Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle

by Jake Logan

  “We need to know, John. Please.”

  Slocum agreed to escort Abigail to North Platte. They left within the hour after coming to an uneasy agreement with the rest of the citizens to allow Abigail to speak for them.

  Slocum felt as if it had been a hundred years since he’d ridden into North Platte. The town looked no different, except that the beeves he and his trail crew had brought up from Texas were long gone. He heaved a deep sigh and almost considered continuing south to see if Leonard Larkin would take him back as top hand. Somehow, Slocum doubted it. As much as Larkin had liked him, the rancher must have found someone else to run his spread by now.

  A shiver passed down his spine when Slocum realized Big Ben London should have taken that job rather than accompanying Abigail to No Consequence as a guard for her supply train. Instead of a decent job, Ben had earned himself a grave out on the prairie.

  “There’s his office. I’ve employed Mr. Bottoms several times for minor legal work, but I trust him enough to ask about this. After all, the fate of an entire town depends on his answer.”

  Slocum said nothing. He didn’t trust lawyers since they were always looking at things from the comer of their eyes when they ought to be staring squarely at a problem. He was a direct man preferring direct methods. It made him powerful uneasy that lawyers never did things the easy way.

  Only the legal way—or the way they could bend and corkscrew and contort the law to go their way. Slocum’s experience with a carpetbagger judge trying to steal his family’s property back in Calhoun, Georgia, had soured him on lawyers, judges and the law.

  “I don’t know what he can tell us that Davis hasn’t already,” Slocum said.

  “We need to find how to counter Davis’s arguments.”

  “He might be in cahoots with Ferguson. We should have found out before coming here.” Slocum wasn’t happy that he had not trailed Crandall Davis to see where he headed when he left No Consequence, but it had seemed more important to stay with Abigail then. The long, hard ride to North Platte had changed his mind. Davis had to be an accomplice in Ferguson’s swindle and might even have rendezvoused with Westfall and the others, though what Ferguson gained by continuing the fraud this way, long past taking the money, was beyond Slocum.

  He dismounted and held the door open for Abigail, who hurried into the lawyer’s office. From the look of the room, Stan Bottoms did a good business, although no client was currently pouring out his troubles to the lawyer. A man with thinning sandy hair and pale gray eyes looked up from behind a large, well-polished cherry wood desk. Bottoms took off pince-nez glasses and laid them to one side as he rose.

  “Miss Stanley, so good to see you again.” Bottoms spoke affably enough but he kept his gaze fixed on Slocum, waiting for Abigail to introduce them. The lawyer looked uneasy when Abigail took the solitary chair and left Slocum standing, unintroduced.

  “Mr. Bottoms, the entire town of No Consequence has a problem. A big problem.”

  “Maybe not,” Slocum cut in. “What can you tell us about the Platte and Central Plains Railroad?”

  Bottoms shook his head, then shrugged rounded shoulders. “Never heard of it, but that’s not unusual. New companies spring up like toadstools after a good spring rain. Very few last as long as those toadstools, though.”

  “What about Crandall Reed Davis?”

  Bottoms’s eyebrows rose. This time he nodded, then leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin.

  “I have heard of him. He is a principal partner in at least three railroads. If he claims to back this Platte and Central Plains line, rest assured that he does. He’s a hard man but an honest one. Honest, that is, for a railroad magnate.” Bottoms attempted a smile to go with his mild joke and saw how it failed.

  “Oh, my,” Abigail said, her hand covering her mouth.

  “Please, Miss Stanley,” Bottoms said, turning to a side table and taking a pitcher and drinking glass. He filled the tumbler with water and handed it to Abigail. “What is the problem?”

  Slocum listened as Abigail rushed through the entire sordid affair.

  “So the money has vanished along with the banker and mayor?” Bottoms pursed his lips but Slocum saw a hardness coming to the man’s watery eyes.

  “That’s right. What can we do?” asked Abigail.

  “Nothing, I am afraid, unless you want Davis to place a lien against all property owned by the town and then go to a federal court for an order to seize it.”

  “But Westfall made the deal knowing he was going to steal the money!” protested Abigail.

  “That doesn’t matter. Adam Westfall was the legal representative for the township. Anything he did in that capacity is legitimate. Later theft is irrelevant.”

  “Davis can’t seize the land like that. There are farms and—”

  “Miss Stanley, he can. This comes under the rather odd legalistic term of ‘anti-donation clause’ and applies in full force. Look at it from the railroad’s viewpoint. They were promised money, contract signed and legal, and they didn’t get a dime of their due. If you were in their position, you would do whatever was necessary—and legal—to collect.”

  “There’s no point bringing a spur line to No Consequence if the railroad has driven out all the citizens,” Slocum said.

  Bottoms shrugged. “That’s something to discuss with Davis. I admit that I am at a loss to understand why running a line from Omaha to No Consequence is worth his notice. However, the farmland sounds fertile and valuable. Perhaps Davis intends to seize it, then resell it to recoup his losses.”

  “He hasn’t lost anything!” cried Abigail, jumping to her feet. “He hasn’t even started laying track yet.”

  “That’s not the way the railroad or its stockholders would see it, Miss Stanley. If you want me to represent you, I might renegotiate a slightly better deal, but frankly, I don’t think Davis is amenable.”

  “There’s no way out of this?”

  Bottoms shook his head.

  In shock, Abigail left the lawyer’s office. The hot Nebraska sun beat down on her as they stood in the street.

  “I don’t believe it, John. What are we going to do? I have to tell my friends and neighbors that they’re going to lose their businesses and farms because they sit on land leased them by the town.”

  “If Bottoms is right, the law is on Davis’s side. Will the people in No Consequence fight?”

  “You mean take up arms and shoot at Davis? I don’t know,” Abigail said, distraught. “I don’t know what to tell them. But I have to go back. It would be easy to simply walk away, but I’m responsible.”

  “You didn’t know Carleton was a crook,” Slocum said, pleased that Abigail wasn’t the kind to turn and run from trouble. It would have been easier for her to leave the townspeople to their problems since she had nothing else to draw her back. Her store was ruined and the land under it was Davis’s property. But rolling over and playing dead wasn’t in Slocum’s makeup, and he was glad to see it wasn’t in Abigail’s, either.

  “We’ve got a powerful lot of prairie to cover. Let’s ride,” Slocum said.

  Abigail looked like a forlorn waif in the front of the meeting hall. She had told them as simply as possible what the lawyer had said about the anti-donation clause and the trouble the entire township faced. It hadn’t set well with anyone, and Slocum didn’t much blame them.

  “I ain’t gonna give them my farm. I’m leasin’ the land from the town, not some railroad millionaire who wants to steal it away.”

  “Does this mean our bonds are worthless?” asked another man, clearly confused. “And that I’ll lose my pharmacy, too?”

  The roar that went up surpassed Abigail’s ability to quiet them. Slocum stood, drew his six-shooter and fired once into the ceiling. The loud report caused such a sudden silence that the tumble of falling plaster could be heard in the back of the now silent room.

  “That’s better,” Slocum said. “Miss Stanley’s in the same boat as you. Don’t
go poking more holes in the bottom. Anyone have an idea to offer worth more than a bucket of rat spit?”

  “We sent a letter to the sheriff over in Seneca but nobody’s heard back from him yet,” one man said.

  “That’s a start,” Slocum said. “We need to do more ourselves. Does anyone know of a place where Carleton or Westfall might hole up around here?”

  Before anyone answered, the town hall doors banged open and a well-built and even better dressed man strutted in. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a walking stick with a gold knob in the other.

  “I’m glad I found you all together,” the man said without preamble. “I represent the Platte and Central Plains Railroad and its stockholders.”

  “You a lawyer?” asked Paul Gorman, squinting at the newcomer.

  “I have the privilege of representing Mr. Davis and his company,” the lawyer said. “In such capacity, I have applied for a federal court order seizing all property within ten miles of this town hall. Further, I have requested a company of cavalry soldiers to enforce the eviction order.”

  “Aren’t you jumping the gun, mister?” asked Slocum. “Davis gave the town another three days to get the money.” Slocum wished now he hadn’t wasted four days going to North Platte to find out how tight the legal noose around their collective necks was.

  “Consider this a friendly admonition,” the lawyer said, tapping his walking stick against the floor in imitation of a telegraph key sending a dire warning. “No opposition to this order will be tolerated, should any of you be foolish enough to consider gunplay.”

  The lawyer looked around the room, saw the stunned faces and smiled slightly. With that, he swung around and left, twirling the walking stick like a drum major’s baton.

  “Looks like the railroad’s coming to No Consequence, whether you want it or not,” Slocum said.

  Pandemonium broke loose in the meeting hall, but Slocum didn’t stick around to hear what they had to say. He slipped out into the cooling night breeze and looked around, trying to decide where he ought to start his hunt for Ferguson, Carleton, Westfall and the money they had stolen.

  17

  Slocum climbed wearily onto his roan and let the horse have its head. The stallion walked aimlessly, going first in one direction and then in another. The night had turned cool, for which Slocum was grateful. The daytime heat had been oppressive and had kept him from thinking clearly—or at least he wanted to tell himself that.

  As the horse meandered across the prairie, Slocum kept an eye peeled for any tracks that might have been left by riders recently leaving No Consequence. He had wasted almost a week escorting Abigail to North Platte to talk to the lawyer, but he did not regret the time spent with her. She had talked of this and that and had convinced Slocum she was worthy of his help. Even if he hadn’t intended to keep after Ferguson for killing Big Ben London, Slocum would have insisted on helping Abigail after hearing of her travails getting the general store started and how she had done so much to help her neighbors.

  Slocum had thought they were lucky when the boy, Patrick, had found them and had a penknife in his pocket. Abigail had given it to him for doing minor chores around her store. It had been worth far more than the boy’s work, but she had seen how he coveted the knife and had almost given it to him. Almost. She waited until Patrick had worked enough to believe he had earned the knife and had gained a sense of what his time was worth.

  Abigail Stanley had done that more than once, with more than the children in town. Seeing a well-intentioned, honorable woman put into the position she was in now by swindlers made Slocum’s blood boil.

  He owed Rafe Ferguson and his gang more than the law was ever likely to mete out to them.

  “That way,” Slocum said, using his knees to turn his horse slightly so it headed due north. As Abigail had talked, Slocum had listened hard for any clue where the banker and the crooked mayor might have gone. The pretty blond woman told of the hardships endured by the settlers around No Consequence a year or two back and of the current crop of woes before Adam Westfall ruined their town so completely.

  She had mentioned an abandoned trading post built by the American Fur Company years back as a way station for the Oregon Trail. An easier route to the south through Scotts Bluff had been scouted and the post fell into ruin. Slocum wasn’t an expert, but he thought Westfall and Carleton were likely to hole up somewhere nearby where they thought they were safe. They would both know of the old fort and not expect anyone else to think of it.

  Slocum hoped Abigail was right about its location. He rode through the silent night, only soft wind rustling the knee-high grass along the way. Forest sounds appealed to him more, but a certain serenity to the prairie soothed him right now. But as he rode he saw dirt cut up by shod horses and increasing amounts of grass pulled out in large clumps, as if hungry horses had grazed.

  Dropping to the ground, Slocum studied what he had seen from the saddle and estimated at least five horses had spent some time nipping at the grass. A slow smile came to his lips. Five horses: Beal, Quenton, Carleton, Westfall and Rafe Ferguson.

  Tracking in the night was hard, but Slocum saw they were traveling more or less in a straight line toward the spot where Abigail had said the abandoned trading post still stood. As he rode, Slocum checked his Colt Navy to be sure all six chambers were loaded and that he had a couple spare cylinders ready for quick swapping. Then he filled the magazine of his Winchester. He expected a hard fight and didn’t want to run out of ammo before he got to Rafe Ferguson.

  As the sky lit with pale pinks and gray turned to blue, Slocum came upon the trading post. It had been built like a Mexican mission, with thick walls in a square. The western side had bricks tumbling from it but would still hold back a small attacking army. But Slocum saw that the gates in the south wall had been ripped from their hinges and afforded an easy entry into the courtyard.

  Slocum watched the post for more than twenty minutes, trying to determine how many men were camped inside. A small curl of greasy black smoke rose as he watched. Buffalo chip fire. The faint acrid odor reached his nostrils but gave no hint how many men cooked their breakfast over the guttering flames.

  He dismounted and tethered his stallion to a clump of yucca, then advanced cautiously. Someone was inside, and he thought it was Ferguson and his gang. But Slocum didn’t want to get caught between those inside and any of Ferguson’s men who might be out prowling the prairie.

  Reaching the south wall, Slocum pressed his back against the cool brick and felt some of the mortar crack and tumble noisily to the ground. He froze until it became apparent no one had heard the small sound, then he chanced a quick look around the doorway into the middle of the post courtyard.

  Two horses were tethered at the back.

  Slocum sucked in his breath and held it for a moment. Two? What had happened to the other three men? He came to a quick decision. Take out the owlhoots he could and worry about the rest later.

  With a quick move, Slocum whirled around the gateway and leveled his rifle, just in case any of Ferguson’s men were be waiting for him. The place seemed deserted save for the horses and the small fire sending its smoke up a chimney at the side of the trading post.

  “Where’s the bacon? I got the fire hot enough,” came a loud call.

  “How the hell should I know? You packed the victuals.”

  “Did not,” came the querulous reply.

  Slocum recognized Beal and Quenton right away. From the direction of the cooking fire and their voices, they had camped out in one of the kitchens on the west side of the trading post. Moving on cat’s feet, Slocum went to a window and peered inside. Sitting at a table were the two men, tin cups filled with steaming coffee in front of them. The fire in the fireplace produced the smoke Slocum had seen. Dangling from a hook over the low fire was a dutch oven, and sizzling on the lid was a single slice of bacon. From the heady mix of odors, Slocum couldn’t tell what else the pair cooked for breakfast.

  “Want to p
lay a hand of poker?” asked Beal, reaching for his side pocket.

  “Hold it,” Quenton said, pushing back from the table and going for a small pistol. The two weren’t on the best of terms.

  “Don’t get so nervy,” Beal said, pulling out the deck of cards and throwing them on the table.

  “I got every right to after what Ferguson did to us.”

  “He didn’t do anything. This is all part of the plan.”

  “Sure it is,” Quenton said sarcastically. “You get kicked in the head by your horse? Ferguson’s never going to meet us.”

  “We’ve got—” Beal’s eyes widened, and Slocum knew he had been seen.

  Slocum took in everything in a single glance. He had been so intent on the men he had not seen the cracked mirror on the wall behind Quenton. Beal had spotted his reflection in it and was going for his six-gun.

  “Slocum!” cried Quenton, also going for his six-shooter.

  Without hesitation, Slocum fired his Winchester at Quenton but missed because he rushed the shot and was already swinging around for a shot at Beal. The two men scrambled and upended the heavy table to use as a shield. Slocum fired several rounds into the table, but the thick wood absorbed the bullets.

  “How’d you find us, you son of a bitch?” shouted Quenton.

  Slocum didn’t answer. He knew the trick. Quenton would try to keep him occupied while Beal went for the killing shot. Slocum ducked back, looked up and saw that the trading post had once had a walkway around the wall where defenders held off the Indians. A ladder missing a few rungs leaned against the walkway.

  Backing away, Slocum went to the ladder and made his way up. He had gotten halfway to the top when he saw Beal poke his head up through a hole in the kitchen roof. Both men fired simultaneously. Slocum was a better marksman.

  Beal tumbled back down into the kitchen. Slocum knew the man was dead by Quenton’s reaction. A deep-throated roar was followed quickly by a bull’s charge out into the courtyard. Quenton had two six-shooters, one in each hand, and he blazed away wildly. Lead chipped at brick all around Slocum, but Quenton’s anger kept him from drawing a good bead.