It was noon the next day when Nolan returned, and he did not explain why he was eighteen hours overdue.-Casey eyed him expectantly, but Nolan's manner was brisk and preoccupied.
"Help me unload this stuff, Ryan," he said, "and put it out of sight in the cellar.-We won't have to go through the process of ****** moonshine, after all."
Casey looked into the car, pulling aside the tarp.-Four kegs he counted, and lifted out one.
"An' how many did YOU lick, Mr. Nolan?" he grinned over his shoulder as he started for the door.
Nolan laughed noncommittally.
"Perhaps I'm luckier at picking my bootleggers," he retorted. "If you carry the right brand of bluff, you can keep the skin on your knuckles, Ryan.-This beats ****** it, at any rate."
That afternoon and the next day, Casey Ryan did what he never dreamed was possible.-With Mack Nolan to show him how, Casey performed miracles.-While he did not, literally change water into wine, he did give forty-three gallons of White Mule a most imposing pedigree.
He turned kegs of crude, moonshine whisky into Canadian Club, Garnkirk, Tom Pepper, Three Star Hennessey and Cognac--if you were to believe the bottles, labels and government seals.-Under Mack Nolan's instruction and with his expert assistance, the forgery was perfect.-While the cellar reeked with the odor of White Mule when they had finished, the bottled array on the table whispered of sybaritic revelings to glisten the eyes of the most dissipated man about town.
"When it's as easy done as that, Mr. Nolan, the feller's a fool that drinks it.-You've learnt Casey Ryan somethin' that mighta done 'im some good a few years back."-He picked up a flat, pint bottle and caressed its label with reminiscent finger tips.
"Many's the time me an' old Tommy Pepper drove stage together," he mused.-"Throwed 'im at a bear once that I met in the trail over in Colorado when I hadn't no gun on me.-Busted a pint on his nose--man!-Then I never waited to see what happened. I was a wild divil them days when me an' Tommy Pepper was side pardners.
But a yaller snake with a green head crawled out of a bottle of 'im once--and that there was where Casey Ryan says good-by to booze. If I hadn't quit 'im then, I'd sure as hell quit 'im now.
After this performance, Mr. Nolan, Casey Ryan's goin' to look twice into his coffee pot.-I wouldn't believe in cow's milk, if I done the milkin' myself!"
"Most of the stuff that's peddled nowadays is doctored,"-Nolan replied, with the air of one who knows.-"When it isn't White Mule, it's likely to be something worse.-That's one of the chief reasons why I'm fighting it.-If they only peddled decent whisky it wouldn't be so bad, Ryan.-But it's rank poison.-I've seen so many go stone blind--or die--that it makes me pretty savage sometimes.-So now I'll coach you in the part you're to play as hootch runner; and to-morrow you can start for Los Angeles."
Casey did not answer.-He felt absently for his pipe, filled and lighted it and went out to sit on the doorstep in gloomy meditation while he smoked.
Returning to Los Angeles, even without a bootlegger's load, was not a matter which Casey liked to contemplate.-He would have to face the Little Woman if he went back; either as a deliberate liar, who lied to his wife to gain the ******* he might have had without resorting to deceit, or as the victim once more of crooks.-Casey thought he would prefer the accusation of lying deliberately to the Little Woman, though it made him squirm to think of it.-He wished she had not openly taunted him with getting into trouble and needing her always to get him out.
He would like to tell her that he was now working for the government. The secrecy of his mission, the danger it involved, would impress even her amused cynicism.-But the very secrecy of his mission in itself made it impossible for him to tell her anything about it. Casey would not admit it, but it was a real disappointment to him that he could not wear a star on his coat.
All that day and evening he was glum, a strange mood for Casey Ryan. But if Mack Nolan noticed his silence, he gave no sign.
Nolan himself was wholly absorbed by the business in hand.-The success of this plan meant a good deal to him, and he told Casey so very frankly; which lightened Casey's gloom perceptibly.
Casey was to drive to Los Angeles--even to San Diego if necessary-- and return within a week, unless Nolan's hopes were fulfilled and Casey was held up and highjacked.-If he were apprehended by officers who were honestly discharging their duty, Casey was to do thus-and-so, and presently be free to drive on with his load.-If he were highjacked (Casey gritted his teeth and said he hoped the highjacker would be Smiling Lou), he was to permit himself to be robbed, worm himself as far as possible into their confidence and return for further orders.
If Mack Nolan should chance to be absent from the cabin, then Casey was to wait until he returned.-And Nolan intimated that hereafter the ****** of moonshine might be a part of Casey's duties. Then, without warning, Mack Nolan struck at the heart of Casey's worry.
"I don't want to dictate to any man in family affairs, Ryan. But I've got to speak of one other matter," he said diffidently. "I suppose naturally you'll want to go home and let your wife know you're still alive, anyway.-But if you can manage to keep your present business a secret for the time being, I think you'd better do it.-You said you were planning to be away on a trip for some time, I remember.-If you can just let it go that way, or say that you are prospecting over here, I wish you would.
Think you can manage that all right?"
