Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Teaser chapter

  No Time to Chat

  Slocum had been cautious leaving the Hangman’s Noose Saloon but thought the gambler was on the run. He didn’t expect the attack that came at him when he rounded the comer.

  A heavy log swinging for his face caused him to duck but the wood only grazed the top of his head and staggered him.

  “Who’re you?” Slocum called, stumbling back as he recovered his senses. He had thought Ferguson was the club wielder who had attacked him but this man was hard of face and roughly dressed. Behind him came up a second man, equally tough-looking.

  Slocum found talking wasn’t what the two men had in mind. They both rushed him. He swung and hit one, knocking him aside. But Slocum was off-balance and fell against the building, leaving him wide open for the second man’s attack. Strong arms circled his waist. The two men fell to the ground—neither was able to land a solid punch.

  Finally, twisting around, Slocum got to his hands and knees. As the man approached him, Sloucm kicked out like a mule. His foot landed smack in the middle of the man’s belly. But the first man surged at Slocum again, this time brandishing a knife with a long, wickedly shining blade.

  “I’m gonna kill you for this, Slocum.”

  “You had your chance,” Slocum said coldly. He cocked his six-gun again but before he could aim it he heard another, more ominous sound—the noise a double-barreled shotgun makes when both hammers are pulled back.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE NEBRASKA SWINDLE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with

  the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / January 2003

  Copyright © 2003 by Penguin Putnam Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

  without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Visit our website at

  www.penguinputnam.com

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17964-2

  A JOVE BOOK®

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  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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  1

  “Them prairie rattlers are still comin’ after us, Slocum,” grumbled Big Ben London. The mountain of a man swung about in the saddle, spat, wiped his face, pulled the broad brim of his dusty Stetson down to shade his eyes, then pointed angrily, as if John Slocum had not seen the posse following them.

  “They’ll keep their distance,” Slocum said with more assurance than he felt. His hand drifted to the ebony handle of the Colt Navy slung in a cross-draw holster, then moved away. The distance was too great, and shooting at men who sought trouble accomplished nothing. Besides, heat and exhaustion made it all too easy for Slocum to jump to conclusions. He doubted the men dogging their tracks were peaceable, but so far they had not made any move against the herd or the cowboys tending it.

  The Kansas prairie was scorching hot for this time of year and the rivers had been low, thanks to drought that seemed never-ending. That had been both good and bad for the herd Slocum brought up from Abilene, Texas, for Leonard Larkin. He had met Larkin over a poker table six months earlier and had taken an immediate liking to the man. Only when the game was over did Slocum find out that Larkin was one of the biggest cattle ranchers in Abilene.

  He had liked Larkin and Larkin had taken a fancy to Slocum, offering him a job as cowboy. All spring long Slocum had worked the range, keeping the cattle safe from rustlers, tending their diseases, and finally branding the new calves. By then Larkin had made Slocum top hand and had given him authority to trail boss the herd to market.

  That had been the easy part, working in the breezy, dusty spring, then in the building heat of a full-fledged Texas summer. Risking his life on the trail, saving not only his right-hand man Big Ben London from drowning, but a quarter of the herd as well, when they got bogged down crossing the Red River, even fighting off a band of Comanches who refused to surrender—all that had been easy compared to trying to sell the herd.

  Every now and then whispers of Texas fever spread like wildfire through the Kansas cattle towns. This was one of those years. Slocum had tried to sell the herd in Wichita and had danged near gotten lynched. It didn’t matter how much he tried to explain that Larkin’s herd was free of splenic fever—the disease the Kansans derogatorily called Texas fever—because they were dead set against buying any beef from down south.

  Big Ben and several of the others in Slocum’s crew had wanted to fight it out, but Slocum saw the futility of that. Not only was there a passel of Wichita citizens opposed to buying the herd, the law was beginning to look a bit edgy. Slocum wasn’t about to go against a half dozen flinty-eyed deputies carrying sawed-off shotguns everywhere they patrolled.

  He had moved the herd through Wichita on north to Salina.

  The reception there had been even less hospitable. The men now dogging their trail had argued over killing and burning all the cattle rather than just driving them out of town. Slocum considered Larkin his friend and wouldn’t allow the loss of the entire herd. Even if he hadn’t much cottoned to Larkin, he worked for the man and had been entrusted with getting the best price for the beeves. Seeing them shoved
into a big pit and burned offended Slocum, especially since he knew there wasn’t a diseased cow in the herd.

  Not one. But the citizens of Salina wouldn’t accept the word of a dusty, hard-looking trail boss.

  “I hope to hell and gone that you’re right, Slocum,” Big Ben said. He wiped sweat off his face with a big blue bandanna, never taking his eyes off the men on their trail. “The scrawny one—Jackson they called him—had the look of a man with religious convictions. And his religion is callin’ fer the total destruction of all Texas beeves.”

  “We need water for the herd,” Slocum said. Usually, he would have ridden ahead to scout the route and to find a place to bed down for the night, but now he wanted to keep the volatile Big Ben away from the back of the herd and any stragglers. “Go on and see what you can find.”

  “All right, Slocum, if that’s the way you want it. But mark my words, them yahoos ain’t gonna let us go. They’re up to something.”

  “I’ll watch them,” Slocum promised. Big Ben grunted, cursed under his breath about flatlanders and the breeding habits of anyone living in a Kansas cow town, then urged his tired mare forward to find the water so desperately needed by the herd.

  Slocum took a slow pull of tepid water from his canteen, and noted that more than the cattle needed a watering hole. The troubles in Wichita and Salina hadn’t afforded him and his men much time to stock up on supplies or water. They had been lucky to get away without being strung up.

  He put his heels to his roan’s flanks and got the powerful stallion galloping to cut off a few cows trying to head out on their own. Slocum got in front of them, shouted a bit to get their attention and to vent his own anger at the Kansans, then got the cows moving back to the main body of the herd. As he returned to his place, eating dust from two thousand hooves kicking up the dry Kansas prairie, Slocum hung back to watch the posse behind them. He didn’t like the way the six men galloped off to the east and headed out as if they intended to flank the herd. Acting as escort away from Salina was one thing. This maneuver struck Slocum as downright hostile, in spite of the posse disappearing eastward.

  Slocum got the roan into a canter that soon brought him to the front of the herd. He waved to Big Ben and caught the man’s attention.

  “What’s the trouble, Slocum?”

  “Is there anything ahead that might cause us trouble?”

  Big Ben shrugged. Then he frowned a mite and chewed on his lip.

  “There might be somethin‘,” he said. “I’ve spent ’nough time on the prairie to recognize the way gullies get cut by heavy rain. There might be a powerful big cut in the ground ahead from the way the land rises up here. But that don’t mean there’s water ahead.”

  Slocum’s mind raced. He considered the possibility that the six men who had trailed them for days were finally giving up. If they were, why didn’t they turn around and go back south to Salina? They were plotting something, and it wasn’t likely to be anything Slocum wanted to see.

  “Turn the herd,” Slocum said. “Get them moving due east.”

  “But that’ll take us off the route, if we want to get to Nebraska,” protested Big Ben.

  “I think the posse’ll try to stampede the herd westward,” Slocum said.

  “But that would drive the beeves into the gully runnin’ to the north for a dozen miles or more,” Big Ben said. His eyes widened when he figured out what Slocum already had. “That damn gulch’s so deep the cattle would fall into it and break their fool necks. There wouldn’t be any way we could turn the herd in time.”

  Big Ben didn’t stick around to discuss the situation further. He sawed on his horse’s reins and went off at a gallop, shouting orders to the outriders to turn the herd. Slocum hoped he was doing the right thing. If the six Kansans only wanted to hurrah the herd, they would find themselves staring at two thousand head of charging cattle. But if they intended to set fire to the tinder-dry prairie, Slocum was sending the herd to certain destruction. There would be no way he could keep the cattle from rushing headlong into a raging inferno.

  Good sense dictated care in setting any fire on this dry prairie, but fear of Texas fever did strange things to men. Fire might seem the perfect way to get rid of a diseased herd, even if it meant half the state would go up in greasy black smoke.

  “Hi-yaaaa!” shouted Slocum. He pulled free his lariat and began using it, still coiled, to swat at the rumps of incensed cattle. The beeves had been strolling along in the hot sunlight, content to move in a straight line. Now Slocum demanded they amble off at a right angle, up a slight slope. The cattle complained loudly about it, but when Slocum reached the top of the low rise, he was glad he had ordered his trail hands to change the direction taken by the herd.

  The six Kansans were spaced about a hundred yards apart, each with a rifle pulled from a saddle sheath. The sudden sight of the cattle topping the rise spooked one. He fired. This caused a reaction like a string of firecrackers going off. The man next to him fired, and the next and the next, until all six fired wildly. The first shots went into the air. Then they saw the herd begin to gather momentum—toward them.

  Slocum was a bit slow to act when it became apparent the Kansans had achieved their goal of stampeding the herd. The beeves thundered down the far side of the slope directly for the six men.

  “Turn the herd,” Slocum shouted over the roaring earthquake caused by the stampede. “Get them moving north again!” He tried using his rope on the cattle but fear now held them too firmly. Each hemp blow fell on half a ton of frightened cow, to no avail.

  Slocum looked up and saw the six men had given up firing, realizing they could never bring down enough cattle to save them. They hightailed it east, trying to keep in front of the herd.

  Slocum felt nothing but contempt for the men and would have let the stampede follow them all the way to New York, if he hadn’t had a duty to Len Larkin. He put his spurs to his roan’s flanks and shot ahead faster than the fastest cow. Keeping his head down, he passed the leaders of the herd still charging blindly. Slocum knew the danger but did what he saw to be his job.

  If he fell or his horse faltered, eight thousand hooves would trample him. Slocum slowed the roan until it was racing along at the same speed as the lead steer. When he was certain the steer had him in sight, Slocum pulled a bit on the reins and got the roan angling off to the north-east. The steer and all the others behind followed. Slocum felt the stallion under him beginning to tire but could not stop now. To do so would throw both him and his horse under those flashing, deadly bovine hooves.

  He veered a little more to the north. The steers followed. He slowed a mite, uneasily judging the distance between his horse’s rump and the swinging horns of the lead steer. He wished Larkin had polled the cattle, but that would have taken more work. All Slocum could do now was watch the distance narrow between the long horns and his horse.

  But as the gap closed, the beeves began to calm down. They weren’t as intent on a headlong frightened rush now. The six men firing their rifles had stopped, and cattle had short memories. Slocum slowed a bit more, risking a horn in the flank of his horse. The roan’s eyes showed white all around. It was as frightened as the cattle had been.

  As they had been. Slocum noted the way they were slowing, tired out from their escapade. He let his horse widen the interval between them after it became apparent the cattle were settling down.

  He finally drew rein and sat on his stallion, sweat pouring off him. His shirt was glued to his body, and his eyes stung from the salty perspiration flooding off his brow. Slocum mopped at it as Big Ben London rode up.

  “That was about the smartest—and dumbest—thing I ever did see. I’d wanted to be trail boss and was pissed off somethin’ royal when Mr. Larkin put you in charge.” Big Ben stared at Slocum for a moment, then thrust out his big paw of a hand. “I’ll follow you anywhere you say, Slocum. Anywhere, anytime. I’d never have had the smarts to use the herd against them sidewinders in the first place, and I sure as hell ha
s demons would never have tried stoppin’ the stampede all by my lonesome.”

  Slocum shook the man’s hamlike hand.

  “You find that water yet?” Slocum asked. “I need a bath something fierce.”

  For a moment, Big Ben looked surprised, then he burst out laughing.

  “Ain’t found the water, but for you I surely will, even if I got to piss up into the clouds to get a rainstorm started.”

  “Don’t go doing anything like that on my score,” Slocum said, laughing. He felt exhausted from the day’s ride but knew there wouldn’t be any rest until they found the water and settled the herd for the night.

  And maybe there wouldn’t be any rest, even then, unless the Kansans had given up and gone home.

  North Platte, Nebraska, didn’t look much different from Salina or Wichita. The people eyed Slocum and his riders suspiciously as they rode in, the herd just outside town limits. There was no question in anyone’s mind why the drovers had come to North Platte. Slocum just hoped he could talk sense to a buyer.

  “Don’t go whooping it up until after the ink’s dry on the bill of sale,” Slocum called to Big Ben and three of the cowboys who had come into town with him. “After that, I’ll get you paid off and you can go where you like.”

  “I’d like to find myself a cathouse,” Big Ben said, rubbing his crotch. “If I got anything left to show, after six weeks on the trail.”

  “You’d be better off buying a decent saddle,” joked another of the cowboys. “I rode as far as you and I don’t have no trouble. None at all. Might be yer gettin’ a mite too old to pleasure the ladies.”