Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle

by Jake Logan

  “Yeah, there, that’s it. Rich,” Ferguson said, revitalized by the sight of the money bag.

  Slocum opened it, peered inside, then upended it to dump out strips of newspaper. He started to accuse Ferguson of further treachery, but the look on the swindler’s face told Slocum that it was the crook who had been double-crossed.

  19

  Slocum kept looking over at Rafe Ferguson to be sure he didn’t fall off his horse. The man was as pale as a ghost and wobbled whenever he tried to lift his head to see where they were going. The bullet wound oozed constantly, and nothing Slocum did stopped it. Ferguson needed a doctor to get the bullet out of his shoulder and to sew up whatever was ripped up inside.

  “Double-crosser, damn mayor, damn him,” muttered Ferguson.

  Slocum would have laughed at Rafe Ferguson if the man hadn’t been so close to death. The swindler had been swindled good and proper by a couple men he had considered hayseeds. How Carleton and Westfall had substituted the cut paper for the money hardly mattered. They had let Ferguson set the rules and then they had used them to their own advantage.

  “Where’s Westfall now?” Slocum asked. “Is Carleton with him?”

  “They weren’t friends. Hated each other. Worked together for the money. But they musta been friends enough to switch the money on me like they did.” Ferguson began rambling. Slocum found a man with a barge willing to take them across the Platte, and they were quickly on the road leading to Omaha. Slocum hoped Ferguson lasted long enough to tell the law what he had done.

  A slow smile came to Slocum’s lips as he reached down and touched the thick wad of bonds still inside his shirt. Ferguson’s bullet had lodged in the bonds, proving they weren’t as worthless as everyone claimed. They had proved invaluable by saving his life. Then the smile faded. Abigail’s troubles—and those of everyone else in No Consequence—didn’t go away because he had caught Rafe Ferguson and seen the other four into their graves.

  The real crooks were still scot-free and had the town’s money.

  “I need to find the marshal’s office,” Slocum called to a man standing on a corner waiting for one of Omaha’s trolleys to come by.

  “Police station’s down the street two blocks, turn left and keep going till you see it,” the man said, looking sickly at the sight of the blood caking Ferguson’s shirt.

  “Much obliged,” Slocum said. By now Ferguson was delirious and ranting. They rode for another ten minutes before they found the police station. Slocum dismounted, helped Ferguson down and half-dragged the man up the broad granite steps into the posh station.

  “Don’t you go bleedin’ on me clean floor, bucko!” shouted a police sergeant from behind a desk. He surged around and caught up Ferguson as the man sagged.

  “No luxury car for me. Not like that bastard wanted. None now,” Ferguson said and then he passed out.

  “What’s he about now, boyo?” asked the sergeant. Three other blue-uniformed officers joined him.

  It took Slocum the better part of an hour to explain what had happened and Rafe Ferguson’s role in it. He left out the part about gunning down Beal and Quenton. Their bodies were far beyond the jurisdiction of the Omaha police. For all that, Jase and Pete had died outside it, too, but the sergeant sent word to the sheriff, and Slocum spent another twenty minutes explaining everything.

  The sheriff was more interested in the murders committed by Rafe Ferguson than the Omaha police, and that suited Slocum just fine. But the law, both local and county, refused to hunt for Westfall or Carleton, having their hands full with Ferguson and the crimes Slocum had charged him with.

  By the time he stepped back into the bright Nebraska sun, Slocum was hungry and exhausted. He considered finding a restaurant for a big dinner or a saloon to buy something liquid and hard enough to wet his whistle but what Ferguson had said kept rolling over and over in his brain, like a scrap of paper caught in a dust devil.

  Luxury car. Ferguson said there wasn’t going to be any luxury car for him, Slocum mused. He mounted and rode for the railyard. Darkness had fallen and the freight train loaded with rails and ties to build the Platte & Central Plains—or whatever Davis decided to finally call the spur line to No Consequence—was long gone. Dozens of other steam engines puffed and clanked around the yards.

  Carefully picking his way through the jungle of steel rails, Slocum eventually found a siding where a dozen fancy parlor cars were lined up. The men who owned the companies used these cars, men like Crandall Davis.

  Maybe even men like Carleton and Westfall.

  The first half dozen of the cars were pushed back to the ends of their sidings and were dark. One was in the middle of extensive renovation, the gold leaf on the fixtures inside not thick enough for the car’s owner. But one car was brightly lit, and from the look of the three ladies of the night making their way up the back steps and going inside, it was also occupied.

  Slocum dismounted and walked to the car. Standing on a box allowed him to look inside. His hand went to the six-shooter at his hip, then he relaxed. Lounging on a fainting couch was Adam Westfall, two of the soiled doves ministering to him. Across the car the banker Ed Carleton worked on the intricate fastenings of another whore’s bodice. From the way his fingers fumbled and missed easy ties, he had been drinking heavily.

  Slocum stepped back and looked at the layout of the car. The party went on in the back half. The front section was dark and apparently off-limits to the ladies of the evening. The Cyprians might not be allowed into the sleeping quarters, but Slocum felt no such constraint. He went to the far end of the car and climbed the steps. The door was securely locked, as he had thought it would be.

  Going around the side of the car showed the windows were similarly fastened. Slocum went to the door again, but this time looked to the awning above the platform. He jumped, caught the edge and pulled himself up to the roof. Any noise he might make would certainly be drowned out by the excited squeals from the women.

  It took him only a few seconds to locate the ceiling hatch, also locked. But this lock broke easily as he clubbed it with the butt of his Colt. Slocum opened the hatch and dropped into the closed section of the parlor car. Two rather spartan beds were placed on either side under the windows, allowing an aisle down the middle of the car.

  Letting his eyes follow the narrow aisle brought him to a safe, but Slocum had the feeling he wouldn’t find anything there. If any thief broke in, he would go immediately to the small locked box and probably wrestle it outside where it could be dynamited.

  It was too easily removed for Carleton to use it.

  Slocum began rummaging under cushions and the mattresses and hit the mother lode under one large overstuffed sofa beside the safe. The cushions crinkled strangely. Carefully pulling one open brought forth a cascade of greenbacks.

  Emptying the cushion and stacking the money, Slocum continued his hunt and found another cushion similarly crammed with scrip. Only when he finished did he replace the money with the bogus bonds he had carried with him from No Consequence. Somehow, the bullet through the center of the worthless paper seemed more fitting an omen for the two thieves than having their loot taken.

  Using a pillowcase from one bed to hold the money, Slocum went to the locked door connecting the two sections of the parlor car. A peephole allowed him to see what was going on.

  Both Westfall and Carleton were still enjoying the favors of the ladies they had chosen for the night.

  Slocum retreated, going back through the ceiling hatch. He made certain it was closed behind him before he dropped to the ground, cinders grating loudly under his boots. Neither Carleton nor Westfall was in any condition to care about strange sounds outside their little section of paradise.

  The pillowcase with its valuable load slung over his shoulder, Slocum went back to his roan and mounted. He rode slowly through the rail yard until he found the stationmaster, asleep in his quarters. It took fifteen minutes to figure out Carleton and Westfall intended to move their fancy
parlor car onto a train heading for New York City. It took another fifteen minutes of dickering and a few hundred dollars from the pillowcase before the station-master agreed to hold up their departure for a day or two.

  Only then did Slocum ride out to find a telegraph station and send a priority message to Abigail in No Consequence detailing where the swindlers might be found. She could swear out legal warrants with the sheriff in Seneca, and he might ride over himself or have the Omaha sheriff arrest them. Whatever happened, Carleton and Westfall weren’t going anywhere for a day or two—and they weren’t taking the money they had swindled with them.

  Feeling good, Slocum headed for No Consequence and Abigail Stanley, the money securely stuffed into his saddlebags. He didn’t want to miss the celebration when he turned it over to her.

  Watch for

  SLOCUM DOWN MEXICO WAY

  288th novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove

  Coming in February!