Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle Read online

  There might be something rotten even if Ferguson didn’t join Adam Westfall on this trip. Ferguson and his cronies hadn’t buttonholed the mayor for no reason.

  Slocum saddled Abigail’s horse, a paint mare, and then got the saddle onto his more powerful roan. They rode slowly from the small stable behind Abigail’s store next to her storage shed and around to the town hall. The mayor sat in his carriage, haranguing two farmers.

  “You’ll benefit fourteen ways to Sunday, David. You’ll earn interest on the bond you buy, the town’ll give you money for right-of-way across land that’s not doing you much good anyhow, then when the railroad is finished building, you can sell your wheat in a bigger market back east. There’s no way you can lose if you invest a few dollars now.”

  “You’re asking for ’bout all the money me and the missus have saved up, Mayor,” the farmer said. He scratched himself, looked as if he was passing a stone and then said, “I reckon you’re right. Put me down for two hundred dollars’ worth of them munny-nissi-pul bonds.”

  “Excellent, David, excellent. You have made a decision that is the turning point of your life. Before, you were poor. Now you will prosper.”

  “Hope that’s right, Mayor. It surely has been hard growing in this heat and drought. I can do with some good luck.”

  “It won’t be luck, David. It’ll be your wisdom that makes you a wealthy farmer.”

  “You’re handin’ him a bill of goods, Westfall,” the other farmer said. “We kin use wagons and git our grain to North Platte.”

  “Over vast stretches of desolate prairie fraught with immense dangers,” Mayor Westfall said smoothly. Slocum was fascinated with how easily the politician met the objections of his constituents. “It’s a hard three- or four-day trip, if the weather is agreeable. There are Sioux Indians on the warpath all the time, and road agents! Why those brigands seek to choke off our current trade route with North Platte!”

  “I kin shoot straight. And what outlaw wants a wagonload of grain?”

  “I forgot the worst danger of all,” Adam Westfall went on, as if he didn’t hear the farmer. “North Platte grain dealers! They are completely unrepentant crooks. They know they can force you to sell for next to nothing, then ship your grain on their railroad and get top dollar for it. We have no other market.”

  “Unless the railroad is built,” Abigail chimed in, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “You can’t deny how important it is to have more than the one market, besides North Platte,” she said. “With a train loaded with your grain heading to the markets along the Mississippi, why, you might get twice what anyone in North Platte would buy for.”

  “Twice? I have to disagree, Miss Abigail,” Westfall said. “I think everyone could see a dozen times the going rate in North Platte.”

  This caused a buzz among the small crowd that had gathered, but the second farmer still wasn’t convinced.

  Slocum couldn’t fault the mayor’s logic, especially when it came to how merchants in North Platte would try to cheat anyone from No Consequence selling their crops. He started to ask about Rafe Ferguson, but the mayor held up his hand, stood in his carriage and waved his arms to get everyone’s attention.

  “We need to get on the road. We have bonds to sell and a railroad to build! Come along, David. You, too, Frederick.” The mayor beckoned to the reluctant farmer. “A few hours of your time is all I ask. You owe it to the town since your farm is vital to the railroad.”

  “You goin’ to see the others? I don’t think I want any part of this, but if the rest go along, I’ll reconsider.”

  “Excellent, Frederick, excellent. Do what is best for you but consider the others in our community.” Frederick jumped up and settled beside the mayor, with David on the far side. They started arguing over rights-of-way and cost immediately.

  The mayor snapped the reins and got his horse pulling the light carriage. The politician rattled off, letting the rest of his retinue fall in line behind him.

  Slocum kept an eagle eye out as he rode from town, looking for any trace of Ferguson or his henchmen. They had made themselves scarce since he had seen them with the mayor the day before. Slocum didn’t know if that was good or if it ought to worry him.

  The two reluctant farmers rode with the mayor. From the way they warmed up, Slocum reckoned the mayor had won them both over to buying the town’s bonds.

  “How much are you investing in the bonds?” Slocum asked Abigail suddenly. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, but the woman was such a staunch supporter, he thought she must be heavily invested.

  “I’ve put in as much as I can,” she said. “I owe a great deal to my suppliers in North Platte. But I’ll turn a quick profit on all the merchandise because the railroad crews will need to eat. Until they get a line built, they won’t be able to bring in their supplies, so they must buy from me.”

  “The bonds,” Slocum urged.

  “All I had left was, well, my parents’ legacy. I’ m putting a second mortgage on the store and investing that in the bonds. Almost ten thousand dollars.”

  Slocum blinked in surprise. Abigail alone was purchasing ten percent of the total bond obligation.

  “I intend for No Consequence to prosper, and I’ll be prospering with it,” she said firmly.

  “Hold on,” Slocum said, sitting straighter in the saddle. “I see a powerful lot of dust being kicked up ahead. There might be trouble brewing.”

  “No, no, John, there isn’t. A couple men who support the mayor rounded up some of the farmers who don’t want to invest. This way we can talk to them outside town, so there’s not as much pressure on them. Besides, many can’t take the time to go to town and leave their farms.”

  Slocum rode ahead and saw Abigail was right. A dozen farmers, crowded into a big tent with flapping canvas sides, tried to stay away from the sizzling sun the best they could. Since it was well past noon, any bit of shadow was appreciated. One farmer passed around a jug filled with corn squeezings. Slocum couldn’t tell if he supported the mayor or if he was only here to get drunk.

  “You with the mayor?” called the farmer with the jug. “Where is that varmint? We got work to do, and he promised us some food and liquor.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Slocum said, “but the mayor’s on his way in a carriage. That’s going to take him a few minutes longer.” He turned in the saddle and saw Abigail riding up fast. From her expression something was wrong.

  “John, John!” she cried. “Road agents! They’re attacking the mayor!”

  This caused a furor among the gathered farmers. Slocum saw that none of the men were armed.

  “Stay put,” Slocum said. He wheeled his stallion around and galloped back along the road, flashing past Abigail. He spotted the mayor with the two farmers riding alongside him in the carriage, trying to avoid three masked men who fired wildly at them.

  The mayor went off the road and a wheel hit a rock, spinning the light carriage around. Then it toppled over, sending the three men inside flying. The frightened horse reared; pawed at the air, then snapped its bridle and raced away.

  Slocum cleared leather and began flinging lead in the direction of the three outlaws. His sudden arrival threw them into confusion and they milled around, unsure what to do. Then their leader fired several times in Slocum’s direction. One slug whined past Slocum’s ear, but this was the full extent of the threat posed by the outlaws’ poor marksmanship. They seemed to understand their easy robbery had turned dangerous for them and turned tail.

  “No, Mr. Slocum, wait!” shouted the mayor. “Don’t go after them. Three against one. You’d get hurt.”

  Slocum reined in and stared at the mayor. The politician’s clothing was torn and dirty but otherwise he was in one piece. The two farmers picked themselves up and brushed off the dirt, none the worse for wear.

  “You know, David,” drawled one, “I never did like them carriages. Always preferred sturdier wagons.”

  They laughed and Slocum knew the
y weren’t injured, either.

  “Help us get the carriage upright. And can you fetch my horse?” asked the mayor. Slocum trotted after the frightened horse and found it less than a quarter mile off. It had been spooked, run itself out and then tried to find some decent grass to munch on. He led the horse back. The mayor and his two helpers had the carriage back on its wheels and pushed onto the road.

  It took a few minutes to get the horse hitched. Then Adam Westfall chattered like a magpie the entire time it took to reach the tent filled with farmers.

  “You get yerself shot up, Mayor?” asked a farmer.

  “By the grace of God and Mr. Slocum’s quick rescue, no,” Westfall said. “But this sort of thing is going to happen more and more,” the mayor said.

  “What’re you sayin’?”

  “The more prosperous No Consequence gets, the more we will attract such lowlifes,” Westfall said. “We will grow more, sell more, be worth more. But this won’t happen if there is a train serving our fine community. You will be able to send your crops east quickly and receive payment as easily, thanks to the marvel of the iron horse!”

  Slocum drew back and let the mayor make his sales pitch about the railroad, the bonds, the prosperity and safety waiting for the citizens in and around No Consequence. The words fell on his deaf ears because he had recognized the road agents attacking the mayor and the two farmers now converted to the mayor’s way of thinking.

  Rafe Ferguson and his partners weren’t any better robbers than they were crooked gamblers.

  8

  “A most successful day, yes, it was,” chortled Adam Westfall, rubbing his hands together. He came closer to Slocum and thrust out his hand. “I want to thank you for saving me and the two fine farmers on the road to the confab,” he said. The mayor smiled so broadly Slocum wondered if the man intended to grab him in a bear hug.

  To keep that from happening, Slocum shook the politician’s hand and said, “It wasn’t anything.”

  “You’re too modest. Why, every wagon train in the area has been beset by road agents. Who would have thought they would have tried to rob me on my way to discuss the very thing that will stop their felonious activities?”

  “Why can’t they rob a train as easily as they do a wagon train?” asked Slocum. “If anything, they have more passengers to rob and the mail car usually has a safe filled with money on its way somewhere.”

  Westfall cleared his throat, harrumphed loudly and turned from Slocum, speaking to the crowd on the steps of the town hall.

  “Yes, Mr. Slocum saved the day this time, but how long will we have such a heroic figure in our fair town? We need to discuss how quickly we can sell our bonds to start the railroad!”

  A cheer went up from the small crowd, who followed Westfall into the town hall to discuss the sales venture. Slocum brushed the dust off his clothing and watched what he thought was a big swindle, with Rafe Ferguson in the middle of it somehow.

  “You were so brave today, John. Thank you for saving the mayor and those two farmers from what would have been a terrible theft.” Abigail’s blue eyes shone with admiration, but Slocum turned away from it. He hadn’t been the least bit brave—and there hadn’t been any danger.

  “I doubt it,” he said dryly. Abigail looked at him strangely and started to ask what he meant, but he cut her off. “Do you know a man name Ferguson?”

  “Is he a farmer? I know everyone within a hundred miles of town, but unless you mean Fogel, or perhaps Frederick Healey—he was with the mayor today—I don’t think so.”

  “He’s a tinhorn gambler and has two henchmen with him. One limps and the other’s got a boot print in his belly.”

  “John, have you been out in the sun too long?” Abigail looked concerned.

  “No,” he said. “I need to get some food and then I’ll be riding on.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. Her disappointment was clear on her pretty face.

  “I’ll be back in a week or so. I need some information about the spur line that’ll come into town.”

  “Do you know someone who might want to invest in the bonds?” Her eagerness now knew no bounds.

  “Could be. Which rail line is thinking about coming over from Omaha?”

  “The Platte and Central Plains,” she said, hooking her arm in his. They started toward the small restaurant a few doors down from her store. Abigail bent his ear for more than an hour with every possible detail of the transaction, how the railroad would be funded and the men responsible for it on the Platte & Central Plains end in Omaha. Slocum shoveled food in, chewed mechanically, drank coffee and listened. Eventually Abigail started repeating herself, and he knew it was time to go.

  “You keep a sharp eye out for Rafe Ferguson and the men I told you about,” Slocum said. “If you see them, tell the marshal.” He hesitated, then asked, “No Consequence does have a marshal, doesn’t it?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “The Thomas County sheriff or one of his deputies comes over from Seneca—that’s the county seat—if there’s any trouble. This is a peaceable town and we never have any trouble. Or not much,” she said.

  “The railroad will bring in more folks, and you’ll need a full-time marshal,” Slocum said.

  “About six feet tall, with green eyes and ever so handsome and talented?” Abigail said, running her fingers over Slocum’s shirt.

  “I’m not lawman material,” he said. “See you in a week or so.” With that Slocum mounted and started on the trail east to Omaha.

  Omaha was larger than Slocum liked. Too many people crowding around, but something of the energy and enthusiasm of the city kept him fired up because it reminded him of Abigail Stanley. He had ridden hard for three days to reach the city and now he had to find the offices of the Platte & Central Plains Railroad. It proved harder than he had thought.

  He tied up his horse and went into the Central Pacific offices near the large rail yards north of the city. Inside, a dozen clerks labored over ledgers. It took him a few minutes to attract the attention of one. The man blinked at Slocum, then came over.

  “Passenger tickets are sold over at the depot. We don’t do anything but freight shipping here,” the man said in way of greeting.

  “I’m not looking to buy a ticket,” Slocum said. “I got a mite turned around. I was given directions to the Platte and Central Plains office but can’t seem to remember how to find it.”

  The clerk scowled and shook his head.

  “Never heard of it. What is it?”

  “A railroad,” Slocum said. “The Platte and Central Plains Railroad. They’re planning a spur line through central Nebraska over to No Consequence.”

  “No Consequence? Never heard of it. Never heard of any Platte and Central Plains, either. I’ve got to get back to work. If you need freight rates, I can supply that. But nothing more.”

  “What other railroads run west from here across Nebraska?”

  “Our competitors,” the clerk said snippily. Slocum knew he wasn’t going to find out any more information.

  He began poking around, looking at the names painted on the sides of the freight cars in the yards and trying to find someone—anyone—who could direct him to the Platte & Central Plains offices. He finally found a down-on-his-luck man sitting in the shade some distance from the yards who beckoned Slocum over.

  “I heard you askin’ ’bout railroads. There’s not much ’bout ’em I don’t know.”

  “You a rail worker?” Slocum asked, sitting beside the man.

  “Used to be. Got my leg crushed when some steel rail fell off a flatbed. Been hangin’ around, tryin’ to find somethin’ to do ever since.”

  The man passed Slocum a whiskey bottle with a finger of amber fluid left in it. Slocum took a pull, then handed it back.

  “That’s mighty potent whiskey. Goes down smooth, though.”

  “Got it off a conductor who made a swing through Kentucky. He owed me.”

  “Thanks for letting me take a swig,” S
locum said.

  “What are you askin’ about? Saw how you came out of the CP office. Buncha sonsabitches there. I know ’em all.”

  “I ruffled their feathers asking which roads run west,” Slocum said. “Some folks don’t like talking about their competition.”

  “No competition to the CP, dang it,” the man said.

  “What about the Platte and Central Plains?”

  “Never heard of it. Then again, lots of tiny little itty-bitty roads crop up all the time. Run a few miles of track, then go out of business. Where they from?”

  “Omaha. Going to a small town named No Consequence smack in the middle of Nebraska.”

  “Ain’t runnin’ the line from here. Nobody’s buildin’ track right now. The Panic of ’73 put most of the smaller lines out of business and scared the big ones like the CP.”

  Slocum thought about this awhile as he watched the trains rattle and clank out, smelled the coal smoke from their boilers and batted at hot cinders trying to burn his skin.

  “No doubt that there isn’t a Platte and Central Plains Railroad?” he finally asked. Slocum watched the man’s reaction carefully.

  “There’s always some doubt, but I ain’t heard of it. And I listen good. I want a job. Don’t care if it is railroad detective or conductor. Just ’cuz I got a game leg don’t mean I can’t work and use my head.”

  “Much obliged,” Slocum said.

  “If you find this here Platte and Central Plains and they need experienced help, you look me up. Name’s Will Mason.”

  “That I will, Mr. Mason. Thanks.”

  Slocum mounted and rode back into Omaha, having not given up on finding the company Adam Westfall and Abigail and the others in No Consequence were placing so much faith in for the revitalization of their town. But a full day’s asking around produced nothing more than Will Mason had told him. As Slocum rode back by the railroad yards, he saw the man sitting where he had left him the day before.

  “Mason!” he called.

  “You find them varmints that are puttin’ in a road to the middle of nothing?” Mason called.