That night Casey slept soundly in a bunk built above Joe's bed in the dugout, with Hank and Paw on the opposite side of the room with their guns handy.-In the morning he thought well enough of his stomach to get up and start breakfast when Hank had built the fire. He was aware of Joe's suspicious gaze from the lower bunk, and of the close presence of Joe's six-shooter eyeing him balefully from underneath the top blanket.-Hank, too, was watchful as a coyote, which he much resembled, in Casey's opinion.-But Casey did not mind trifles of that kind, once his mind was at ease about the breakfast and he was free to slice bacon the right thickness, and mix the hot-cake batter himself.
For the first time in many weeks he sang --if you could call it singing--over his work.
When Casey Ryan sings over a breakfast fire, you may expect the bacon fried exactly right.-You may be sure the hot-cakes will be browned correctly with no uncooked dough inside, and that the coffee will give you heart for whatever hardship the day may hold.
Even Paw's surliness lightened a bit by the time he had speared his tenth cake and walloped it in the bacon grease before sprinkling it thick with sugar and settling the eleventh cake on top.-Casey was eyeing the fourteenth cake on Hank's plate when Joe looked up at him over a loaded fork.
"Save out enough dough for three good uns," Joe ordered, "an' fill that little coffee pot an' set it to keep hot, before Hank hogs the hull thing.-Dad, seems like you're, too busy t' think uh some things Mart wouldn't want forgot."-Paw looked quickly at Casey; but Casey Ryan had played poker all his life, and his weathered face showed no expression beyond a momentary interest, which was natural.
"Other feller hurt bad?" he inquired carelessly,-looking at Joe's bandaged hand.-He almost grinned when he saw the relieved glances exchanged between Joe and Paw.
"Leg broke," Joe mumbled over a mouthful.-"Dad, he set it an' it's doin' all right.-He's up in another cabin."-Through Hank's brainless titter, Joe added carefully, "Bad ground in the first right-hand drift. We had to abandon it.-Rocks big as your head comin' in on yuh onexpected.-None uh them right-hand drifts is safe fer a man t' walk in, much less work."
Thereupon Casey related a thrilling story of a cave-in, and assured Joe that he and his partner were lucky to get off with mere broken bones.-Casey, you will observe, was running contrary to his nature and leaning to diplomacy.
For himself, I am sure he would never have troubled to placate them. He would have taken the first slim chance that offered--or made one --and fought the three to a finish.
But there was the old woman in the rock hut above them, rocking back and forth and staring at a wall that had no visible opening save one small window to let in the light of outdoors.-Prisoner she must be--though why, Casey could only guess.
Perhaps she was some desert woman, the widow of some miner who had been shot as these three had tried to shoot him and Barney Oakes. Mean, malevolent as they were, they would still lack the brutishness necessary to shoot an old woman.-So they had shut her up there in the rock hut, not daring to take her back to civilization where she would tell of the crime.-It was all plain enough to Casey.-The story of the crippled miner made him curl his lip contemptuously when his back was safely turned from Joe.
That day Casey thought much of the old woman in the hut, and of Paw's worse than inferior cooking.-Though he did not realize the change in himself, six months of close companionship with the Little Woman had changed Casey Ryan considerably.-Time was when even his soft-heartedness would not have impelled him to patient scheming that he might help an old woman whose sole claim upon his sympathy consisted of four rock walls and a look of calm despair in her eyes.-Now, Casey was thinking and planning for the old woman more than for himself.
Wherefore, Casey chose the time when he was "putting in an upper"
(which is miner's parlance for drilling a hole in the upper face of the tunnel).-He gritted his teeth when he swung back the single-jack and landed a glancing blow on the knuckles of his left hand instead of the drill end.-No man save Casey Ryan or a surgeon could have told positively whether the metacarpal bones were broken or whether the hand was merely skinned and bruised.
Joe came up, regarded the bleeding hand sourly, led Casey out to the dugout and bandaged the hand for him.-There would be no more tunnel work for Casey until the hand had healed; that was accepted without comment.
That night Casey proved to Paw that, with one hand in a sling much resembling Joe's, he could nevertheless cook a meal that made eating a pleasure to look forward to.-After that the old woman in the little stone hut had pudding, sometimes, and cake made without eggs, and pie; and the potatoes were mashed or baked instead of plain boiled. Casey had the satisfaction of seeing the dishes return empty to the dugout, and know that he was permitted to add something to her comfort and well-being. The Little Woman would be glad of that, Casey thought with a glow.-She might never hear of it, but Casey liked to feel that he was doing something that would please the Little Woman.
For the first few days after Casey was installed as cook, one of the three remained always with him, making it plain that he was under guard.-Two were always busy elsewhere.-Casey saw that he was expected to believe that they were at work in the tunnel, driving it in to a certain contact of which they spoke frequently and at length.
At supper they would mention their footage for that day's work, and Casey would hide a grin of derision.-Casey knew rock as he knew bacon and beans and his sour-dough can.-To make the footage they claimed to be making in that tunnel, they would need to shoot twice a day, with a round of, say, five holes to a shot.
