Casey Ryan | Page 9

'Oh, dear!' and let it go at that," he boasted
to her on the second Sunday. "I'll bet there ain't another man in the state
of Nevada could do that."
"Yes. But Casey dear, if only you will never touch another drop of
liquor. You'll keep your promise, won't you, dear boy?"
"Hell, yes!" Casey assured her headily. It had been close to twenty
years since he had been called dear boy, at least to his face. He kissed
the widow full on the lips before he saw that a frown sat upon her
forehead like a section of that ridgy cardboard they wrap bottles in.
"Casey, you swore!"
"Swore? Me?"
"I only hope," sighed the widow, "that your other promise won't be
broken as easily as that one. Remember, Casey, I cannot and I will not
marry a drinking man!"
Casey looked at her dubiously. "If you mean that syrup--"
"Oh, I've heard awful tales of you, Casey dear! The boys talk at the
table, and they seem to think it's awful funny to tell about your fighting
and drinking and playing cards for money. But I think it's perfectly
awful. You must stop drinking, Casey dear. I could never forgive
myself if I set before my innocent little ones the example of a husband
who drank."
"You won't," said Casey. "Not if you marry me, you won't." Then he
changed the subject, beginning to talk of his prospect over on
Starvation. The widow liked to hear him tell about finding a pocket of
ore that went seventy ounces in silver and one and seven tenths ounces
in gold, and how he expected any day to get down into the main body

of ore and find it a "contact" vein. It all sounded very convincing and as
if Casey Ryan were in a fair way to become a rich man.
The next time Casey saw the widow he was on his way to town for
more powder, his whole box of "giant" having gone off with a
tremendous bang the night before in one of those abrupt hailstorms that
come so unexpectedly in the mountain country. Casey had worked until
dark, and was dog-tired and had left the box standing uncovered beside
the dugout where he kept it. He suspected that a hailstone had played a
joke on him, but his chief emotion was one of self-congratulation
because he had prudently stored the dynamite around a shoulder of the
canyon from where he camped.
When he told the widow about it as one relates the details of a narrow
escape, and pointed out how lucky he was, she looked very grave. It
was a very careless thing to do, she said. Casey admitted it was. A man
who handled dynamite ought to shun liquor above all things, she went
on; and Casey agreed restively. He had not felt any inclination, to
imbibe until that minute, when the Irish rose up hotly within him.
"Casey dear, are you sure you have nothing in camp?"
Casey assured her solemnly that he had not and drove off down the hill,
vaguely aware that he was not so content with life as he had been.
"Damn that syrup!" he exploded once, quite as abruptly as had the giant
powder. After that he chewed tobacco and drove in broody silence.

CHAPTER IV
Being Casey Ryan, tough as hickory and wont to drive headlong to his
destination, Casey did not remain in town to loiter a half a day and
sleep a night and drive back the next day, as most desert dwellers did.
He hurried through with his business, filled up with gas and oil, loaded
on an extra can of each, strapped his box of dynamite upon the seat
beside him where he could keep an eye on it--just as if that would do

any good if the tricky stuff meant to blow up!--and started back at three
in the afternoon. He would be half the night getting to camp, even
though he was Casey Ryan and drove a mean Ford. But he would be
there, ready to start work at sunrise. A man who is going to marry a
widow with two children had best hurry up and strike every streak of
rich ore he has in his claim, thought Casey.
All that afternoon, though the wind blew hot in his face, Casey drilled
across the desert, meeting never a living thing, overtaking none. All
that afternoon a yellow dust cloud swirled rapidly along the rough
desert road, vainly trying to keep up with Casey who made it. In Yucca
Pass he had to stop and fill motor and radiator with oil and water, and
just as he topped the summit a front tire popped like a pistol.
Casey killed the engine and