Early 1867
Casey steps into a tiny, green-painted Minneapolis saloon. Hand painted gold lettering on a black background declares the name of the saloon to be The Longhorn. The name isn't popular amongst the cattle rustlers, but it's more scholarly patrons find it to be rather humorous. The saloon is tucked into a grimey corner of the city and is off of any of the busy main roads. It's beneath the creaking infrastructure of the city's gigantic flour mills and just above the filthy Mississippi river's high water line. To someone standing on the outside of the building, it looks like a rundown little hole in the wall with only a slow trickle of local traffic keeping it alive. But to the people allowed into the business half of the saloon, it's a beautifully kept and highly polished affair nothing short of elite. It's a true speakeasy, and is the perfect place for an outlaw looking to lay low for a few days as well as to drink, of course, and to do business with others in the know.
After their long journey South to the Hartford's ranch, Casey and Steadfast had only made it back to the top of New Mexico before deciding that taking a train the rest of the way was the only way they were ever going to make it back north within a reasonable amount of time. Casey had persuaded the station clerk to take Steadfast in one of the cattle cars and she had slipped in with him undetected. It had been just like when she and Bill had traveled back from Bolivia.
Casey walks up to a quaint looking waiter who is standing behind a teller's desk. She pulls down her bandana and is immediately ushered to a low tin-ceilinged room at the back. Seven other outlaws sit at the back of the room quietly smoking and drinking. A few are talking in hushed voices together. On the other side of the room, loud yells and laughter periodically erupt from a table filled with at least ten men who are playing poker. Two women with their hair piled precariously on their heads in high cut dresses fawn over the table's highest betters (Casey notes that every so often they slip bills out of the men's pockets). The table is moderated by a small, mousy looking man who is openly terrified of the group as they try to shove wads of twenties at him to swing the deck in their favor. It's the usual crowd. Bullets have punched inky black holes in the tin ceiling.
Casey hangs her hat and duster on a nearby coat stand and takes a seat in a comfortable high backed chair in her usual spot in the saloon, kicking her boots up on the table in front of her. She brushes her braid out from under her bandana. Although many speakeasies would despise having a female patron, Casey has earned a reputation not only as an excellent name to have in your pocketbook as a business contact, but also as a fierce brawler willing and more than able to defend her name. This reputation has earned her the respect of all of the big names in the speakeasies and saloons she frequents.
Casey is quickly served a glass of whiskey by a waiter who darts between the tables, passing out various items from the bar and avoiding the occasional gun barrel which is shoved into his face or jabbed into his side (this action is usually followed by harsh laughter from the offending table). His pockets bulge with wads of bills that the less unsavory patrons shove at him in compensation for their presence. Casey whistles at the waiter, and waves him over.
"Any letters?"
"Thank you, yes, I'll go check Ms. Long, thank you."
She smiles and begins to peel the shell off of a peanut as the nervous waiter scrambles off to the letter shelf behind the bar counter. This is one of the few speakeasies that allows its address to be used for mail for the outlaws without a stable address. It was highly dangerous for the saloon owners to take this task on, but they were compensated for it with healthy-numbered greenbacks. The waiter scrambled back holding two folded and grimey pieces of mail in his hands. He held them as if they were explosives that would go off at any second if he so happened to offend their intended recipient.
"Thank you, here you are, ma'am. Thank you."
He nodded and bobbed off into the crowd of shifting, dirty people. Casey's hands find the edge of the first letter and she opens it without looking down. It is written on tattered and tanned paper that has smudges of the fingers it passed through marking its surface. She began to read the scratchy and poorly written letter:
Casey-
Writing to you that Philp's O.K. He's healed up, and is getting quite hand-y with only his right hand. Haha. Don't worry about him chasin' ya down. He's found himself some quiet out on the fields with the cattle. Going for a cattle drive up to Chicago. Late November if you're around.
-Vic
She smiled faintly, popping the peanut into her mouth as she tucked Victor's letter into her jacket pocket and began to unfold the next one. This letter was crisp and had the thick, solid edges of a government document. It felt like newspaper in her fingers. A stamp at the top crested the faded type text. It was indeed a government document.
T H E G O V E R N M E N T O F T H E U N I T E D S T A T E S O F A M E R I C A
Hereby declares that one LILITH MARTHA HARTFORD aka CASEY LONGABAUGH aka CASEY LONG has been relieved from all charges regarding
Two accounts of horse theft
26 accounts of train robbery
Being the cause of no less than 31 fights which resulted in the following injuries and/or accidental deaths to said persons below:
ONE Philip Wheatley, ONE Andrews Bergens, MSRS. Jacobson and Cody and c.o., ONE Mackerson Alex, ONE Lizandra Graham, ONE Abbernella Quaint, ONE Lewis Shining Fox, ONE Harvey Maxwell, ONE Crowbeak McCarthy, MSRS. Carter Bethly and Lavram, ONE Alexandrov Chezchnacovich, ONE Francine Lamareux, ONE Qwest Roberts, ONE Beverly Garvey, ONE Garrison Floyd, ONE Jeffery Phawks, ONE Zachariah Wood, ONE Felix Babesh, ONE Braderes Lex, ONE Shelia Duff, ONE Celia Wickerson, ONE Ava Marryr, ONE Ferris Gustavoston, ONE Edward Philippson, ONE Vanderbild Olaffson, ONE McKenzy RunningBull, ONE Juan Ferria, Makcerson Fuller, ONE Kleath Jackson, ONE Neemay McCollough, ONE Tsora McFluther, ONE Madison Almarado, ONE Jaqueline Woodson, ONE Aaron Beth, ONE Bethany Oluama, ONE Daisy Jholgonson, AND MSRS. Harley and Sanchez.
AND CAUSING THE DAMAGE OF PROPERTY:
56 Accounts of damage to windows, doors, walls, flooring, mirrors, chandeliers, and ceilings
29 Accounts of severely damaged bar counters
8 Accounts of arson
97 Accounts of broken furniture, room decorations, artifacts etc...
TOTAL AMOUNT DAMAGED: APPROX. $36,083 UNITED STATES DOLLARS
TOTAL AMOUNT STOLEN APPROX: $28,260 UNITED STATES DOLLARS
ONE, CASEY LONGABAUGH has been declared cleared of all above charges and is relieved from the position of OUTLAW upon the order of GRAND JUSTICE ALEXSSON through the appeal of ONE PHILIP WHEATLY and ONE FREDERICK HARTFORD and ONE VICTOR ALMATIERRA as appealed on JULY 22, 1892. The case was CONFIRMED in the location of (CITY/STATE or TERRITORY) NEW YORK, NEW YORK.
E N D O F T R A N S C R I P T
On the back of the letter, written in silky blue ink was this:
Philip told all. Wants to be done. Be sure to thank your Tammany Hall family. Be good, kid.
Papa
The smoke filling the room froze. Everything was too small. The glass in her hand dropped to the table with a dull thud. She...was cleared. Cleared. That...cleared? Before she knew it, she had put $50 on the table and was running to Steadfast who was tied up outside standing on the dew-soaked and hard packed dirt. He pulled his head up from where he was nosing the post and Casey had him untied and galloping down the street in one smooth, practiced motion. They dodged the early morning traffic, and soon they were out of the city, moving along the dirt packed roads heading west to the trail that she knew Victor and his crew would probably be taking with the cattle to Chicago.
Casey Long didn't ride into the sunset, no, far from it. Instead, as Steadfast's hooves carried Casey along the winding westbound trail, now unbelievably cleared from all charges, across the Great American Desert, the sun appeared to be pulled up by her riding. The sunrise followed them and the dews of the prairie evaporated into the air, mingling with the dust from the hooves of a mighty black draft horse and the grinning figure leaning into the thick red leather of the saddle, Casey Long.
End of Part I
YOU ARE READING
Saddle Dust
Historical FictionCasey Long is an outlaw with a storied past and troubles finding her at every turn. When she is shot in a saloon during what some townsfolk describe as a random attack, Casey remembers some very important details from her childhood which ultimately...
