Justice for Duff O'Casey by Jacob Bayne

DUFF CAREFULLY TILTED THE bottle and sloshed whiskey about two fingers deep into the dingy glass clamped in his trembling right hand. He didn’t bother to recork the bottle—there was no need. He’d be tilting it again soon enough.

Somehow Enoch Cain had found him, and he had sent word by way of the telegraph that he was on his way to set things right. Duff knew enough about Enoch Cain to know that “right” meant whatever Enoch Cain meant “right” to be.

The telegram had come through last week, and Duff, not a frequent sight about town, had only come in today and therefore had only seen the telegram today. Now he wished he had just stayed home.

He lifted the glass in his quivering hand, gulped hard and loud, and the whiskey burned down his tight throat to warm his churning belly.

Because of Duff O’Casey, Enoch had been in prison for the past fifteen years. Even though the telegram arrived only seven days ago, Duff had never forgotten the man, had never forgotten the promise of revenge in words and in the glare of the man’s cold steel eyes, and every day for fifteen years he had never forgotten that this day would come.

Fifteen years had made Duff an old man, all gray hair, wrinkled skin, and knotty fingers. But Enoch Cain was young back then, a tall, stocky cuss of seventeen, and would be in the prime of his life now and would be sorely ticked at having lost those unrecoverable youthful years.

Duff finished another drink with another loud gulp, but this time he pushed the bottle away and shoved his chair back from the table. Getting drunk wouldn’t solve his problem. He shouldered through the batwings and into the dusty street.

Finding another town to call home wouldn’t do either, only delay the dance. If Enoch could find him here in this ratty little town, he’d find him wherever he went.

Duff headed for the livery where his sorrel gelding was stabled. He needed to get away from the racket of the town, back to his ranch and tiny cabin where he could think.

LIGHT AND SHADOWS FROM a low sun played on the hilly country between town and Duff’s ranch as he followed the rutted wagon trail home. The day was fading, and his head began to clear a bit in the clean air of the countryside.

In this clearness of thought he figured to have three actions from which to choose—run, hide or fight, and fight was out of the question. Duff knew he’d be no match for a man of Enoch Cain’s caliber.

The barn door was open when he got back to the ranch. He’d left it open, always did when he was out with his horse. He ducked his head and rode the sorrel inside. After unsaddling and unbridling his mount, Duff forked hay into the stall and—

“It’s been a long time, Duff.”

—the sound of the deep, cold voice almost stopped his heart. Slowly, with every ounce of mettle he could muster, Duff turned to face the owner of that voice.

Though Duff had not seen the man in fifteen years and could only see him in silhouette now, he could see enough. Enoch Cain stood surefooted in the open doorway of the barn.

Cain stepped forward a couple of steps, brushing the right hem of his dark frock coat away from his hip as he did so. Duff instinctively retreated an equal distance, his gaze fixed on the outline of the revolver holstered next to Cain’s dangling hand.

“Got nothin’ to say to your old partner, Duff?”

Duff wanted to speak—to offer some explanation, plead, beg, to say something in his defense, but he could barely breathe.

Cain spread his feet, squaring himself in the pale light framed by the open door of the barn. “Surprised you’re still around. Figured you for a running man.”

Duff was scared, knew he was probably about to die, but Cain didn’t know he’d just seen the telegram today. Duff realized Cain thought he was waiting for him to show, maybe even daring to confront him. Though it wasn’t true, the thought gave Duff a flash of boldness, and he regained a measure of composure, enough to finally speak.

“Guess I hoped you ’as only trying to put a scare in me, and to be truthful, you did.” As he spoke, words came more easily. “Hoped you’d be reasonable enough to figure killing me wouldn’t be worth going back to prison.”

“So you think I’m going to forget the years you took from me?”

Cain took another step forward, but this time Duff didn’t back up.

“I’m an old man, Cain. Grayer than I should be, cause of you.” Without realizing he was doing so, Duff took a step forward. “You think you the only one what’s been in prison?” He started to take another step but stopped when he saw Cain’s hand slide toward the revolver on his side. Until that moment he had forgotten about the pitchfork, still in his hands.

Duff lifted his head. Maybe if it came down to it, he could take Cain with him. “You said nobody’d get hurt. Said there wouldn’t even be any shootin’. Well, I shot a man—had to or he’d have shot you in the back, Cain!”

He spat on the dirt floor of the barn and then kicked at the spot where it landed. “That’s what you’re worth, Cain, spit! The man I killed was just some townie come in to put away a few dollars.”

Cain moved his hand until it came to rest on the butt of his revolver. “Ain’t what you said at my trial. You said you was shooting at me... said he stepped in front of you. Even the girl backed you up.”

“People believe what they hear. She was standing close, and it just come to me, so I said it. Weren’t no use in the both of us going to prison.” Duff let the pitchfork fall from his hands. “Ended up there, anyway. Ain’t a day passes that I don’t think about what I done. Only I don’t get out like you did, Cain, not till I die, anyway. You want to unlock the door, then shoot.”

ENOCH CAIN UNTIED THE gray gelding from the fence post behind the barn where he’d hidden waiting for Duff to return from town. He stroked the horse’s neck, stepped into the stirrup, then swung up into the saddle. “Know what, horse? Duff was right. People believe what they hear—some do, anyway.” He lifted the revolver, a Colt Army .45, from its holster and replaced the spent shell. “And some don’t.” a