Dependence – A Laramie Story

By Helen M Cooper (Coop)

Beta Read by Mary Brown

This story takes place approximately six months after the events of the episode "The Replacement"

Disclaimer: I have never (thankfully) been affected by the affliction described in this story nor have I ever been to the place where it is set. Whilst I endeavoured to do as much research as I could, please accept this for what it is, a piece of fiction, and allow for creative licence if you feel there are any inaccuracies. PS. Feedback would be great, in whatever way, shape or form it comes – it's vital to, hopefully, make me a better writer.

Chapter 1

It had been a long time since Knute Duncan had felt a sense of belonging, since he had felt his own man. Six years in his brother Johnny's shadow had done nothing for his self-esteem. Mute since the head injury he had received during the ill-fated escape attempt from the union prison camp; it had been assumed that, along with his voice, Knute had lost his wits. But they had been there all the time, waiting for an opportunity when he would be able to use them. When he would need to use them. He had done so that day in Laramie to prevent a lot of killings; rode the wagon across the street to stop Johnny hurtin' anyone else. And if his friend Jess Harper hadn't have stopped him, Johnny would have finished off what he had started all those years before in the prison camp. Killing him, his own brother.

Since that night, all those years before, not one word had passed Knute Duncan's lips; He had been silenced as a boy, at a mere 15 years old, his voice yet to break; a boy fightin' in a man's war where he hadn't belonged. But Knute Duncan had had to grow up awfully fast. Still only 22 years old, his piercing blue eyes reflected the haunted look of one much older.

After burying his brother in the Laramie cemetery, accompanied only by his friend Jess Harper, Knute had headed home to Texas. Jess and his partner Slim Sherman had offered to let him stay on at the ranch to earn some money to help set him on his way but Knute had refused. He had spent years being dependent on his brother; he hadn't wanted to exchange dependence on one individual for another. He knew that Jess had felt some sense of responsibility toward him, especially as it has been his bullet that had killed Johnny but Knute didn't hold that against him. Johnny had been too eaten up with hate for there to have been any other outcome. He hadn't been able to explain it to Jess but he had hoped he understood. No, Knute had decided that it was time to light out on his own for the first time in his life. So he had decided to head back home, to Abilene. He hadn't been back since the day he had followed his older brother to war. His folks had been long dead when he had ridden off with Johnny, and another brother, Mitch, had already been killed at Vicksburg, but he had a vague recollection of an aunt and cousins and so he had headed there to seek them out.

But, when he had got there, he had found that a lot could change in seven years. He found no sign of them nor anyone who had even heard of them. What he had found, though, was something entirely unexpected. He had found his voice.

Doctors, Johnny, even Knute himself, had assumed that his muteness had been caused by the physical damage he had received at the hands of his older brother. But with Johnny, the key to his psychological trauma, now out of his life for good, Knute had found words again. It had been gradual at first; his voice sounding thick and woolly to his own ears, his words often not coming out the way his brain instructed. Still wearing his grey confederate jacket, and slurring his words, many assumed he was just another pathetic wretch who couldn't cope with life after the war. He had lost count of the amount of towns he was run out of – people telling him they didn't want his kind there. It certainly hadn't been the homecoming he had been expecting or hoped for.

But then his luck had finally changed. Or so he had thought. Down to his last silver dollar, he had run into Clint Jackson in Sweetwater. Jackson had recognised the younger brother of Johnny Duncan, a man he had fought with during the war and had watched in amusement as the young man had desperately tried to make himself understood at the local saloon. All he had wanted was a meal and a bed for the night. Somewhere to lay his head and try and ease the nauseating ache in his head; an all too frequent legacy of the beating he had received years before. Beyond that, he hadn't known what he was going to do to support himself. He had reflected miserably that Johnny had been right; he couldn't take care of himself. If he had thought that life was bad with Johnny; then it wasn't any better without him.

He had resigned himself to spending another cold Texas night in a barn somewhere, with that familiar gnawing emptiness in his belly, when Jackson had stepped in. Knute hadn't stopped to ask questions; even felt an affinity for the man who wore a brace on his leg and loped with a pronounced limp; he knew what it was like to be 'damaged'. But if he had taken a step back and had seen the true intent behind the honeyed words and the false smiles, he would have run a mile and never looked back. Instead, he had been grateful for the heaped plate of stew and the hot coffee that had been thrust in front of him. If he had known back then what that meal would have cost him he would have happily spent the remainder of his life drifting, isolated and alone. But Knute Duncan had spent a lifetime being dependant on those stronger than he. And Clint Jackson was quick to recognise this and take advantage. He had taken Knute under his wing and had fed him, clothed him and had listened patiently as Knute had stuttered and stammered through the recent events when, finally, Johnny and the others who had taken the oath all those years before, had tracked down their 'nemesis' Paul Halleck, culminating in the showdown on the main street of Laramie. Knute had failed to notice the dangerous glint of recognition in Jackson's eye as he mentioned the name of the man who had finally brought an end to the hate that had festered in Johnny Duncan for all those years. Jess Harper.

And now, six months later as he waited by the main Laramie road; waiting to signal his new mentor and the gang he rode with, to alert them of the impending arrival of the stage, Knute Duncan failed to make the link with the story he had told Jackson those months before and the fact that he now found himself back in Wyoming territory. Because Clint Jackson had made Knute Duncan finally feel like a man. And the medicine he gave him made him feel strong, and dulled the ache in his head.

Knute took a deep breath as the thunder of hooves alerted him to the imminent arrival of the stage coach, the adrenalin, as well as 'something extra' coursing through his veins, providing him with the strength and the courage he needed to do what he was about to do. He stood and waved his arms, signalling to the others lying in wait that their quarry was on its way. Then he moved down closer to the road and got into position.

As he rounded the bend, Mose saw the young man gesturing wildly at him from the side of the road. He looked to be in distress. Wes Seagar, riding shotgun with him, tensed. They were carrying the stage line payroll to Cheyenne and were only a few hours outside of the Sherman Relay station. To him this smelled rotten. Mose started to rein up the horses, preparing to stop.

Wes grabbed his arm. " Now hold on Mose, it could be a trap."

Mose snorted "Now simmer down son. Nobody knows what we're carrying 'cept us, Slim & Jess, Gray Hanson and Jim Morgan. Now this here young fella looks like he needs some help and I reckon it won't hurt none to stop and see what's up."

He tugged on the reins and brought the team to a halt. The young man stepped forward, his eyes wide and unnaturally bright. Seagar gripped his carbine, all his senses on high alert. To him, this just didn't smell right at all.

"Th…Thanks fer ssss..stopping ," the young man stuttered " I bin' waitin' here fer quite a ss…spell, hopin' that sss…someone would ccc…come along. Mmmm….my horse got sss…spooked by a rattler & threw me then bolted. Ya th…th..think you can give me a ride?"

Mose looked at Seagar. His face was unreadable but he was still gripping his carbine tightly. The boy, for that was all he looked to be to Mose, looked kinda familiar but he couldn't rightly remember where he'd seen him before. Besides, if he did know the boy he felt sure he'd remember a stammer like that.

"Where'ya headin' son?"

"Cheyenne mm..mmister. I got kin there." Knute lied.

Mose looked back to Seagar. He was scanning the surrounding area; it was obvious he still wasn't convinced. He, however, was paid to be suspicious and despite thinking that he was perhaps a little too paranoid at times, Mose was glad he had his back.

"Well, Laramie is closer son. Seems to me you'd be better to head back there. There's a Relay Station about a couple hours ride back that a' way. I'm sure Slim Sherman or Jess Harper'd sell you another horse."

Knute winced at the sound of the latter mans name. Jess was his friend. He didn't want him involved in this. Little did be know that that was just what Jackson had in mind. Knute had to think fast. Heading back to Laramie was not part of the plan. The stage was headed to Cheyenne and he needed to be on it for the plan to work. Otherwise Jackson would be angry with him, and wouldn't give him what he needed.

"Well I th…th…thought of that mm..mm…mister but I ff..ff..figured it was better to keep going fff..ff… forward than to backtrack. Besides, I don't got no mmm..mmm,..oney. Everythin' I had was in my s..s..saddle bags. He bolted off down the Cheyenne road and I fff..fff..figured that the s..s..stage would be along eventually and mm..m..maybe I could hitch a ride along and we'd catch up with my horse. If'n not, then I know mm..my kin ff..ffolk could s..s..stake me the ff…fare when we get into Cheyenne."

Plausible as the boy's story seemed to Mose, Seagar was still not buying it.

"Sorry son. We ain't takin' no passengers on this run." There was something about the unnatural brightness of the boy's eyes, the flush of his cheek that didn't sit right with him.

"Now Wes, let's not be downright unfriendly. You know there ain't gonna be another stage along for another day or so. We can't leave the boy alone to fend fer hisself. He already looks like he's been in the sun too long as it is."

Seagar took a deep breath, scanning the surroundings. There were any number of places someone could be hiding if this was a prelude to an ambush. All his instincts were telling him that there was nothing right about any of this. That old fool Mose was too trusting for his own good.

Up behind the rocks, Jackson was getting impatient; it was taking too long. He had deliberately chosen the Duncan boy for the task for a number of reasons; with his thickened, stuttering voice he would most likely draw the most sympathy and in turn, the least suspicion from the hapless driver and his guard. And of course, there was the little matter of who he was and what he meant to a certain party with whom Jackson had some unfinished business. He was bait.

He didn't see any sign of any curious passengers leaning out of the coach windows; impatient to know why they had stopped. Which meant they might just have struck gold; the stage wouldn't be running without passengers unless they were carrying something real important. Especially on a Saturday. Financial gain wasn't what this was about; well, not for Jackson anyway, but if there was something valuable on that stage, well, then that was just an added bonus. And it would certainly help pay for some of the 'supplies' he was going to need to keep Knute and the rest of them men 'loyal'. And of course, it went without saying, what he had planned for Harper.

Finally, and after what seemed to take an age, with a satisfied nod, Jackson noted the boy climbing up top with the driver, but not before surrendering his iron to the guard who still had his carbine trained on him. That didn't matter none to Jackson; it made no odds whether the stammering fool had an iron or not. From all that the boy had told him he had already figured he had no stomach for killin'. Still, he would have preferred him to be inside the coach when the shootin' started. He didn't want the boy hit in the crossfire. He wanted him alive as he still figured too importantly in his plans. He'd just have to tell the boys to be extra careful with their aim. Satisfied that things were in motion he signalled to his men, to mount up. They had a rendezvous with a stage to keep. Things were going according to plan.