear to know for certain whether Mack Nolan were as innocent and friendly as he seemed.  Until he did know, Casey could see nothing before him but to wait his chance to give Nolan the slip.

 

Sitting cross-legged in the glow of the campfire after supper, with a huge pattern of stars drawn over the purple night sky, Casey pulled out the old pipe with which he had solaced many an evening and stuffed it thoughtfully with tobacco.  Across the campfire, Mack Nolan sat with his hat tilted down over his eyes, smoking a cigarette and seeming at peace with all the world.

 

Casey hoped that Nolan would forget about fixing the Ford.  He hoped that Nolan would sleep well to-night.  Casey was perfectly willing to sacrifice a good roll of bedding and the cooking outfit for the privilege of traveling alone.  No man, he told himself savagely, could ask a better deal than he was prepared to give Nolan.  He bent to reach a burning twig for his pipe, and found Nolan watching him steadily from under his hat brim.

 

"What sort of looking fellows were those, Ryan, that left a load of booze on your hands?"  Nolan asked casually when he saw that he was observed.

 

Casey burned his fingers with the blazing twig.  "Who said anything about any fellers leavin' me booze?" he evaded sharply.  "If it's a drink you're hintin' for, you won't get it.  Casey Ryan ain't no booze peddler, an' now's as good a time as any to let that soak into your system."

 

Mack Nolan's gray eyes were still watching Casey with a steadfastness that was disconcerting to a man in Casey's dilemma.

 

"It might help us both considerably," he said quietly, "if you told me all about it.  You can't cache that booze you've got in the car-- I won't let you, for one thing; for another, that would be merely dodging the issue, and if you'll forgive my frankness, dodging doesn't seem to be quite in your line."

 

Casey puffed hard on his pipe.  "The world's gittin' so darned full uh crooks, a man can't turn around now'days without bumpin' into a few!" he exploded bitterly.  "What kind uh hold-up game YOU playin', Mr. Nolan?  If that's your name," he added fiercely.

 

Mack Nolan laughed to himself and rubbed the ash from his cigarette against the sole of his shoe.  "Why," he answered genially, "my game is holding up bootleggers--and crooked cops.  Speaking off-hand (which I don't often do) I should say you have a fine chance to sit in with me.  I'm just guessing, now,"  he added dryly,  "but I'm tolerably good at guessing; a man's got to be, these days."

 

"A man's got to do better than guess--with Casey Ryan," Casey remarked ominously.  "The last man that guessed Casey Ryan, guessed 'im plumb wrong."

 

"Meaning that you'd refuse to help me round up bootleggers and the officers that protect them?" A steel edge crept into Mack Nolan's voice.  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into Casey's mind.

 

"Man, don't stall with me!  You've got brains enough to know that if I were a crook I'd have held you up long before now.  You gave me three splendid opportunities to stick a gun in your back--and I could have made others.  And," he added with a smile, "if I had thought that you were a bootlegger or a crook of any other kind, I'd have had you in Las Vegas jail by this time.  You're no more a crook than I am.  You've got neither the looks nor the actions of a slicker.  I may say I know you pretty well--"

 

Casey thrust out a pugnacious chin.  "Say!  D' you know Bill Masters, too?  That's all I wanta know!"

 

"Bill Masters?  Why, is he the fellow who stepped out from under this load of hootch?  If he is, he must have picked himself a new name; I never heard it."

 

Casey glared suspiciously for twenty seconds before he settled back glumly into his mental corner.

 

"Ryan, I've been all day sizing you up.  I'm going to be perfectly honest with you and tell you why I think you're straight--although you must admit the evidence is rather against you.

 

"I happened to be right close when you drove down in here and stopped. As a matter of fact, I was behind that little clump of junipers. Had you driven around them instead of stopping this side, you couldn't have failed to see me.

 

"You came down here mad at the trick that had been played you. You were so mad, you started talking to yourself as a safety valve --blowing off mental steam.  You've spent a lot of time in the desert --alone.  Men like that frequently talk aloud their thoughts, just to hear a human voice.  You made matters pretty plain to me before you knew there was any one within miles of you.  For...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.3.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Klassiker / Moderne Klassiker
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 1-4553-6088-0 / 1455360880
• ISBN-13: 978-1-4553-6088-8 / 9781455360888