The Trail of the White Mule Read online

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the desert, where roads are fewer and worse than they should be, aman may travel wherever he can negotiate the rocks and sand, and nonemay say him nay. If any man objects, the traveler is by customprivileged to whip the objector if he is big enough, and afterwards goon his way with the full approval of public opinion. He may blaze atrail of his own, return that way a year later and find his trail anestablished thoroughfare.

  In the desert Casey gave trail to none nor asked reprisals if hesuffered most in a sudden meeting. In Los Angeles Casey was halted andrebuked on every corner, so he complained; hampered and annoyed byrules and regulations which desert dwellers never dreamed of.

  Since he kept the optimistic viewpoint of a child, experience seemed toteach him little. Like the boy he was at heart, he was perfectlywilling to make good resolutions--all of which were more or lesstheoretical and left to a kindly Providence to keep intact for him.

  So here he was, after we had pried him loose from his last predicament,perfectly optimistic under his fresh haircut, and thinking the trafficcops would not remember him. Thinking, too--as he confided to theLittle Woman--that Los Angeles looked pretty good, after all. He wasresolved to lead henceforth a blameless life. It was time he settleddown, Casey declared virtuously. His last trip into the desert was allwrong, and he wanted you to ask anybody if Casey Ryan wasn't ready atany and all times to admit his mistakes, if he ever happened to makeany. He was starting in fresh now, with a new deal all around from anew deck. He had got up and walked around his chair, he told us, andhad thrown the ash of a left-handed cigarette over his right shoulder;he'd show the world that Casey Ryan could and would keep out of gunshotof trouble.

  He was rehearsing all this and feeling very self-righteous while hedrove down West Washington Street. True, he was doing twenty-fivewhere he shouldn't, but so far no officer had yelled at him and hehadn't so much as barked a fender. Down across Grand Avenue helarruped, never noticing the terrific bounce when he crossed the waterdrains there (being still fresh from desert roads). He was still doingtwenty-five when he turned into Hill Street.

  Busy with his good resolutions and the blameless life he was about tolead, Casey forgot to signal the left-hand turn. In the desert youdon't signal, because the nearest car is probably forty or fifty milesbehind you and collisions are not imminent.West-Washington-and-Hill-Street crossing is not desert, however. A carwas coming behind Casey much closer than fifty miles; one of thosescuttling Ford delivery trucks. It locked fenders with Casey when heswung to the left. The two cars skidded as one toward the right-handcurb; caught amidships a bright yellow, torpedo-tailed runabout comingup from Main Street, and turned it neatly on its back, its four wheelsspinning helplessly in the quiet, sunny morning. Casey himself wascatapulted over the runabout, landing abruptly in a sitting position onthe corner of the vacant lot beyond, his self-righteousnessconsiderably jarred.

  A new traffic officer had been detailed to watch that intersection andteach a driving world that it must not cut corners. A bright, newtraffic button had been placed in the geographical center of thecrossing; and woe be unto the right-hand pocket of any man who failedto drive circumspectly around it. New traffic officers are apt to bekeenly conscientious in their work. At twenty-five dollars per cut,sixteen unhappy drivers had been taught where the new button waslocated and had been informed that twelve miles per hour at thatcrossing would be tolerated, and that more would be expensive.

  Not all drivers take their teaching meekly, and the new traffic officernear the end of his shift had pessimistically decided that the drivingworld is composed mostly of blamed idiots and hardened criminals.

  He gritted his teeth ominously when Casey Ryan came down upon thecrossing at double the legal speed. He held his breath for an instantduring the crash that resounded for blocks. When the dust had settled,he ran over and yanked off the dented sand of the vacant lot a dazedand hardened malefactor who had committed three traffic crimes in threeseconds: he had exceeded the speed limit outrageously, cut fifteen feetinside the red button, and failed to signal the turn.

  "You damned, drunken boob!" shouted the new traffic cop and shook CaseyRyan (not knowing him).

  Shaking Casey will never be safe until he is in his coffin with a lilyin his hand. He was considerably jolted, but he managed a fourth crimein the next five minutes. He licked the traffic cop ratherthoroughly--I suppose because his onslaught was whollyunexpected--kicked an expostulating minister in the pit of the stomach,and was profanely volunteering to lick the whole darned town when hewas finally overwhelmed by numbers and captured alive; which speakswell for the L. A. P.

  Wherefore Casey Ryan continued his ride down town in a dark car thatwears a clamoring bell the size of a breakfast plate under the driver'sfoot, and a dark red L. A. Police Patrol sign painted on the sides.Two uniformed, stern-lipped cops rode with him and didn't seem to careif Casey's nose WAS bleeding all over his vest. A uniformed cop stoodon the steps behind, and another rode beside the driver and kept hiseye peeled over his shoulder, thinking he would be justified inshooting if anything started inside. Boys on bicycles pedaledfuriously to keep up, and many an automobile barely escaped the curbbecause the driver was goggling at the mussed-up prisoner in the "BlackMaria."

  The Little Woman telegraphed me at San Francisco that night. The wirewas brief but disquieting. It merely said, "CASEY IN JAIL SERIOUS NEEDHELP." But I caught the Lark an hour later and thanked God it wasrunning on time.

  The Little Woman and I spent two frantic days getting Casey out ofjail. The traffic cop's defeat had been rather public; and just assoon as he could stand up straight in the pulpit, the minister meant topreach a series of sermons against the laxity of a police force thatpermits such outrages to occur in broad daylight. More than that, thething was in the papers, and people were reading and giggling on thestreet cars and in restaurants. Wherefore, the L. A. P. was on its tinear.

  Even so, much may be accomplished for a man so wholesomely human asCasey Ryan. On the third day the charge against him was changed fromsomething worse to "Reckless driving and disturbing the peace." Caseywas persuaded to plead guilty to that charge, which was harder toaccomplish than mollifying the L. A. P.

  He paid two fifty-dollar fines and was forbidden to drive a car "in theCounty of Los Angeles, State of California, during the next succeedingperiod of two years." He was further advised (unofficially butnevertheless with complete sincerity) to pay all damages to the twocars he had wrecked and to ask the minister's doctor what was his fee;a new uniform for the traffic cop was also suggested, since Casey hadthrust his foot violently into the cop's pocket which was not tailoredto resist the strain. The judge also observed, in the course of theconversation, that desert air was peculiarly invigorating and thatCasey should not jeopardize his health and well-being by filling hislungs with city smoke.

  I couldn't blame Casey much for the mood he was in after a setback likethat to his good resolutions. I was inclined to believe with Caseythat Providence had lain down on the job.