Slocum and the Nebraska Swindle

by Jake Logan

  “You young whippersnapper, why, I ...”

  Slocum left them joshing one another as he went into the small, close office. The heat outside was bad. Inside was a dozen times worse. It smelled as if something had died in the heat, but the man behind the big littered desk was too busy to notice it. He scribbled madly on one sheet of paper, moved it to a small stack and took another from a taller stack beside it.

  “Afternoon,” Slocum greeted when it became apparent the man wasn’t going to look up or otherwise acknowledge Slocum’s presence. “You the boss around here?”

  “As good as anybody,” the man said, finally looking up. His forehead looked like a bit of prairie had been plowed up, leaving behind leathery wrinkles the color of sod. Beady, dark eyes peered up at Slocum from behind half-glasses. As he moved, the celluloid collar constricting his neck crinkled and snapped. Slocum wondered if it held the man’s head on. It appeared to be too tight for weather like this, but the man took no notice.

  “I’ve got two thousand head of longhorns for sale. Prime stock, a little worn from the trail since there’s not much grass this year, but firm flesh, healthy and ready to be sent east to the slaughterhouse.”

  “Porterhouses on the hoof,” the man grumbled. He threw down his pen. “Rumor has it your herd’s filthy with Texas fever.”

  “Rumor’s wrong,” Slocum insisted. A touch of anger entered his tone. He was fed up with the lies about Texas herds spreading the deadly disease. “You can have any vet you like examine them. No ticks, no splenic fever. Nothing that keeps them from all being prime cattle.”

  “Not interested. Get them out of North Platte and take them somewhere else.”

  “Where?” demanded Slocum.

  “Not my concern. Anywhere else. Somewhere that doesn’t mind having cattle falling over with fever on their doorsteps.”

  “The cattle are healthy. You pick the vet, I’ll pay for him.”

  This perked up the buyer.

  “That’s a generous offer and one I don’t hear much. What else you willing to pay for if I take these scrawny runts off your hands?”

  “Depends on the price per head for these fine Texas longhorns,” Slocum countered.

  The man started to speak but clamped his mouth shut when a well-dressed man entered the small office.

  Slocum gave him the once-over and decided this was the man he had to convince, not the clerk behind the desk.

  “My name’s Slocum and I have a herd to sell,” he said, thrusting out his hand. The man recoiled as if Slocum’s hand had been dipped in rattlesnake venom.

  “I just got a telegram from Salina. You come up from there with your herd?”

  “I was tellin’ him, Mr. O’Malley, how we wasn’t buyin’ any—”

  “Shut up,” O’Malley snapped. “My friends in Salina say you have a herd filthy with disease.”

  Slocum held his temper and repeated his offer of paying for any veterinarian O’Malley might choose to examine the herd. Again, this drove a wedge between the man’s prejudices and appealed to his greed.

  “Can’t pay much. No water or feed. Winter was bad for taking down our supplies of fodder. Drought this summer.”

  “North Platte’s on the railroad and you could have all the cattle on their way to Chicago within a couple days,” Slocum said.

  “We’d need to fatten them. Costs too much.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. O’Malley,” cut in a soft voice. “You just bought that load of grain and don’t know what to do with it. Why don’t you feed it to this gentleman’s cattle, fatten the beeves, then get top dollar for them from the slaughterhouse?”

  “Miss Abigail, didn’t hear you come up,” O’Malley said, looking confused now. He didn’t know whether to continue dickering with Slocum or to expend his full attention on the comely woman.

  Slocum had been on the trail for six weeks, but he didn’t think it was not seeing a woman for so long that made this one seem especially stunning. A small, petite blonde, she boldly faced O’Malley, firm chin set and eyes bluer than the Nebraska summer sky boring into him. She wore expensive clothing—and Slocum couldn’t help noticing how well she filled it out.

  “Miss Abigail?” he said.

  “Abigail Stanley,” she said, holding her hand out for him. Slocum almost took it and kissed it, then decided it was better to forget the gallantry for the moment and simply shook it. Abigail looked amused at his choice.

  “Miss Abigail, this is business and—”

  “And you are screwing it up, as usual, Mr. O’Malley. I heard him say that he didn’t mind having Doc Ruggles look at his cattle.”

  “That’s cuz he don’t know Doc Ruggles,” spoke up the clerk. “He’s the pickiest vet this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Let him look twice,” Slocum said. “Those beeves are clean.”

  “Disease free, perhaps,” Abigail said, smiling, “but clean? After being on the trail?” She looked at him and wrinkled her pug nose.

  “Water’s been scarce, ma’am,” Slocum said.

  “Do call me... Miss Stanley,” she said, smiling.

  “Well?” demanded Slocum. “Thirty dollars a head is a fine price for such good beef on the hoof.”

  “Thirty?” O’Malley replied. “Outrageous. Not a cent over twenty, unless Doc Ruggles gives a clean bill of health. And maybe not then.”

  “Let’s look at the herd,” Slocum said.

  “Very well.” O’Malley left the office and didn’t hear Abigail whisper to Slocum.

  “He’ll pay twenty-eight dollars a head. You should have started at forty.”

  “Thank you for your help, Miss Stanley,” Slocum said.

  She grinned broader. “My pleasure, and you can call me Abigail.” She turned with a swish of her skirts, shot him a broad grin and left.

  Slocum couldn’t take his eyes off his lovely benefactor. Behind him he heard the clerk mutter, “Damnation. She never looked at me that way.”

  Slocum hurried out, intent on completing the deal with O’Malley so he could buy Abigail Stanley dinner at someplace decent in town to thank her for her help.

  2

  The balding veterinarian pushed his spectacles back up his nose, rubbed his hands on his shiny trousers, then stepped back, struck a pose and told O‘Malley, “These are ’bout the finest beeves I ever laid eyes on. Most cattle of this quality get bought up down in Kansas ’fore they get this far north. If you buy the herd, Jimmy, I want a steak off that one.” Doc Ruggles pointed to a steer with bulging sides.

  Slocum shook his head in wonder at how the steer had managed to remain so plump during the hard trip from Texas, but he wasn’t going to say anything aloud. The vet pretty well sold O’Malley on the herd’s health, and by adding the comment about wanting a slice of beef off one, he clinched the deal.

  “They’re everything you said they were, Mr. Slocum,” O‘Malley said. “But the price. Too expensive. Can’t make a profit ’less I sell them for twice what I pay you.” He shook his head and looked sideways at Slocum, as if judging how long such a lie could stand before he had to up his offer to something more reasonable.

  “They’re fine Texas longhorns,” insisted Slocum. The two got down to serious dickering. Slocum didn’t get as high a price as Abigail Stanley had suggested, but O’Malley agreed to pay Doc Ruggles for his services as part of the deal. Getting rid of the herd after being run out of two Kansas cow towns made Slocum feel mighty happy at the moment. He was willing to trade a couple dollars a head for successfully closing the transaction.

  “How do you want to get paid?” O’Malley asked.

  Slocum did some quick figuring. He had to pay off Big Ben London and the rest of the crew for their month and a half on the trail. The cook got a bonus for not poisoning any of them along the way, and Leonard Larkin had trusted Slocum enough with the herd to give him a percentage of the profits.

  “Eight hundred dollars cash, the rest wired to Mr. Larkin down in Abilene,” Slocum said.

  “You
can tend to that chore over at the bank. We got ‘bout the finest bank manager in all Nebraska. You can trust him with your life.” O’Malley snorted and then added, “I do more than that. I trust him with my money.”

  Slocum and O’Malley went to the bank, drew up the papers and completed the transaction.

  “You and your crew can move the beeves into the pens. You owe me that much, me giving you such a princely sum,” O’Malley said.

  Slocum wasn’t going to argue.

  “I need to speak to the trail hands before letting them ride their separate trails, anyway,” Slocum said. He hesitated and O’Malley caught it.

  “Something more, Mr. Slocum? Something eating you?”

  “I was wondering where I might find Miss Stanley. I owe her a meal for helping interest you in buying the herd.”

  O’Malley laughed and slapped Slocum on the back. “She’ll turn up, if she wants to see you again. Nobody’s ever gonna put a brand on that filly. She’s one wild mustang.” The man hurried off to the telegraph station to send a wire east to find a buyer for the cattle. He might have to fatten the cattle for a week or more until the train arrived to take the beeves off his hands, but every extra pound meant more money for him. North Platte wasn’t on the regular railroad route for moving beeves, and he might have to arrange for a special train. But it would be worth it to him and to whatever company bought Larkin’s steers.

  Slocum didn’t begrudge O’Malley his undoubtedly hefty profit. He and Big Ben and the rest of the trail crew had moved the cattle a considerable ways, but they were being paid for it. And Len Larkin would get enough money to bring another herd north next year. Slocum hoped the citizens of the cow towns in Kansas wouldn’t be as skittish about infected cattle then.

  He considered returning to Abilene and working for Larkin another year. The man was a decent employer and the pay was adequate, but Slocum was starting to get a little antsy. Being trail boss was as good as it would ever get working for a rancher, not that Slocum hankered to have a spread of his own.

  That would tie him down too much.

  He stepped out into the dusty North Platte street and took a deep whiff. The various aromas mingled in a heady miasma. Horses and cattle. Garbage and dust. Things alive and dead. But under it all ran the smell, the taste, the feel of too many people crowding together. Slocum wanted to ride west into the Rockies and spend the summer in a high country park where the air was clean and his only neighbor was a grizzly in the next valley over.

  But before he lit out, he wanted to spend a little time with Abigail Stanley. She was as pretty as they came, and he did owe her something for pushing O’Malley into considering purchase of the herd.

  He went to the pens, bellowed for Big Ben and the rest. It took the better part of the afternoon getting the cattle into the feedlots and making certain that any stragglers were rounded up and brought in. Slocum would never cheat Len Larkin—nor would he short Jim O’Malley of even one head of cattle that he had purchased.

  “Gather round,” Slocum said, perching on the top rail of the corral. He began paying out the men’s hard earned money. Most got $50 in silver for their work. He made sure Big Ben got paid off in gold.

  “What about me?” whined the cook.

  “I ought to bury your body out on the prairie so you won’t give anybody else a bellyache from your cooking,” Slocum joked. He paid the cook a mix of gold and silver coins. It took the portly man a few seconds to count the money. He finally tallied all the coins in his dirty hand and looked up, a gold tooth in the front of his mouth flashing in the sunlight.

  “I’m right obliged, Slocum. Anytime you want me to pizzen you and your crew, you jist ask.”

  “Mr. Larkin wouldn’t mind seeing you boys riding herd on the Lazy L brand again,” Slocum told them.

  “You headin’ back that way, Slocum?” asked Big Ben. “If you are, I reckon I can, too.”

  “Right now, all I intend doing is finding a saloon where I can wet my whistle.”

  “North Platte’s full of gin mills,” Big Ben declared. “Why don’t you start at one end of town and I’ll start at the other? I’ll race you through ’em all!”

  This brought a cheer of encouragement from the other cowboys. Slocum walked slower than the rest of them and soon found himself alone in the street. That suited him fine. He wasn’t much for goodbyes. A drink or two would be all he needed. If Abigail Stanley turned up somewhere during his drinking spree, fine. If she didn’t, he was already making plans for leaving Nebraska.

  Slocum went up the steps to the tall front doors of the Hangman’s Noose Saloon. Not much noise came from inside, but he saw several locals bellied up to the bar. If the natives drank here, it had to be all right. He went in and ordered a shot of whiskey.

  “Two bits,” the barkeep said. Slocum laid down a half dollar and got a second shot standing beside the first. He stared at them for a moment, anticipating how they would taste. On the trail he had drunk bad water and worse whiskey, and he wanted these shots to go down easy and match the best he’d ever sampled.

  He quickly downed the first and felt the satisfying warmth searing its way to his belly, where it pooled. Slocum licked the rim of the shot glass to capture every last amber drop, then set it down on the bar with a loud click.

  “Good,” he declared. He turned and put his elbows on the bar, saving the second drink until the first had settled down a mite. Slocum’s green eyes narrowed when he saw a poker game at a table toward the rear of the saloon. He pushed up his Stetson to get a better look.

  “Anything wrong, mister?” asked the barkeep, seeing his interest—and the way he had stiffened.

  “You know that gent? The tinhorn gambler across the table from the two prosperous-looking men?”

  “Sure do. He blowed into town like a Kansas tornado nigh on a week ago. Name’s Rafe Ferguson. He a friend of yours?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Slocum said.

  “Hold on, mister. The Hangman’s Noose is a respectable place. You got a bone to pick with him, you take it out back!”

  “It’s not like that,” Slocum said, settling down. He sipped at the second whiskey. It didn’t taste quite as good as the first, but then it never did. If he ordered a third drink, he wouldn’t taste it at all.

  “How is it, then? Like I said, I don’t let nobody bust up my place.”

  “Ferguson’s a crooked gambler. I was wondering if I ought to warn the men in the game with him.”

  “How do you come to know him?” The saloon owner scowled at Slocum.

  “He tried cheating me down at Fort Griffin, down in Texas. But then all the gamblers in Fort Griffin were cheats.” Slocum eyed the two nattily dressed men in the game with Ferguson. They looked well enough heeled to take any loss the crooked gambler might hand them. It certainly didn’t look as if they or their families would starve if Rafe Ferguson walked away with their entire pokes.

  “He might do a little bottom dealing, but nuthin’ I ever caught him at,” the saloon owner said. “You’re not fixin’ to cause a ruckus?”

  “No reason to,” Slocum said. “I might warn those gents about Ferguson being a swindler, too. He came up with some mighty crazy schemes and got even crazier people to invest in them. He cleaned them all out once he had their gold riding in his saddlebags.”

  “Not my concern. Don’t make it none of yours, neither,” the barkeep said. “You got any problem with Ferguson, you tell it to the marshal. He runs a peaceable town here.”

  Slocum had always wondered why glancing at a man or talking about him seemed to alert the man to danger. Slocum had spoken enough of how Ferguson was a crook to reach the point where the gambler swung about nervously in his straight-backed wood chair and locked eyes with Slocum.

  Rafe Ferguson jumped to his feet as if he had been stuck with a pin. When he saw that Slocum wasn’t going to throw down on him, he looked left and right, then bolted for the rear door.

  “The wicked fleeth when no man pursues,”
Slocum said.

  “Don’t that beat all? He caught sight of you and lit out like a jackrabbit.” The barkeep went back to polishing shot glasses, but he kept a sharp eye on Slocum to see what he would do.

  Slocum finished the last of the whiskey, put it down softly on the bar and considered ordering another. Then he got to wondering what had spooked Rafe Ferguson so much. They had not parted on good terms, but if Slocum had been really riled, he would have tracked the son of a bitch down and settled accounts then and there.

  He wasn’t the kind of man, if he had gotten bit, to let a snake like Ferguson slither off, then track him down a couple years later. Slocum took care of business right away, and never looked back. Yet the way the gambler had acted bespoke of a guilty conscience—and not simply from using a marked deck in the poker game with Slocum.

  Slocum ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass, tasted the last drop of whiskey and then pushed away from the bar. The saloon owner jumped back, as if he expected Slocum to clear leather and start shooting. Walking slowly, Slocum went to the rear door Ferguson had used and poked his head out warily. He didn’t want the gambler shooting him because he got careless.

  Ferguson hurried along, his shiny boots kicking up small clouds of dust. Slocum knew he ought to let the matter lie. He had no quarrel with Ferguson that amounted to a hill of beans, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. He had been devoted to herding cattle for too long and considered tracking down Ferguson a diversion. Long strides took him down behind the buildings to the corner where Ferguson had disappeared.

  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 instinctively and dodge. The wood grazed the top of his head and staggered him, before crashing into the side of the building with a resounding crack. If it had hit him full-on, he would have been knocked out.

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