Nature had made Casey Ryan an optimist.-The blood of Ireland had made him pugnacious.-And Mack Nolan had a way with him.
Wherefore, Casey Ryan once more came larruping down the grade to Camp Cajon and turned in there with a dogged purpose in his eyes and with his jaw set stubbornly.-History has it that whenever Casey Ryan gets that look in his face, the man underneath might just as well holler and crawl out; because holler he must, before Casey would ever let him up.
Behind him, stowed under the bedding, grub and camp dishes, rode his eight cases of bootlegger's bait, packed convincingly in the sawdust, straw and cardboard of the wet old days when Uncle Sam himself 0. K.'d the job.-A chain of tiny beads at the top of each bottle lied and said it was good liquor.-The boxes themselves said, "This side up"--when any side up would thrill the soul of the man who owned a wet appetite and a dry throat.
It was a good job Mack Nolan had made of the bottling.-Uncle Sam himself must needs polish his spectacles and take another look to detect the fraud.-It was a marvelous job of bottling,--and the proof lay only in the drinking.-"Tommy" Pepper rode in pint flasks designed to slip safely into a man's coat pocket.-Beside him two cases of Canadian Club (if you were satisfied with the evidence of your eyes) sat serene in round-shouldered bottles--conventional, secure in its reputation.-Cognac and Garnkirk, a case for each, rode in tall, slim bottles with no shoulders at all.-Plumper than they, Three Star Hennessey sat smugly waiting until the joke was turned upon its victim.-A tempting load it was, to men of certain minds and morals.-Casey grinned sardonically when he thought of it.
Casey drove deep into the grove of sycamores and made camp there, away from the chattering picnic parties at the cement tables. By Mack Nolan's advice he was adopting a slightly different policy.
He no longer shunned his fellow men or glared suspiciously when strangers approached.-Instead he was very nearly the old Casey Ryan, except that he failed to state his name and business to all and sundry with the old Casey Ryan candor, but instead avoided the subject altogether or evaded questions with vague generalities.
But as an understudy for Ananias, Casey Ryan would have been a failure. In two hours or less he had made easy trail acquaintance with six different men, and he had unconsciously managed to vary his vague account of himself six different times.-Wherefore he was presently asked cautiously concerning his thirst.
"They's times," said Casey, hopefully lowering an eyelid, "when a feller dassent take a nip, no matter how thirsty he gits."
The questioner stared at him for a minute and slowly nodded.
"You're darn' right," he assented.-"I scursely ever touch anything, myself."-And he added vaguely, "Quite a lot of it peddled out here in this camp, I guess.-Tourists comin' through are scared to pack it themselves--but they sure don't overlook any chances to take a snort."
"Yeah?"-Casey cocked a knowing eye at the speaker.-"They must pay a pretty fair price fer it, too.-Don't the cops bother folks none?"
"Some--I guess."
Casey filled his pipe and offered his tobacco sack to the man.
The fellow took it, nodding listless thanks, and filled his own pipe. The two sat down together on the knee of a deformed sycamore and smoked in circumspect silence.
"Arizona, I see."-The man nodded toward the license plates on Casey's car.
"Uh-huh."-Casey glanced that way.-"Know a man name of Kenner?"
He asked abruptly.
The fellow looked at Casey sidelong, without turning his head.
"Some. Do you?"
"Some."-Casey felt that he was making headway, though it was a good deal like playing checkers with the king row wide open and only two crowned heads to defend his men.
"Friend uh yours?"-The fellow turned his head and looked straight at Casey.
Casey returned him a pale, straight-lidded stare.-The man's glance flickered and swung away.
"Who wants to know?"-Casey asked calmly.
"Oh, you can call me Jim Cassidy.-I just asked."-He removed his pipe from his mouth and inspected it apathetically.-"He's a friend of Bill Masters, garage man up at Lund.-Know Bill?"
"Any man says I don't, you can call 'im a liar."-Casey also inspected his pipe.-"Bought that car off'n Kenner,"-Casey added boldly. Getting into trouble, he discovered, carried almost the thrill of trying to keep out of it.
"Yeah?"-The self-styled Jim Cassidy looked at the Ford more attentively.-"And contents?"
Casey snorted.-"What do you know about goats, if anything?" he asked mysteriously.
Jim Cassidy eyed Casey sidelong through a silence.-Then he brought his palm down flat on his thigh and laughed.
"You pass," he stated, with a relieved sigh. "He's a dinger, ain't he?"
"You know 'im, all right." Casey also laughed and put out his hand. "If you're a friend of Kenner's, shake hands with Casey Ryan!-He's damned glad to meet yuh--an' you can ask anybody if that ain't the truth."
After that the acquaintance progressed more smoothly.-By the time Casey spread his bed close alongside the car--he knew just how much booze Jim Cassidy carried, just what Cassidy expected to make off the load, and a good many other bits of information of no particular use to Casey.
