by Jake Logan
“Nope, but I figured you could use this while we’re both looking,” Slocum said. He fished around in his saddlebags and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, the best he could find in Omaha. “Don’t reckon it’s up to that you shared with me, but it might keep you going until you find that job.”
“Much obliged,” Mason said, popping the cork and taking an appreciative drink. Mason held it up for Slocum to sample but he shook his head.
“Don’t want to fall off my horse in the middle of the prairie,” Slocum said.
“You might get runned over by the Platte and Central Plains laying tracks,” said Mason, laughing. “See you around.”
Slocum touched the brim of his Stetson and turned his stallion’s face toward the west. He knew how long and hot the ride was, and he was going back to give Abigail some bad news.
It was getting toward twilight of the seventh day he had been gone from No Consequence when Slocum rode back into town. The first time he had come, No Consequence looked like a ghost town. No longer. People hurried up and down the street, doing what they could to gussy up the appearance of the brick buildings. For the sod houses and other quarters, there wasn’t a lot they could do except drape red, white and blue crepe banners across them. But everyone had caught the railroad fever that already infected Abigail Stanley.
Slocum looked at the woman’s store and saw a kerosene light burning inside. She worked late, as did most of the people. He considered riding directly to her store and telling her what he had discovered in Omaha, but a better idea came to him:
Go right to the source of the infection and cut it out.
Slocum dismounted in front of the town hall and went inside. The clerk had long since left, but the door to the mayor’s office stood open. Laboring over a stack of papers, Adam Westfall never saw or heard Slocum until he rapped on the door. The politician jumped as if someone had stuck him with a pin.
“Mr. Slocum, come in. I hadn’t seen you around for a spell and thought you’d left our fair town. Pull up a chair and take a load off.”
“I got a load of something to talk about, Mayor, but a chair’s not going to be strong enough.”
“What are you going on about?” Westfall leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. Sitting this way caused his paunch to become more prominent, but the mayor didn’t seem to mind or even much notice. “I got plenty of important work to do, so don’t waste my time. The directors are coming soon, and I want everything in town shipshape and ready to impress them.”
“There isn’t a Platte and Central Plains Railroad,” Slocum said flatly.
“I, uh, what are you telling me, Slocum? Of course there is. The directors are due into No Consequence within the week.”
“I spent a considerable amount of time trying to find anyone in Omaha who knew anything about the Platte and Central Plains or any other railroad building a spur line in this direction. The companies that didn’t go belly up aren’t expanding. There isn’t a railroad coming to town.”
“I, well, that is,” sputtered Westfall. Then he rocked forward, looked around as if he was ready to share a deep, dark secret with Slocum, and said, “This is a highly confidential matter, Mr. Slocum. The very financial troubles you alluded to are the reason the directors wanted to keep the spur line quiet from their competitors. A hundred-thousand-dollar grant from anywhere is mighty enticing to a company right now.”
“You’re saying there is a Platte and Central Plains and the men who run it are keeping it a secret?” Slocum didn’t know whether to laugh or reach across the desk and shake the truth out of Westfall.
“Not exactly. There isn’t a railroad named the Platte and Central Plains. There will be, when the spur line is built into town. Right now, this is a secret project of the Northern Pacific Railroad, the CP’s biggest competitor. The Northern is looking for a way across the country farther south than their regular line. They want to use No Consequence as a depot, a major switching yard, but they dare not let on to the CP. Railroad wars get mighty vicious, and exposing my citizens to that would be sheer folly.”
“Folly,” Slocum repeated, still considering if throttling Westfall would get the truth out.
“The other companies would muscle in on the NP—what I shall continue to call the Platte and Central Plains, since that will soon be the name of their subsidiary line. We stand to profit from the arrival of such a major force in railroading. Don’t upset the apple cart, Mr. Slocum, by spreading rumors about it. I beg you.”
Slocum thought hard and fast. What Adam Westfall said might be true, but there wasn’t the ring of authenticity to it Slocum wanted. It sounded more like a lie thought up to tell if someone, like Slocum, twigged to the fraud being perpetrated on the town.
“There’s more,” Slocum said. “When you and the farmers were held up on the road—”
“Ah, yes, such bravery you showed! You are a true hero and—”
“And nothing,” snapped Slocum. “You had Abigail ask me along because you knew you were going to be held up and that I’d scare off the so-called road agents.”
“So-called! Why, they ply their trade all around No Consequence!”
“Rafe Ferguson, you mean? And his two henchmen?” Slocum saw the color drain from Westfall’s face.
“Please, Slocum, I admit it. I set up the robbery. I hired Ferguson and his friends to pretend to be outlaws to impress the point on the farmers. It was dishonest, I know, but it worked. They all agreed to buy bonds. There have been road agents in the area, but I couldn’t rely on them trying to hold me up. And if real ones had, people might have been hurt.”
“Ferguson is a crooked gambler and a swindler,” Slocum said. Realizing it had been Rafe Ferguson posing as an outlaw had set Slocum on the road to Omaha to check on the details of the railroad construction.
“I had no idea. He and his two friends came to town, and since they weren’t known, I approached them with my little stunt. That’s all it was, Mr. Slocum. Believe me. I have only the best interest of the community at heart.”
As sincere as Westfall sounded, Slocum still wasn’t buying it. But he knew Abigail would. She wanted to believe the railroad was coming to make them all rich and to put “her” town on the map. It was as much a tribute to her deceased family as it was a key to financial prosperity for her.
“I need to think over what you’ve told me,” Slocum said. “I still don’t buy it, but what you say might be true.”
“It is, Mr. Slocum. The Gospel truth!”
Slocum left the mayor’s office and stepped into the humid Nebraska evening. How it could be so dry and yet have the air feel so sticky with moisture was something he didn’t want to think about. But he had to decide what to tell Abigail. Slocum headed for the Corinthian Palace and saw one of the Gorman brothers behind the bar. He ordered a single shot to cut the trail dust and give him a few minutes to think.
The whiskey was nowhere near as good as that given him by Will Mason. Slocum finished the drink and left, going back into the street, now as dark as the inside of a shroud.
He was headed for Abigail’s store when the shot rang out. Slocum felt the bullet whiz by as he dove face forward into the dust.
9
Slocum lay unmoving in the dust, waiting for something to happen. He doubted a second bullet would be fired unless he stirred, and he hoped the bushwhacker would mosey out from hiding to see how well the first shot had done its job.
Blinking dirt from his eyes, he peered along the street and saw a few curious souls venturing out to see what had caused the ruckus. Slocum realized the back-shooting son of a bitch who had tried to gun him down wasn’t going to show himself now, and if he did, Slocum might not be able to separate him from the rest of the crowd.
Rolling fast, he feinted left in case the sniper watched him, then reversed and rolled right, coming to a sitting position so he could get out his six-shooter. No second shot came to rob him of life. He looked behind him but couldn’t pinpoint where the
shooter had been.
“You all right, Mr. Slocum?” asked a man who had staggered from the saloon. He was mostly drunk and still held a beer glass in his hand. “What happened? Too much to drink?”
“I’m all right,” Slocum said, getting to his feet. His hand began to cramp from his grip on the Colt Navy, ready to return fire at any instant. But as he scanned the puzzled crowd he saw no one looking angry at having missed an easy shot. Looking higher, he thought he saw a perfect spot on a two-story building next to the saloon where a gunman might have fired.
“What’s going on?” came Adam Westfall’s irked question. “We can’t all loaf around lollygagging when there’s work to be done. The directors will be here too soon for anyone to slacken now.”
Slocum glared at the mayor, who refused to meet his gaze. That told Slocum all he needed to know. Westfall hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he had told someone everything Slocum had revealed earlier about his trip to Omaha. If Slocum were to put money to bet, he’d have given even odds on that person being Rafe Ferguson.
Slocum had intended leaving No Consequence but couldn’t because of the shooting. He had a score to settle, both for himself and for Big Ben London. He pushed through the crowd, turning his back to Abigail’s store. If Westfall had done nothing, Slocum would have told the lovely blonde what he had discovered, she would probably not have believed a word of it, and he would have left town.
Not now.
After he found Rafe Ferguson and his two partners, he would decide what to do about the mayor. Slocum pushed through the crowd and went to the building where the sniper most likely had taken his shot. The two-story structure held a dress shop, the owner apparently living on the second floor. Slocum rushed past the startled women inside, then stopped at the stairs leading up.
“Has anyone come down in the past couple minutes?” he asked the clerk behind the counter. She was measuring off a few yards of inexpensive gingham for someone, her customer plainly from a nearby farm by the look of her clothing.
“I heard something out back.”
“Before or after the gunshot?”
“After, but—”
She spoke to empty air. Slocum found the rear door and burst through it. He found where a horse had been tethered long enough to leave a pile of manure behind. Fresh, so fresh the flies hadn’t found it yet. From the hoofprints in the dry dirt, the bushwhacker had headed north out of town. Slocum stepped back and saw scrapes and scuffs on the brick and a tall lightning rod, bent half over, on the roof. A rope tied around that lightning rod would have afforded a man quick descent and an even quicker escape after he missed.
Or did he think he had succeeded in killing Slocum?
He hadn’t had time to see Slocum was only playing possum. And the mayor had been surprised to find Slocum still alive and kicking. That meant the mayor might contact Rafe Ferguson as soon as he could—but right now Ferguson and his confederates thought Slocum was a goner.
Slocum wasted no time getting his stallion and finding the trail north. He doubted Ferguson camped too far outside No Consequence, because he needed to be in touch with Adam Westfall to find out who and what to stick up to make the farmers think travel in the area was less dangerous via rail. Slocum had to hand it to the mayor. It was a fine line to walk. If Ferguson got too frisky and shot up a supply wagon or robbed too many farmers, they would get the sheriff from Seneca to stop him—or worse, organize a vigilance committee. That would detract from the plan to get the Platte & Central Plains Railroad into town.
And to sell the bonds to entice the nonexistent railroad to build here. Slocum had heard the mayor’s reasons why he had not found the Platte & Central Plains office in Omaha and had not believed a word of it.
Slocum was a good tracker, but the hoofprints became harder and harder to follow until he gave up hunting for them in the dry dust and grass and relied on the rider keeping to a straight path across the prairie. When he topped a rise and looked over a broad, shallow basin of gently swaying grass, Slocum caught sight of his quarry almost two miles off.
He urged his stallion to a trot and kept the pace as long as he could, closing the gap until the man suddenly vanished from sight. Slocum worried the bushwhacker might be laying a new trap for him and left his beeline to circle about. The extra time Slocum spent going around like that gave his quarry time to vanish into thin air.
It was getting late in the day, but Slocum refused to give up. He searched fruitlessly until twilight turned to darkness and prevented him from ever finding a trail across the plains. Reluctant to give up but realizing he had no choice, Slocum found some buffalo chips, made a sputtering fire and pitched camp.
He ate a quick meal from provisions in his saddlebags, then hiked to the top of a low hill and looked over the prairie, hoping to catch sight of another camp fire. No matter where he looked or how hard he sniffed the humid night air for smoke, he found nothing.
Disgusted with his turn of bad luck, Slocum went back to his camp and put out the fire. If he could hunt for Ferguson’s fire, Ferguson could look for his, although Slocum had no idea if the swindler even knew he was being chased. The bushwhacker—and Slocum knew he was making a big assumption that the man he had sighted even was his would-be killer—might have gone to ground for other reasons. He might not have seen Slocum at all.
Slocum lay back, staring into the starry night sky and fuming at the way things were turning out. Catching Ferguson and questioning him would provide evidence even Abigail could not deny that the mayor was up to no good. Even more, capturing the man who had tried to back-shoot him would take a weight off Slocum’s mind. He wanted to get even. And when he evened the score, the bushwhacker wasn’t likely to try killing anyone else.
Ever again.
As Slocum stared up into the heavens, clouds began drifting in from the west. The way they billowed and surged, blocking more of the sky with every passing minute, Slocum knew he might be in for a real downpour. If that happened, the prairie would turn to a swamp and any tracks left by the bushwhacker would be obliterated. But that wouldn’t stop him. He knew Ferguson and his gang were out here somewhere.
Slocum fell into a troubled sleep filled with gunshots and train whistles and Adam Westfall laughing at him.
The fitful rain was hardly enough to blot out the trail, but Slocum still hadn’t found the tracks he so diligently sought. Sweeping in a wide arc back and forth over the area where the rider had disappeared from sight the day before availed him little. He found a few yards of double ruts left by wagon wheels. Possibly a small wagon train from the look of it, but after a short distance they vanished, telling him how long ago the wheels had passed this way.
Sporadic fat drops of tepid rain spattered against his hands and face, forcing him to get out his slicker. Stubbornly, he refused to give up the hunt, but increasingly he saw how futile it was. He hunkered down and went to the top of one of the rolling hills to study the land. The prairie grasses had perked up, even with the hint of rain that had fallen since the prior night, but nowhere did he see a trace of the man—the gang—he sought.
Slocum got his bearings, looked both east and west in case Ferguson might have a camp down in one of the deep ravines, and then rode north, figuring the rider from the day before might have taken a detour and then returned to his steadfast route.
Rain began coming down harder and harder, but Slocum rode on until he reached an old abandoned farm. His heart jumped in his chest. On the lee side grazed a small horse obviously broken for riding and not plowing. Whoever had ridden the horse had taken off the saddle and was probably inside the sod hut. No smoke came curling out of the chimney, nor was there any light shining out the partially opened door.
From the look of the door, it wouldn’t close because it was almost off its hinges. The other signs of neglect told Slocum the farm had been deserted for at least a year. The drought might have driven the farmer and his family to some other, more prosperous spot, or they could have given up and gone into No
Consequence.
They might have even died and been buried somewhere around the sod house. Disease was a constant menace out on the prairie.
But the menace Slocum faced now wasn’t cholera. It carried a six-shooter and had tried to bushwhack him.
He dismounted some distance from the house and advanced, the rain hammering more fiercely at him now. His roan gratefully pushed aside the smaller mare to get into the dubious shelter offered by the wall of the sod house. Slocum slipped his six-gun from his holster and walked softly to the door.
Rain pounded down now loud enough to cover any small noises he might make. From inside he heard sounds of someone moving around, humming and busily fixing a cold noontime meal.
Slocum tried the door and saw it wouldn’t move. Dust had blown up around the base, gotten wet and then dried into rock-hard mud. He had only a small space to squeeze through. Cocking his six-shooter, he braced himself, then burst through the gap into the dark interior of the sod house.
“Hands up!” he cried, expecting to shoot the instant his quarry went for a six-gun. A surprised feminine squeal met his demand. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior he saw Abigail Stanley with her hands high. She was naked to the waist.
“John! I—What’s going on?”
He lowered the hammer on his six-shooter and slipped it back into the cross-draw holster.
“Sorry. I thought you were the bushwhacker I’ve been tracking.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said indignantly. Abigail looked down and seemed to notice for the first time she was partially exposed to his lustful gaze.
“Do you always travel like that?” he asked.
“Only when I get my blouse wet from the rain. I didn’t think to bring a slicker.” She crossed her arms over her breasts to hide them from him. Then Abigail lowered them so the twin globes of snowy white flesh jostled about gently.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded.
