You Ask Anybody

by B. M. Bower

YOU ASK ANYBODY

BY

B. M. BOWER

Author of “Cow Country,” “The Quirt,” Etc.

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 his toes, and as one of Nevada’s last stage-drivers speed was his middle name. Wherefore the ubiquitous Ford finally claimed him for its own—and so did The Widow at Lucky Lode Mine. A combination prolific of complications. You will be glad to continue Casey’s acquaintance in future 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 tone of age in their voices will suck pipes and cackle reminiscently while they tell you of Casey’s tumultuous youth—time when he drove the fastest six horses in Colorado to the stage line out from Cripple Creek, and whooped past would-be holdups with a grin of derision on his lips and bullets whining after him, and his passengers praying and clinging white-knuckled to the seats.

Once a flat-chested, lank man climbed out at the stage station below the mountain and met Casey coming off the box with whip and six reins in 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 cañon som’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 laying in no cañon. Any time a man gets shot outa Casey’s stage, it’ll be because he jumps out and waits for the bullet to ketch up.”