Casey Ryan

  CHAPTER XIII

  Casey earned a good deal of money, but there are men who are very good atfinding original ways of losing money, too. Casey was one. (You shouldhear Casey unburden himself sometime upon the subject of garages and thetourist trade!) He saved money enough in Patmos to buy two burros and amule, and what grub and tools the burros could carry. There were no pokergames in Patmos, and a discouraged prospector happened along at the rightmoment, which accounts for it.

  In this speed-hungry age Casey had not escaped the warped viewpoint whichothers assume toward travel. Casey always had craved the sensation ofswift moving through space. His old stage horses could tell you tales ofthat! It was a distinct comedown, buying burros for his venture. That tookstraight, native optimism and the courage to make the best of things. Buthe hadn't the price of a Ford, and Casey abhors debt; so he remindedhimself cheerfully that many a millionaire would still be poor if he hadturned up his nose at burros, sour-dough cans and the business end of pickand shovel, and made the deal.

  At that, he was better off than most prospectors, he told himself on thenight of his purchase. He had the mule, William, to ride. The prospectorhad assured Casey over and over that William was saddle broke. Casey istoo happy-go-lucky, I think. He took the man's word for it and waiteduntil the night before he intended beginning his journey before he gaveWilliam a try-out, down in a sandy swale back of the garage. He returnedafter dark, leading William. Casey had a pronounced limp and an eyetoothwas broken short off, about halfway to the gums, and his lip was cut.

  "William's saddle broke, all right," he told his neighbor, the proprietorof the Oasis. "I've saw horses broke like that; cow-punchers have fun inthe c'rall with 'em Sundays, seein' which one can stay with the saddlethree jumps. William don't mind the saddle at all. All he hates is anybodyin it." Then he grinned wryly because of his hurt. "No use arguin' with amule--I used to be too good a walker."

  Casey therefore traded his riding saddle for another packsaddle, andcollected six coal-oil cans which he cleaned carefully. William was loadedwith cans of water, which he seemed to prefer to Casey, though theyprobably weighed more. The burros waddled off under their loads of beans,flour, bacon, coffee, lard, and a full set of prospector's tools. Caseyset his course by the stars and fared forth across the desert, meaning topass through the lower end of Death Valley by night, on a trail he knew,and so plod up toward the Tippipah country.

  He was happy. He owed no man a nickel, he had grub enough to last himthree months if he were careful, he had a body tough as seasoned hickory,and he was headed for that great no-man's-land which is the desert. More,he was actually upon the trail of his dream that he had dreamed yearsbefore up in the Yellowstone. An old, secretive Indian was going to findhis match when Casey Ryan plodded over his horizon and halted beside hisfire.

  By the way, don't blame me for showing a fondness for gloom and gore whenyou read the names Casey carried in his mind the next few weeks. Caseycrossed Death Valley and the Funeral Mountains--or a spur of them--andheaded up toward Spectre Range, going by way of Deadman's Spring, where hefilled his water cans. That does not sound cheerful, but Casey was stillfairly happy,--though there were moments when he thought seriously ofkilling William with a rock.

  Every morning, without fail, he and William fought every minute frombreakfast to starting time. From his actions you would think that Williamhad never seen a pack before, and expected it to bite him fatally if hecame within twenty feet of it. You could tell Casey's camp by the mannerin which the sagebrush was trampled and the sand scored with smallhoofprints in a wide circle around it. But once the battle was lost toWilliam for that day, and Casey had rested and mopped the perspiration offhis face and taken a comforting chew of tobacco and relapsed into silencesimply because he could think of nothing more to say, William became a petdog that hazed the two lazy burros along with little nippings on theirrumps, and saw to it that they did not stray too far from camp.

  Casey strung into Searchlight one evening at dusk and camped on a littleknoll behind the town hall, which was open beyond for grazing, and thevillage dogs were less likely to bother. Searchlight was not on his way,but miles off to one side. Casey made the detour because he had heard agood deal about the place and knew it as a favorite stamping ground ofminers and prospectors who sought free gold. Searchlight is primarily agold camp, you see. He wanted to hear a little more about Injun Jim.

  But there had been a murder in Searchlight a dark night or so before hiscoming, and three suspects were being discussed and championed by theirfriends. Searchlight was not in the mood for aimless gossip of Indians.Killings had been monotonously frequent, but they usually had daylight andan audience to rob them of mystery. A murder done on a dark night, in theblack shadow of an empty dance hall, and accompanied by a piercing screamand the sound of running feet was vastly different.

  Casey lingered half a day, bought a few more pounds of bacon and somematches and ten yards of satin ribbon in assorted colors and went his way.

  I mention his stop at Searchlight so that those who demand exact geographywill understand why Casey journeyed on to Vegas, tramped its hot sidewalksfor half a day and then went on by way of Indian Spring to the Tippipahcountry and his destination. He was following the beaten trail of miners,now that he was in Jim's country, and he was gleaning a little informationfrom every man he met. Not altogether concerning Injun Jim, understand,--but local tidbits that might make him a welcome companion to the old buckwhen he met him. Casey says you are not to believe story-writers whoassume that an Indian is wrapped always in a blanket and inscrutabledignity. He says an Indian is as great a gossip as any old woman, once youget him thawed to the talking point. So he was filling his bag of tricksas he went along.

  From Vegas there is what purports to be an automobile road across thedesert to Round Butte, and Casey as he walked cursed his burros andWilliam and sighed for his Ford. He was four days traveling to FurnaceLake, which he had made in a matter of hours with his Ford when he firstcame to Starvation.

  He struck Furnace Lake just before dusk one night and pushed the burrosout upon it, thinking he would have cool crossing and would start in themorning with the lake behind him, which would be something of a load offhis mind. In his heart Casey hated Furnace Lake, and he had good reason.It was a place of ill fortune for him, especially after the sun had leftit. He wanted it behind him where he need think no more about it and thegrewsome crevice that cut a deep, wide gash two thirds of the way acrossit through the middle. Casey is not a coward, and he takes most things asa matter of course, but he admits that he has always hated and distrustedFurnace Lake beyond all the dry lakes in Nevada,--and there are many.

  He yelled to William, and William nipped the nearest burro into ashambling half trot, and then went out upon the lake, Casey heading acrossat the widest part so that he would strike his old trail to StarvationMountain on the other side. From there to the summit he could make it bynoon on the morrow, he planned. Which would be the end of his preliminaryjourney and the beginning of Casey's last drive toward his goal; for fromthe top of the divide between Starvation Mountain country and thatforbidding waste which lies under the calm scrutiny of Furnace Peak hecould see the far-off range of the Tippipahs.

  He was a mile out on the Lake when he first glimpsed the light. Caseystudied it while he walked ahead, leaving no footprints on the hard-bakedclay. He had not known that any road followed just under the crest of theridge that hid Crazy Woman lake, yet the light was plainly that of anautomobile moving with speed across the face of the ridge just under thesummit.

  Away out in the empty land like that you notice little things and thinkabout them and try to understand just what they mean, unless they areperfectly familiar to you. One print of a foot on the trail may betray thelurking presence of a madman, a murderer, a traveling, friendly, desertdweller or the wandering of some one who is lost and dying of thirst andhunger. You like to know which, and you are not satisfied until you doknow.

  A light moving swi
ftly along Crazy Woman ridge meant a car, and a car upthere meant a road. If there were a road it would probably lead Casey by ashorter route to the Tippipahs. While he looked there came to his ears aroaring, as of some high-powered car traveling under full pressure ofgas. The burros followed him, but William lifted his head and brayedtremulously three times in the dark. Casey had never heard him braybefore, and the sudden rasping outcry startled him.

  He went back and stood for a minute looking at William, who turned tailand started back toward the shore they had left behind them. Casey ran tohead him off, yelling threats, and William, in spite of his six watercans--two of them empty--broke into a lope. Casey glanced over hisshoulder as he ran and saw dimly that the burros had turned and werecoming after him, their ears flapping loosely on their bobbing heads asthey trotted. Beyond him, the light still traveled towards the Tippipahs.

  Then, with an abruptness that cannot be pictured, everything was blottedout in a great, blinding swirl of dust as the wind came whooping down uponthem. It threw Casey as though some one had tripped him. It spun him roundand round on his back like an overturned beetle, and then scooted himacross the lake's surface flat as a floor. He thought of the Crevice, butthere was nothing he could do save hold his head off the ground and histwo palms over his face, shielding his nostrils a little from the smotherof dust.

  Sometimes he was lifted inches from the surface and borne with incredibleswiftness. More than once he was spun round and round until his sensesreeled. But all the time he was going somewhere, and I suspect that foronce in his life Casey Ryan went fast enough to satisfy him. At last hefelt brush sweep past his body, and he knew that he must have been sweptto the edge of the lake. He clutched, scratched his hands bloody on thestraggly thorns of greasewood, caught in the dark at a more friendly sageand gripped it next the roots. The wind tore at him, howling. Caseyflattened his abused body to the hummocky sand and hung on.

  Hours later, by the pale stars that peered out breathlessly when the furyof the gale was gone, Casey pulled himself painfully to his feet andlooked for the burros and William. Judging by his own experience, they hadhad a rough time of it and would not go far after the wind permitted themto stop. But as to guessing how far they had been impelled, or in whatdirection, Casey knew that was impossible. Still, he tried. When the airgrew clearer and the surrounding hills bulked like huge shadows againstthe sky, he saw that he had been blown toward the ridge that guards CrazyWoman lake. His pack animals should be somewhere ahead of him, he thoughtgroggily, and began stumbling along through the brush-covered sand dunesthat bordered Furnace Lake for miles.

  And then he saw again the light, shining up there just under the crest ofthe ridge. He was glad the car had escaped, but he reflected that thetricky winds of the desert seldom sweep a large area. Their diabolic furyimplies a concentration of force that must of necessity weaken as it flowsout away from the center. Up there on the ridge they may not haveexperienced more than a steady blow.

  He walked slowly because of his bruises, and many times he made smalldetours, thinking that a blotch of shadow off to one side might be hispack train. But always a greasewood mocked him, waving stiff arms at himderisively. In the sage-land distances deceive. A man may walk unseenbefore your eyes, and a bush afar off may trick you with its semblance toman or beast. Casey finally gave up the hopeless search and headedstraight for the light.

  It was standing still,--a car facing him with its headlights burning, thedistance so great that the two lights glowed as one. "An' it ain't noFord," Casey decided. "They wouldn't keep the engine runnin' all thistime, standin' still. Unless it's one of them old kind with lamps."

  I don't suppose you realize, many of you, just what that would mean to aman in the desert country. It is rather hard to define, but thesignificance would be felt, even by Casey in his present plight. You see,small cars, of the make too famous to be hurt or helped by having its namementioned in a simple yarn like this, have long been recognized as theproper car for rough trails and no trails. Those who travel the desertmost have come to the point of counting "Lizzie" almost as necessary asbeans. Wherefore a larger car is nearly always brought in by strangers tothe country, who swear solemnly, never to repeat the imprudence. A largecar, driven by strangers in the land, means hunters, prospectors from theoutside brought in by some special tale of hidden wealth,--or just plainsimpletons who only want to see what lies over the mountain. There aren'tmany of the last-named variety up in the Nevada wastes. Even yournature-loving rovers oddly keep pretty much to the beaten trails of othernature lovers, where gas stations and new tires may be found at regularintervals. The Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, the National OldTrails they explore,--but not the high, wind-swept mesas of Nevada'sbarren land.

  A fear that was not altogether strange to him crept over Casey. It wouldbe just his grinning enemy Ill-luck on his trail again, if that lightshould prove to be made by men hunting for Injun Jim and his mine. Caseyused to feel a sickness in his middle when that thought nagged him, and hefelt a growing anger now when he looked at the twinkling glow. He walked alittle faster. Now that the fear had come to him, Casey wanted to come upwith the men, talk with them, learn their business if they were truthful,or sense their lying if they tried to hide their purpose from him. He mustknow. If they were seeking Injun Jim, then he must find some way to headthem off, circumvent their plans with strategy of his own. He had dreamedtoo long and too ardently to submit now to interlopers.

  So he walked, limping and cursing a little now and then because of hisaches. Up a steep slope made heavy with loose sand that dragged at hisfeet; over the crest and down the other side among rocks and gravel thatmade harder walking than the sand. Up another steep slope: it washeartbreaking, unending as the toils of a nightmare, but Casey kept on. Hewas not worried over his own plight; not yet. He believed that William andhis burros were somewhere ahead of him, since they could not cling to abush as he had done and so resist the impetus of that terrific wind. Therewas a car standing on the ridge toward which he was laboriously making hisway. It did not occur to Casey that morning might show him a ratherdesperate plight.

  Yet the morning did just that. Hours before dawn the light had disappearedabruptly, but Casey had no uneasiness over that. It was foolish for themto run down their battery burning lights when they were standing still, hethought. They had not moved off, and he had well in mind the contour ofthe ridge where they were standing. He would have bet good money that hecould walk straight to the car even though darkness hid it from him untilhe came within hailing distance.

  But daylight found him still below the higher slope of the ridge, andCasey was very tired. He had been walking all day, remember, and he hadmissed his supper because he wanted to eat it with the lake behind him. Hedid not walk in a straight line. He was too near exhaustion to forge aheadas was his custom. Now he was picking his way carefully so as to shun thewashes out of which he must climb, and the rock patches where he wouldstumble, and the thick brush that would claw at him. He would have givenfive dollars for a drink of water, but there would be water at the car, hetold himself. People were rather particular about carrying plenty of waterwhen they traveled these wastes.

  And then he was on the ridge, and his keen eyes were squinted half-shutwhile he gazed here and there, no foot of exposed land surface escapingthat unwinking stare. He took off his hat and wiped his face, and reachedmechanically for a chew of tobacco which he always took when perplexed, asif it stimulated thought.

  There was no car. There was no road. There was not even a burro trailalong that ridge. Yet there had been the lights of a car, and after thelights had been extinguished Casey had listened rather anxiously forsound of the motor and had heard nothing at all. The most powerful,silent-running car on the market would have made some noise in travelingthrough that sand and up and down the washes that seamed the mountainside. Casey would have heard it--he had remarkably keen hearing.

  "And that's darn funny," he muttered, when he was perfectly sure thatthere was
no car, that there could never have been a car on that tracklessridge. "That's mighty damn funny! You can ask anybody."