by Tony Roberts
“And the law?”
“Hah! You ask the law to arrest a rich businessman? You ain’t got a hope. Best you can do is to back off. Else do what we’re gonna do, and that’s take the bad guys on, and they got the law on their side.” He spat into the dirt. “Money talks, justice walks.”
Casey nodded briefly. It had always been so, and he guessed it always would. “So what is Wyoming like?”
“Hmm… the Shoshone got a reservation in the center. There’s a railroad in the south running through Fort Bridger and Fort Laramie, and the Oregon Trail, what we’re on, goes south to Bridger. We’s on the northern branch that misses it, then joins back up further east and joins the Bozeman trail in eastern Wyoming just north of Laramie. That’s where old man Duggan lives. The Sioux got a big reservation off to the east in Dakota Territory, and there’s the Black Hills there. Bad country.”
“Good hiding places there then.”
“Yeah, but only a dumbass would hideout there – half of it’s Sioux. There’s the Bighorn mountains to the north up hear the border with Montana. Good places to hide out there. But everywhere’s got the Indians on the loose. That’s why we have the forts. Coupla years back there was a war and the Indians won it, and Congress authorised the abandoning of a few forts along the route. It’s hit the cattle trails hard. That’s one reason why the Duggans went into Idaho. Not much point if you ask me; cattle’s plains animals, no good in the mountains.”
Having had the history and geography lesson, Casey settled down and eased into the mind-numbing pleasantries of a gentle ride across the land. They came to Rigby’s Crossing two days later and stopped on the rise that overlooked the small settlement.
Cooper pointed to a large house by the creek with a landing sticking out onto the water. “That’s the Rigby’s. First port of call. We find out if Duggan is here, or when he passed through. Then we decide what we’re gonna do. Leave the talkin’ to me; old man Rigby is a mite suspicious of strangers after what the Duggans have done, but he’ll talk to me.”
Casey followed his companion down the trail to Rigby’s Crossing, hoping that they would strike gold, to use a popular expression. He was itching to fight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rigby’s Crossing wasn’t much of a place; eight buildings in all, one of which was the bar-cum-meeting place. A wooden bridge spanned the creek, and lower down there was a ford by some rocks. A few spruce trees towered up on either side of the watercourse higher up, but the area around the settlement had been cleared of wood and it was clear that the houses had been built from these.
A woman was washing some clothes in the freezing water and she looked up at the two new arrivals with curiosity. “Afternoon, ma’am,” Casey greeted her.
The woman wiped her hands and stood up. “Strangers passing through?”
Cooper leaned forward on his pommel. “We were wanting to speak to Mr. Rigby. He still living in the Big House yonder?”
“Yep. Silly old fool refuses to sell out to the Duggans; they just about own the Crossing now. Thinking of renaming the place Duggan’s Crossing. I expect they will after Rigby passes on. He can’t have many more winters left in him.”
“Well, we’ll just pay him a courtesy call,” Cooper said, touching the brim of his hat to the woman and moved to the right to head towards the Big House, as he called it. The place had the look of neglect to it; weeds grew thick on the ground and against the walls, and paint was peeling from the plank walls or even missing in places.
The two men dismounted and went up the three steps to the front door, and Cooper knocked. After a brief wait he repeated it.
“Go away!” a voice could be heard shouting from within.
“Mr. Rigby, it’s Abe Cooper. I want to speak to you about the Duggans.”
There was a pause, then a key could be heard turning in the door and it opened slowly inwards. A pair of dark tunnels appeared, then Casey realized it were the twin barrels of a shotgun. “Who you say?” a querulous voice demanded.
“Abe Cooper, Mr. Rigby. Recognize me?”
The shotgun centered on Cooper’s chest, then it withdrew. “Come on in, quickly now.”
The two men passed into the house and Casey saw the old man stood by the door, shotgun now by his side. Looked like a tough old bastard with white hair, white mustache and a crooked nose. The door was shut and Rigby led them to the living room, complete with crackling fire. A couple of chairs stood before this and Rigby waved the men to sit. The old man used the chair with cushions. Casey dragged a footstool over to sit on.
“Abe, long time no see. Heard you fell foul of the Duggans.”
“That I did, damn their black hearts. Just like you.”
“Hell, nothing like you, lad. Who’s the stranger?”
“Oh, a guy I picked up in Idaho. Hunting the Duggans, too. Wants to kill Clint for some personal reason.”
“Does he now?” Rigby eyed Casey and saw the scar, the hard look to the eyes, the build of someone who wasn’t to fool with. He nodded, then looked back at Cooper. “Looks serious. Alright, so what do you want to know?”
“Where Clint is. Got a couple of low-lives with him too by the names of Carberry and Stoneleigh. Murderers, arsonists, rapists. You know the type.”
“Don’t I just? Sounds like the two charming sidekicks Clint used to bully the folks here into letting him take over. I don’t take it though and showed them my shotgun when they turned up last summer. I got nobody now with everyone either dead or moved on. Nothing here really to live for now. This place is dying apart from timber. That’s why there’s new houses here. There’s gold further west, gems too. Farming land over yonder,” he waved a vague hand in the air. “Not here. More likely to get the Indians raiding than making anything worthwhile other than logging timber. Besides, I’m too old. Figured on ending my days here. Would be nice not to have any Duggan influence here though.”
Cooper nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Rigby grunted. “Well Clint and his duo passed through here two days back. They stopped briefly at the New House, the one on the other side of the creek with the big veranda. They got a foreman there who makes sure the Duggans get their rent. They got a sawmill up and running now and charging their poor bastard workforce high rents. Keeps them tied to them, see? Not exactly why people came west to make a life. Seems to me these parasites need wiping out.”
“What’s the foreman’s name?”
“Some German name or other. Dunno his surname but he’s called Kurt. Big guy, arms like tree trunks. Might be a match for your pal here,” Rigby jerked a thumb at Casey who grinned.
Outside, Cooper turned to Casey. “So, that’s our plan. Get this Kurt and get out of him where Clint and the others have gone. Looks like they’re heading east to Daddy. I expect we’ll have to ride to Fort Laramie after all. I expect Kurt to be up at the sawmill.”
“Let’s go check in the house first.” Casey eyed the big house over the watercourse. “There may be something there for us to learn. Some paper or other?”
Cooper looked doubtful. “Alright, but they wouldn’t be dumb enough to just leave things lying about.”
Casey shrugged. “We’ll just have to be very thorough in ripping the place up then.”
Cooper chuckled. “Yeah I get your drift. Come on then. Let’s go pay a social visit to the lovely Duggan house.”
The veranda was huge. They saw nobody on their way across the bridge, which loomed thirty feet above the steeply-sided gorge the creek flowed through. It was a single span construction, with huge supports angled out underneath from the rock at forty-five degrees. A lot of nails and rope had gone into securing the span, and it looked like single trees had been sawn and shaped on either side. Planks formed the surface but looking through the narrow gaps in between each, Casey could see plenty of zig-zagging support planks beneath.
The house was on the left. Leaving their horses to drink out of a convenient trough, the two men climbed up the narrow flight of steps
from the trail to the platform the house sat upon. The roof was steeply sloped, so as to allow snow to slide off easily. The door was locked and Cooper hammered on it. Nobody came, so Casey took a deep breath and kicked hard, shattering the jamb.
Inside they began trashing the place. Anything breakable was thrown to the floor and shattered or snapped. Drawers were pulled out and upended, cupboards cleared of their contents. The floor became a depository of discarded and broken items. Upstairs they went and repeated the treatment. As Cooper predicted, there was nothing to be found.
The two helped themselves to the contents of the kitchen and sat about, talking. The horses were moved to somewhere more concealed and with grass to eat, and then they waited for the return of the occupant. As darkness came they heard a noise from the front door. An exclamation. The damage to the door had been spotted, clearly. Casey hefted a wooden club, made from the destroyed wreckage of a small table. No guns; the aim was not to kill him.
“What the devil?” a man’s voice came. “What...?
The click of a cocked pistol came to them. Now it was deadly serious. A lamp was on, in the room in which they were waiting. Like a moth to a flame, the owner was drawn to the living room. The barrel of his pistol appeared first. Cooper was sat in a chair, calmly awaiting the man. “Good evening,” Cooper said in a matter-fact-voice. “Cold, isn’t it?”
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done to my god-damned house?”
“It’s not the what,” Cooper said, smiling, “but the why.”
“I’m gonna kill you, you sonofabitch.” Even as the pistol centered on Cooper’s chest, Casey crept up behind him from the dark corner he’d been hiding in and brought the club down on the man’s head. He went down like he’d been poleaxed.
The pistol clattered across the floor and Cooper puffed out his cheeks. “Thought he was going to shoot there a minute.”
“He was.”
“Hmm. Next time you do the greeting and I’ll do the clubbing. Let’s tie him up.” They put the man into the chair, bound him securely, and then Casey went and got a pail of water from the kitchen. He threw the contents over the man who spluttered and came to rapidly. Casey stood before him.
“Kurt. You’re one of Duggan’s foremen. We want to know where Duggan is.”
“Who?” Kurt had a German accent. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
Casey switched to fluent German. “Cut the shit, mein freund. I understand your native language fluently so shall we conduct it in German, or English? Either is equally comfortable to me. Duggan and two men came through here two days ago. Where were they heading?”
“I’m saying nothing,” Kurt said sullenly in English. “I no longer speak German, I’m no longer German. I’m American.”
“Whatever,” Casey said indifferently. He’d been dealing with Germans for centuries, ever since that fateful day when he and his 7th legion comrades had been surprised in that dawn attack close to the Rhine. That was before his immortality. It must have been around 20 to 25AD. He’d killed so many of the swine, yet more kept on coming. He’d killed them as a Roman legionary, as holder of Helsfjord, as a Byzantine soldier, as one of Charlemagne’s generals, as a Magyar, as one of Charles V’s men, as a Swede in the Thirty Years’ War, and as a soldier in Napoleon’s forces. So many for so long. Kurt was just yet another he had to face. “Now this can be painful or not, it’s up to you. I don’t really care. I’m after Duggan’s blood and I intend getting it, so your sorry hide isn’t of any value to me except for the information you have, and I’m going to get it no matter what it takes.”
“You’re tough talking like that with a gun while I’m tied to this chair. You wouldn’t be so big-mouthed if I was free.”
“You really think so? Well, sheisskopf, shall we put it to the test?” Casey threw his pistol to Cooper who caught it in a reflex action. “Untie this idiot. It seems he wants a lesson taught him.”
“Are you mad?” Cooper asked, looking at the scowling figure of Kurt. “He looks as if he rips up trees just for laughs.”
“And I rip up whole forests,” Casey answered. “Go on, I’ve not beaten some asshole for some time and I’m itching to do it to this one.”
Kurt grinned evilly as Cooper reluctantly began untying him. “You’ll be sorry you agreed to this; I’ll rip your arms off and stuff them up your arschloch!”
“Big deal. Do your worst.”
Kurt stood up, freed, and rubbed his wrists, then eyed Casey, stood a few feet away. He wasn’t fooled; he noted the build of his opponent and the muscles rippling underneath the shirt. This was no weakling. The eyes, too, were hard and showed no pity. It would be a tough bout, this. Best he got an early advantage, then he could take on the other one who shouldn’t be that difficult. “So you think I’m an easy...” he broke off in mid-sentence and sprang at the scarred man, hoping to knock him off his feet and pummel him into submission.
As he leaped, Casey stepped to one side and moved his arms and hands into an odd position that Kurt had never seen before. The next moment the big German was flying through the air to crash heavily into the far wall. He got to his hands and knees, shook his head for a moment, then got up and turned around. What had happened just then he had no idea, but it wouldn’t happen again.
The most infuriating thing was that the scarred man showed no sign of satisfaction or triumph. He was stood there, his hands held before him, slightly crouched, waiting. “Right, so we’re not going to muck about. Good!” He came forward again, seeking to lock hands and crush the fight out of his enemy.
Casey wasn’t there. He had slid to one side and sent his hand down hard, edged, and struck Kurt’s arm near the elbow. As the German’s arm folded up, Casey slammed his other hand, palm first, into the chest of his opponent. Kurt grunted and staggered back. Nobody had ever hit him that hard ever. He sank to his knees, fighting for breath. His heart was trying to cope with the shock. His arm was going numb and he couldn’t open his fingers.
He looked up at Casey. “What have you done?”
“Immobilized you. I can now hit you where and when I like. So, talk.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
That provoked a curious blow with the knuckle into his neck. Kurt saw stars and sank onto his ass. He felt rather than saw Casey pull him up and slap him hard three times across the face. “Talk, or get more of this and worse.”
Cooper put Casey’s gun on the table. “I don’t think I’ll watch the rest. I’m going outside for a smoke.”
“Alright. I won’t be long.”
Cooper had finished his cheroot and was about to return to the warmth of the house when Casey came out, dragging an unconscious Kurt with him. “Let’s burn the place down. While folks here are busy trying to put this out, we can ride to the sawmill and burn that down, too. First though we’d best get hold of the ledgers there. Kurt kindly tells me there are addresses of all Duggan properties in Wyoming Territory. We can burn the lot to the ground as we go. Clint will run out of places to go, and Fort Laramie won’t be somewhere he’s welcome. Seems Daddy is pissed off with him. Told Clint to sort the problem out in Idaho himself or he’ll send in someone who will.”
“Oh?”
Casey shrugged dropping the comatose Kurt onto the cold, hard ground. “Old man Duggan won’t have an empire left by the time I’m finished. Idaho and Wyoming will be a pyre. Let’s get burning.”
Cooper grinned. “You’re a mad bastard, you know that, Long?”
Casey smiled back. “It’s been said before.”
Laughing the two grabbed some combustible cloths and began to set the Duggan empire ablaze.
CHAPTER NINE
Beyond the crossing the land began to flatten. It was criss-crossed with waterways and here and there were rises and dips, and the occasional stand of trees. They had the addresses of homes, businesses and ranches owned by the Duggans. From Kurt they had learned that Clint had a house up near the Bighorn Hills, built on the eastern slopes t
o overlook the Bozeman Trail. He had hopes one day of inheriting his father’s empire and driving cattle along the trail past his home.
He rarely lived there, having spent much of his time in Idaho recently, but he had a housekeeper and a couple of hired hands who looked after it. Cooper was all for going after both Clint and his father, wanting to wipe the whole lot out, but Casey pointed out Fort Laramie would be a hard place to go in and do something illegal like that. Best to go after Clint and his two buddies first.
The days passed and the trail of destruction remorselessly headed for Fort Laramie. Casey’s plan was simple – let everyone think the next place to go up was further along the Oregon Trail. By now the word would be out someone was burning down Duggan property, and the law would be on full alert to stop them. So, before they were put in handcuffs and jailed, the two men swung north towards Montana.
They stopped at one watering hole, a one-shack rest station and spoke to the proprietor, a tired-looking man with a balding head. He told them a group of armed men had been there a few days ago, heading north. Word out was that there were gangs of men setting fire to people’s property and that everyone had to arm themselves and shoot if anyone looked like they were going to burn their homes. The army and the sheriffs were out looking for the men responsible.
“So these armed men,” Casey said, slaking his thirst with a welcome beer. “Did they look like they could set fire to houses?”
“Oh no, Mister. One of them was Clint Duggan. He’s one of the cow-herders. Respectable folk they are.”
Casey fought an urge to choke. Cooper sniffed. “Some folks would disagree with you, bud. Clint Duggan burned down a bar in Idaho and killed the owner. We’re looking to bring him to justice.”
“You ain’t got badges,” the proprietor said.
“Who said we were talking about the sheriff’s justice?” Casey said. “Some good people have died and a lady was raped by Duggan and his two cronies. I’m talking about proper justice not that authorised by lawyers. Often they don’t go together.”