D
UFF 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. —
