Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 7, 1920 issue of The Popular Magazine.
Tumultuous “Casey” Ryan had driven horses since he could stand on histoes, and as one of Nevada’s last stage-drivers speed was his middlename. Wherefore the ubiquitous Ford finally claimed him for itsown—and so did The Widow at Lucky Lode Mine. A combination prolific ofcomplications. You will be glad to continue Casey’s acquaintance infuture numbers.
From Denver to Spokane, from El Paso to Butte, men talk of “Casey”Ryan and smile as they speak his name. Bearded men with the flat toneof age in their voices will suck pipes and cackle reminiscently whilethey tell you of Casey’s tumultuous youth—time when he drove thefastest six horses in Colorado to the stage line out from CrippleCreek, and whooped past would-be holdups with a grin of derision onhis lips and bullets whining after him, and his passengers praying andclinging white-knuckled to the seats.
Once a flat-chested, lank man climbed out at the stage station belowthe mountain and met Casey coming off the box with whip and six reinsin his hand.
“Sa-ay! Next time that gang starts in to hold up the stage, by gosh,you stop! I’d ruther be shot than pitched off into a cañonsom’eres.”
Casey paused and looked at him, and spat and grinned. “You’re here,ain’t yuh?” he retorted finally. “You ain’t shot, and you ain’t layingin no cañon. Any time a man gets shot outa Casey’s stage, it’ll bebecause he jumps out and waits for the bullet to ketch up.”
The lank man snorted and reached under his coat tail for the solacing,plug of chewing tobacco. “Why, hell, man, you come down around thathairpin turn, up there, on two wheels!” he complained.
Casey grunted and turned away uninterested. “I’ve done it on one,” hebelittled the achievement. “The leaders wasn’t runnin’ good, to-day.That nigh one’s tenderfooted. I gotta see about havin’ him shod beforethe next trip.” He started off, then paused to fling reassurance overhis shoulder. “Don’t you never worry none about Casey’s driving. Caseycan drive. You ask anybody.”
Well, that was Casey’s youth. Part of it. The rest was made up ofreckless play, fighting for the sheer love of action, love that neverleft a scar across his memory and friendships that laughed at him,laughed with him, and endured to the end. Along the years behind himhe left a straggling procession of men, women, and events, that linkedthemselves reminiscently in the memory of those who knew him.“Remember the time Casey licked that Swede foreman up at Gold Gap?”one would say. “Remember that little girl Casey sent back to her folksin Vermont—and had to borrow the money to pay her fare, and thenborrow the money to play poker to win the money to pay back what heborrowed in the first place? Borrowed a hundred dollars from Ed Blair,and then borrowed another hundred off Ed the next day and boned Ed toset into a game with him, and won the money off Ed to pay Ed back.That’s Casey for yuh!”
As for the events, they were many and they had the Casey flavor, everyone of them. A few I should like to tell you, and I’m going to beginwith one which shows how Casey was born an optimist and never let lifeget the better of him, no matter what new wallop it invented.
From the days when his daily drives were apt to be interrupted byholdups—and once by a grizzly that rose up in front of his leaders ona sharp