Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle

by Jake Logan

  “That was even better than I thought it would be,” Abigail said, smiling wickedly. “And I thought it was going to be great!”

  Slocum sank down beside her on the bed, holding her close. Abigail turned a little and snuggled closer. The afternoon heat made it a mite uncomfortable, but Slocum wasn’t complaining. Her breasts rubbed against his bare chest and one of her slender legs lifted up and draped over his thigh so she could rub herself like a cat against his flesh.

  “I certainly don’t have any complaints,” he said.

  “No complaints! No complaints! It was the most fabulous sex ever and you don’t have any complaints!”

  “If I said I’d had better, would you be willing to try again?” he asked. From the way he hung limp, Slocum’s mouth was making a deal his body couldn’t finish.

  “You’re lying. You’ve never had it better!”

  “You might be wrong,” Slocum said, grinning.

  “Where? Tell me all about it. And yourself. Where are you from? Georgia? Your accent sounds like you’re from Georgia.”

  Slocum only nodded. He had left Georgia and never intended returning. During the war he had fought for the Confederacy and done things he wasn’t too proud of when he rode with Quantrill’s Raiders. Protesting the Lawrence, Kansas, raid where boys as young as eight were gunned down by Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson and the others had earned him a bullet in the belly. They had left him for dead, but he had lived, just to spite them.

  When he had recovered, the war was over and he had gone back to Slocum’s Stand in Calhoun, Georgia. His brother Robert had died during Pickett’s Charge and his mother and father had caught cholera and never recovered. He alone was left to work the spread deeded to his family by George I—until a carpetbagger judge had taken a fancy to the land and tried to seize it because of unpaid taxes.

  Slocum had left the judge and his arrogant hired gunman in shallow graves near the springhouse and had stayed ahead of wanted posters bearing his likeness ever since. Out west, no one much cared about Eastern judges, but Slocum had not led the purest of lives there, either.

  “Used to live in Georgia,” Slocum allowed, not willing to say much more. “I move around a lot now. There’s always something new to see.” He ran his hands down Abigail’s bare back, then worked his way up under her skirts so he could squeeze her buttocks. “And something to do.”

  “Oh, John, you’re incorrigible!” He noticed she wasn’t shying away as he squeezed and kneaded those fleshy mounds. “Other than trail boss, have you done anything else?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Other than putting you out to stud?” The blonde flashed him a wicked smile. Then it softened a little. “I have several wagons of goods destined for No Consequence. There’s been a considerable number of robberies lately, and I wondered if you would help guard them.”

  “What are the wagons carrying?”

  “Things that should be brought to town by rail,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “Food, clothing, nails—supplies like that. Things we need to keep going until the spur is built.”

  “You sound mighty confident this railroad will be constructed soon.”

  “It will, John, it will. We are raising money by selling municipal bonds. When we get enough, we can go to the railroad and bring the line directly across the prairie from Omaha. If we have enough money left over, we’ll run a spur line down to North Platte. That’ll make us the rail center where all commerce will flow.”

  “Sounds mighty ambitious,” he said.

  “That’s the only way to live,” she said breathlessly, caught up in her vision. “Why don’t you join me in it, John?”

  “All you need is a shotgun guard for the wagons from here to No Consequence?”

  “It’ll be dangerous,” Abigail said. “But I’ll pay top dollar. We need the supplies. If any of the men who came with you on the trail drive are interested, I might have enough extra money to hire one or two of them.”

  “Big Ben London might be interested,” Slocum said. The man was built like a mountain and handled himself well. “If he isn’t completely soused yet.”

  “We don’t have to leave until tomorrow,” she said. Abigail began rocking slowly back and forth, her legs tightening around his thigh. Slocum felt oily dampness begin to slicken his flesh and knew there was plenty of time until they left tomorrow.

  Right now, they had an evening and an entire night to fill.

  4

  “Shore am glad you invited me along on this little jaunt, Slocum,” Big Ben London said in his booming voice. He rocked back in the saddle, stretched mightily and then yawned until it looked like a cavern opening. “This is the best danged rest I ever had. And I’m gettin’ paid fer it, too.”

  They had spent four days nursemaiding the three wagons from North Platte across dry prairie, through deep gullies and over grassland torn up by buffalo herds. If Slocum read the terrain and the map Abigail had given him right, No Consequence was less than five miles off, sitting in a slight bowl and out of sight unless he found an especially tall hill. Considering how flat the countryside was, Slocum didn’t put much store in finding such a vantage point. And it didn’t matter. They were almost to the town Abigail was certain would blossom and grow into a major city rivaling Kansas City or Chicago.

  He looked at the blonde sitting on the hard seat of a buckboard, her eyes ahead and a look approaching rapture on her face. She was going home. That look had been caused by something different each of the nights they had been on the road to No Consequence. She and Slocum had always managed to sneak away for a midnight assignation that lasted almost until dawn. That left them tuckered out, but Slocum wasn’t complaining.

  From what he could tell, Abigail had nothing to complain about, either.

  “Do you reckon she was makin’ up stories about road agents?” asked Big Ben.

  “Why would she do that?”

  Big Ben laughed. “Of all folks, you ought to know the answer to that. The little lady’s taken quite a fancy to you, Slocum. If you don’t want her throwin’ her brand on you, you’d better hightail it right now.”

  “It’s not like that,” Slocum said.

  “Yeah? Where was you headed when you paid off Larkin’s crew? Not north to some prairie dog hole named No Consequence.”

  “A detour. As you said, the money’s fine.” Slocum smiled broadly and added, “And the other benefits that go with the trip aren’t too bad, either.”

  Big Ben laughed uproariously at this. Then he died.

  Slocum heard the report from the rifle a heartbeat after Big Ben London toppled from his horse. The bullet had caught the big man smack in the temple, killing him instantly.

  “Go on, keep driving!” Slocum shouted, waving his arms to attract the attention of the freighters. “Don’t stop!”

  “John, what is it?” shouted Abigail. She twisted around on the buckboard seat, looking more startled than afraid. The woman hadn’t figured out that the road agents she’d feared were shooting at them.

  Slocum hoped she wouldn’t order the driver to halt. He pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath and brought it around, peering into the setting sun and hoping to spot the bushwhacker who had killed Big Ben. The sun was in his eyes, but he caught movement a hundred yards off in the waist-high sere grass.

  Slocum began firing methodically, trying to .flush the killer. His shots went wide of their target. He started to ride in that direction, then changed his mind. If any road agents had been watching, they knew only he and Big Ben rode along as guards. The teamsters might fire a rifle or pistol if they were attacked, but more likely they would throw up their hands and surrender any cargo when faced with a six-shooter.

  If the outlaws meant to lure Slocum out and catch him in a crossfire, they were going about it right. He glanced at the fallen Big Ben and knew he couldn’t leave him for the buzzards. Slocum jumped to the ground, wrestled the man up and heaved him over his saddle and spent a few minutes
lashing him securely so he wouldn’t slide off.

  “Sorry about this,” Slocum muttered as he worked. He wasn’t sure he and Big Ben would ever have been close friends, but he had liked the huge man and certainly had never intended for him to get dry-gulched like this.

  Slocum swung back into his own saddle and fought to control his roan. The horse was still spooked from the shooting. And something more. Slocum had come to rely on the horse’s acute senses; the roan now spotted movement in tall grass ahead and to the left of the route they had taken. Slocum sighted in on the spot, squeezed back on the rifle trigger and was rewarded with a yelp of pain.

  He might not have killed the outlaw, but he had certainly winged him. That might put a speck of fear into the rest. Slocum spurred his horse and got it trotting, leading Big Ben’s horse with its grisly load.

  “Who’s shooting at us, John?” shouted Abigail.

  He wished she would get down and not present such a good target. Her bright golden hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and drew unwanted attention to her. Slocum swung around, sharp eyes looking for any sign of their attackers. Four horsemen to the west were riding at an angle to cut off the wagons.

  “Ahead! Four outlaws,” he shouted. Slocum kept riding, praying that there weren’t more of the owlhoots lying in wait to ambush him. He reached the back of Abigail’s buckboard and hitched Big Ben’s horse to it.

  “He—he’s dead,” she said, her blue eyes wide with horror. “I didn’t know. They shot him? The road agents?”

  “Yep,” Slocum said, “and they’ll shoot you unless you keep your pretty head down.” To the driver he said, “Four riders are somewhere between you and No Consequence, ready to waylay you. How well do you know the country here?”

  “Pretty good,” the man said, looking pale under his weathered skin. “If’n they’re ahead of us, we can circle and come into No Consequence from the east. But if they figger that out, catchin’ us’ll be a breeze.”

  “Not if I slow them down,” Slocum said.

  “John, no, don’t. It’s too dangerous going after them alone, especially when they’re already killed your friend.”

  “You hired me to do a job, and I’m doing it. Get moving!”

  The buckboard lurched off, the other wagons following, leaving the double ruts that passed for a road. Slocum waited for them to disappear eastward before he took a deep breath, made sure his six-shooter and rifle were fully loaded and went to stop some killers.

  Slocum had done a bit of outlawry in his day, but he never killed for no reason. If the men he had robbed tried foolishly to shoot him, he had no problem shooting back—or even shooting first. But to kill a man from ambush for no reason rankled. That showed these outlaws had a streak of pure mean in them.

  He trotted ahead a hundred yards and got to the top of a small, rolling hill. In the distance he saw smoke rising from chimneys in No Consequence. These men were either desperate or mighty cocky to rob Abigail within sight of her town. If they were desperate, that made them doubly dangerous.

  If they were only arrogant, Slocum would see them in shallow graves before the sun set.

  He looked lower, away from the smoke curling from No Consequence, and saw dust settling. Slocum started to ride for it, then reined back and reconsidered. It was foolish to shoot a guard, then expect the wagon train to ride ahead into a trap—unless the road agents had something else in mind.

  Like having the remaining guard divert the wagons.

  Slocum cursed under his breath, hoping he had not played into the outlaws’ hands. But the dust cloud kept moving and didn’t settle, as if the owlhoots were laying in wait. They kept riding to the east, on a course that would cut off Abigail and her wagons.

  Galloping now, Slocum followed the wagons and quickly saw why the road agents had planned their trap the way they had. The road directly into No Consequence was relatively smooth. This way forced the wagons to go through deep ravines that slowed them.

  The gunfire as Slocum raced up told him the wagons were caught at the bottom of a gully, sitting ducks for the road agents. As he galloped ahead, he worried there were too many of them to fight off. One had killed Big Ben. He had wounded another. At least four rode across the original route—had they been insurance that Slocum would send the wagons directly into this trap? If so, he might be facing another six or eight outlaws.

  When he reached the lip of the ravine he saw the drivers trying to put up a fight, but they were caught between two bands of ambushers. One had let the wagons go down into the sandy-bottomed wash and the other lay in hiding ready to attack from the far rim. Both groups of outlaws fired downward from the high ground.

  Slocum went to work to eliminate one side of the road agents’ trap. He jumped from his horse and stalked along the rim to a spot where the tall blue grama grass parted and two rifle barrels poked out. Smoke rose from each muzzle every time the outlaws fired.

  He drew his Colt Navy, took careful aim and fired. The slug missed but the sparks from the muzzle set fire to the dry grass. This was good enough to flush the two. The outlaws jumped to their feet, no longer intent on shooting at Abigail and her freighters.

  “Drop ’em,” Slocum said, pointing his six-shooter at a spot between the two men. They exchanged furtive glances, and Slocum knew they weren’t going to surrender. He went into a crouch, shot the man on the left, then swung fast and got a shot off at the same time as the remaining outlaw.

  Slocum was a better shot and lived. His target died.

  He stamped out the small blaze he had caused, scooped up the two men’s rifles and turned them on the far bank of the wash. When one magazine came up empty, Slocum threw down the rifle and used the second. He wasn’t doing much more than kicking up tiny dust clouds with every slug, but he let the other outlaws know their prey was fighting back.

  “Get outta here,” called one outlaw to the others. Slocum shot him. This lent speed to the remaining men’s flight. He tried to count them but wasn’t sure. There might have been two more. Or three.

  Were they among the four who had crossed the original path or did Slocum have them to fight off, too?

  “Yee-ha!” shouted one of the freighters. “You done it. You scared them varmints off!”

  “Stay down. There might be more,” Slocum called. He worried that Abigail would poke her head up again. Her blond hair made a mighty fine target amid the more austere colors worn by the freighters, with their dark hats and filthy shirts.

  He made his way back to his skittish horse, mounted and worked his way down the side of the gully, rode past without stopping to see who had been shot, and climbed up the far slope. The outlaw he had shot lay spread-eagle on the ground, the thirsty soil sucking up the blood as it leaked from his body. Slocum didn’t find any trace of the other men. He rode a few minutes to the west, thinking he might encounter the four riders on the other road or overtake the ones who had fled.

  The Nebraska prairie stretched out as empty as a whore’s promise.

  Worried that there might be more trouble ahead, Slocum reluctantly returned to the wagons. The drivers had driven up the far gully slope and were ready to finish their trip to No Consequence.

  “John, are you all right?” asked Abigail. She hurried to him. “They wanted to press on, but I had to wait for you.”

  “That was smart. Waiting, that is. I’m all right. And I suspect the road into town from here is safe. That was a mighty big outlaw gang. I killed three and wounded another and don’t know how many others there were.”

  “They’re like flies, those road agents,” Abigail said bitterly. “We’re bringing in so many supplies, they think the pickings will be easy.”

  “What’s the reason you’re stocking up the town that much?” he asked.

  “We need to impress the men who will issue the bonds. The railroad directors have to be sure No Consequence is the right place for their train station.”

  “And a prosperous town impresses them better than one on the verge of
starvation. This must be costing a pretty penny.”

  “It’s worth it,” she assured him. Then the blonde batted her lashes at him and said in a lower voice, “I’ll be sure it’s worth your while when we get to town. You deserve a reward.”

  “After I talk to your marshal.”

  “Always business,” Abigail said, sighing. Then she smiled brightly. “That’s another thing I like about you!” She turned, whirled her skirts and went back to the buckboard, where she climbed in and gave the order to move out.

  Slocum rode from side to side, crossing the trail frequently to be sure they weren’t going into another ambush. The road to No Consequence was clear and as safe as an axle-breaking, wheel-cracking dried-mud pair of ruts pretending to be a road could be.

  As Slocum rode down the main street, he blinked and wondered if this was a ghost town. It hardly seemed the thriving metropolis Abigail had made it out to be.

  The lackluster appearance of the few people poking their heads out to watch the wagons rattle through town told him there weren’t as many supporters as Abigail might like.

  “There,” she called, pointing to the general store. “Unload there.”

  “Somebody going to inventory the freight as the supplies are put into the store?” asked Slocum.

  “No need. I counted everything when it was loaded in North Platte.” She saw his quizzical expression. “Oh, it’s fine, John. I own the store.”

  “You do about everything, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Only with you,” she said softly. Then, louder, Abigail called out, “Get the boxes into the store. And will someone find Mr. Petrosian and tell him he’s got a customer.”

  “Who’s gonna pay fer the burial?” asked the driver of the lead wagon.

  “I will,” Abigail said. “Put poor Mr. London into a nice grave. It’s the least I can do since he died trying to bring the railroad to No Consequence!”