by Jake Logan
11
“Where’s your friend?” Slocum asked, not bothering to take Beal’s hand as the man reached out to shake.
“My friend? What friend is that? Have we met?” Beal looked at Abigail as if she had led him into a trap. From the flash of fear that changed to irritation, he knew Beal wasn’t on the level. Convincing Abigail was something Slocum couldn’t figure out how to do.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” Slocum said. “I thought I saw you talking to Rafe Ferguson in a saloon back in North Platte. A week or two back. There was another man with you in a poker game.” Slocum stepped to one side and caught a glimpse of another man all gussied up in finery sitting inside the tent, hunched over a table and talking earnestly with a hayseed farmer.
“Oh, perhaps you mean Mr. Quenton. He is my associate on the board of directors.”
“Of the Platte and Central Plains Railroad,” Slocum finished, a note of sarcasm in his voice. Beal chose to ignore it and rattled on.
“It is with some pleasure we have come to your fine part of the country. No Consequence will make a fine terminus for a spur line.”
“All the way from your rail yards in Omaha?” asked Slocum. This time Beal tensed and moved his hand to the left lapel of his coat, as if he was going to strike an orator’s pose. Slocum saw the tiny bulge in the man’s coat and knew Beal was going for a derringer, if Slocum pressed him too much.
“That’s right. From our yards in Omaha. Your attitude is peculiar, sir,” Beal said coldly. He turned to Abigail and said, “I trust your mission has proven successful. With acquaintances such as him, it must have been a doubly difficult chore.”
“Oh, Mr. Beal, don’t pay any attention to John. He doesn’t have the vision others have.”
“You both have the vision, Miss Stanley, and are a vision. Of loveliness, that is.” Beal smiled ingratiatingly, and Slocum wanted to punch him out. Abigail ate up the compliments.
“I’ve got the money from bond sales here.”
“No, no,” Beal said. “Mr. Quenton and I don’t get the money. Legally, this is money raised by your community and backed by the full faith of No Consequence’s taxing power. Mr. Westfall is the gentleman who handles such money.”
“Until it’s time to build the railroad?” asked Slocum. “Does the money go into escrow until it is used?”
“What are you saying, John? That something’s not right? Why, you can be so suspicious at times. No,” Abigail said hurriedly, “the money is in the bank and will be doled out at every stage of the construction.”
“That’s right. The initial construction from Omaha onto the prairie will be done using Platte and Central Plains funds,” Beal said. “Only when we get within ten miles of No Consequence will we be eligible for the funds raised by the municipal bonds.”
“See, John? You thought Mr. Beal was some sort of a crook. He—his company—won’t see a penny of the bond money until they are almost here.”
“That guarantees each party of the probity of the other,” Beal said. “We are risking a considerable amount of time and capital building near No Consequence, but the railroad would be of no use to the town unless tracks come to the depot. And the Platte and Central Plains Railroad gets no money unless we finish that final few miles.”
“That seems fair,” Slocum said, wondering if he was barking up the wrong tree. “What’d you have to say to Ferguson back in North Platte?”
“Why, if I remember rightly, he wanted a job with our company. I’m not in personnel. That’s more in Mr. Quenton’s department.” Beal half turned. Slocum stiffened, thinking Beal was going for the derringer in his vest pocket, but when the man turned back, his hand still rested on his broad coat lapel.
“What’s the ruckus?” Quenton came from the tent, his arm around the farmer’s shoulders. The farmer looked a little dazed but had a grin on his face as if he had been on a three-day drunk. “I just completed negotiations with Mr. Garrett here for use of his farmland.”
“They’s gonna pay me five thousand dollars,” the man said, his eyes wide in wonder. His smile got even goofier. “Imagine that. I ain’t growed half that in crops since I been in Nebraska.”
“You’ll have to buy us all a drink back in town,” Slocum said.
“Wall, I ain’t got the money yet. That comes out of the bond money Miss Stanley and the rest’re raisin’.” Before Slocum could say anything, the farmer went on. “I reckon the bonds’re durn good investments. And dangnabit, I’m gonna be rich, so I bought a hunnred dollars’ worth myself.”
The bulge in Quenton’s pocket told how Garrett had paid—in cash.
“You won’t regret it, Mr. Garrett,” Abigail said, her smile matching the farmer’s. “Your return on the investment will be substantial.”
“We have a great deal of work to do, Miss Stanley,” Beal said, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the tent. “If you and Mr. Slocum will excuse us ...”
“Of course. I only wanted for John to meet you.”
“What about the money you took from Garrett?” Slocum asked. “You gents don’t have anything to do with the bonds, do you?”
“Why, no, as I explained to you earlier we don’t,” Beal said with ill grace. “Let Miss Stanley take the money you collected into town.”
Quenton’s hand went to the bulge in his pocket. For an instant he froze, as if undecided. Then he pulled out the wad of greenbacks and passed it over to Abigail, who took it and placed it with the rest of the money in her saddlebags.
“I’ll see that you get the actual bond certificate, Mr. Garrett. Ride into town with us and I’ll ask Mr. Carleton to issue it immediately, even before the others.” She patted the saddlebags to show how many others were ahead of Garrett but that he was a special case. This pleased the farmer and made Slocum shake his head.
Everything sounded aboveboard, but with Rafe Ferguson mixed up in it, how could this deal be legitimate? Worse, Slocum had learned to obey his gut instincts. That had kept him alive since the war, and right now his belly churned every time he looked at Quenton or Beal.
“Who can authorize the release of the money to Beal and Quenton?” Slocum asked as they found the road into No Consequence. Garrett rode his mule some distance behind, so Slocum felt he could talk in private with Abigail without getting her unduly upset over his attitude.
“You never let up, do you, John? It’s all legal. I made sure by asking a lawyer down in North Platte about it. No Consequence has the authority to issue the bonds, and I’m not so stupid as to allow anyone to get the money until the railroad comes in.”
“Can the mayor dole it out?”
“Of course not. He has to have permission of the town council. Then, when they are in agreement that the Platte and Central Plains has lived up to their end of the deal, Mr. Carleton is told to release the money. Even then, it is only a portion for every mile laid, with the bulk being paid out when an engine steams into the No Consequence depot.”
“Sounds like you’ve covered every possibility,” Slocum said. He rode in silence, wondering why the churning in his belly wouldn’t go away. If the railroad wasn’t built, no money would be released.
Still ...
“Here’s the bank, Mr. Garrett,” Abigail called to the mule-riding farmer. “We’re just in time. It won’t close for another few minutes.” She turned to Slocum and gave him a faint smile. “I wish I could convince you this is for the good of everyone in town, John.”
He didn’t answer. She slipped from the saddle, took the money she had collected and made certain she had her neatly written list of those buying the municipal bonds, then went inside with the farmer.
Slocum wasted no time turning his roan’s face and heading back along the road they had just ridden. He made the best speed he could returning to the directors’ camp. Without Abigail and Garrett to get in the way, Slocum reckoned he could get some straight answers from the two railroad company directors. But he drew rein and sat stock-still, intently watching as a lone r
ider crossed the short-grass prairie and made a beeline for the tents.
Even at this distance Slocum recognized Adam Westfall.
Figuring the meeting might be more interesting if they didn’t know he was listening, Slocum jumped from the saddle and tethered his horse to a clump of yucca, then advanced on foot to find a decent spot to eavesdrop. A deep wash ran close to the campsite, giving him the chance to get within ten yards without being seen. The rest of the way, Slocum had to use his skills to creep forward.
Beal, Quenton and Westfall were in the largest of the tents, sitting at the table where Quenton had convinced the farmer they were going to give him a king’s ransom in exchange for his land.
“Don’t hog that bottle,” complained Westfall. “It’s a long, dusty ride from town and I need to wet my whistle.”
“You haven’t been working like we have,” answered Quenton. “I should have gotten drunk before I started talking to all those farmers. Damn, but they stink worse than I remember.”
“How’d you know, with that smelly perfume you use?” Beal asked.
“It’s not perfume,” Quenton said testily. “It’s called eau de toiletteand came all the way from Paris, France.”
“I don’t care what fancy-ass name you call it, it still smells like something died,” shot back Beal.
“Quit your bellyaching,” said Adam Westfall. “Let’s get down to it.”
Glasses clinked and three gurgling sounds reached Slocum. He flopped onto his belly and peered under the edge of the canvas. The trio sat at the table, a bottle of brandy between them. They raised their glasses in a toast.
“To being filthy rich!” Quenton cried.
“To money,” chimed in Westfall. Beal said nothing, too intent on knocking back his drink so he could pour himself another.
For a few minutes they were too eager to see how much of the liquor they could consume to say much, but Westfall finally belched and leaned back in his chair, hooked his thumb in his belt and stared at the other two men.
“When’s he going to get here? I don’t have all day.”
“He’s on his way,” said Beal. “What do you have to do other than covet all that money sitting in the bank?”
“I hear a horse coming. That might be him.” Quenton shot to his feet and went to the tent flap and pushed it back. Slocum was at the rear of the tent but worried the newcomer might spot him. He lay still and tense, ready to go for his six-shooter if any of the men noticed him. They were too intent on other matters to notice, including the man who joined them inside. Slocum’s eyes went wide in surprise when he saw the banker strut into the tent.
He had expected to see Rafe Ferguson.
“Howdy, gents,” Carleton said. “I waited a spell to close up the bank.” He laughed. “I had to take more money off that stupid bitch and her dumb friend, so it was worth my while.”
“Our while.” Quenton sounded a tad touchy about it, making Slocum wonder if there was already a falling out among the thieves.
“All our whiles,” Westfall said. “Sit down and have a drink. We’ve got another hour to kill before he gets here.”
“Why do we need him?” complained Carleton.
“Ferguson put it all together,” Beal said. “And we don’t cross him. Quenton and I’ve seen what happens if anybody tries. There was a deal that went sour back in Kansas City ...”
Slocum didn’t stick around to hear any more. He had been right all along. Rafe Ferguson was in cahoots with the mayor and town banker, as well as the two bogus railroad directors, and intended to steal the money Abigail had raised. The only way Slocum could see to convince her of the plot was to let her listen herself. Since No Consequence didn’t have a marshal, getting the law involved wasn’t going to be easy.
He figured that when Abigail got her dander up, the law would pale in comparison. She was likely to rally the townspeople and farmers and lynch the lot of the conspirators. But first she had to be convinced.
Slocum reached his stallion, vaulted into the saddle and galloped for No Consequence. Once or twice along the way, he debated the wisdom of taking Abigail back to spy on Westfall and the others, then finally convinced himself it was the only proof she would accept. The men had to condemn themselves.
He hit the ground running in front of Abigail’s store. She was working at the back of the store, the rear door open so he could see that she was moving supplies from a large shed. She looked up when he came in and smiled. A quick swipe of her handkerchief mopped up some of the sweat on her forehead.
“I’m glad you’re here, John. Can you help me move the sacks of flour? I’ve had them out back and I’m afraid weevils are getting into—” She saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“You have to see this and hear it yourself,” Slocum said. “Otherwise, you’d never believe me.”
“That’s not true. You—” Abigail bit off her denial and stared wide-eyed at him. She ran both hands through her mussed-up blond hair and glared. “This has to do with the railroad, doesn’t it?”
“You listen and you decide.”
“I don’t know. Will it take long? I have so much work to do before the railroad crews start asking for supplies.”
“Not long,” he said. “Your horse is still saddled and we only have to go back to the directors’ camp.”
“Very well,” she said, wiping her hands on an apron, “but this had better not be a wild goose chase, John.”
“If it is, I won’t say another word about the railroad spur,” Slocum promised.
“It’s worth taking a few minutes off, just for that,” she said, smiling a little now. She grabbed her hat and went out back to get her horse. Slocum waited impatiently for her out front of the store.
“Ride hard. We probably have plenty of time, but I want to be sure,” he said. Slocum checked his watch and saw it had taken him only twenty minutes to get into No Consequence. With his roan tiring, it might take longer to return. He wanted to be in position to overhear everything when Rafe Ferguson showed up.
Abigail would have irrefutable proof that this was a hoax that would cost the people of No Consequence a hundred thousand dollars.
“Do we have to rush so, John? I’m tuckered out from being on the trail for so long.” She bent forward and kept pace with Slocum in spite of her complaint.
“Ferguson is joining them. I want you to hear what they all say.”
“Ferguson? I don’t understand.”
Slocum maintained the pace and didn’t bother answering. Conversation was hard and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing and cause Abigail to return to town without hearing the scoundrels implicate themselves in the plot.
“Here,” he said, finding the spot where he had left his horse before. “You’ll have some rough going when we come up on the tent, but don’t make a sound. Just listen.”
“What am I supposed to hear, John? Tell me.”
“I don’t want to sway you. Just stay out of sight and reach your own conclusions.”
He took her hand as they made their way along the deep wash. Slocum had to help Abigail up the crumbling embankment, and she almost cried out when he pushed her flat into the dirt. Grass crushed under her and stained her clothing. But she fell silent without any urging when she peeped under the tent and saw Carleton, Westfall and the two railroad men drunk at the table.
“She’s a bitch, you know,” Carleton said drunkenly, “but ’bout the purtiest blond filly I ever did see. Wonder what she’d be like between the sheets.”
“The very idea,” Abigail hissed. “How dare they talk about anyone like that!”
Slocum put his hand on her arm to keep her quiet. Then he had to hold her back.
“Abigail’s a purty name,” Carleton said. “For a whore. Wonder if she’d leave that store of hers if I offered her five dollars for a tumble in the hay?”
“You could offer her a hundred and she’d never bed you,” Westfall said. “Now me, I’ve had her a half dozen times. She’s not tha
t good, not like the really expensive fancy women in St. Louis.”
“Why that—” Abigail seethed and forced Slocum to clamp his hand over her mouth. She jerked away angrily and hissed, “He’s lying! He and I never—”
Slocum put his finger to his lips to silence her, then jabbed his finger in the direction of the tent flap. Abigail had been so angry she hadn’t heard Rafe Ferguson ride up.
“Howdy, gents,” Ferguson said, swinging into the tent and sitting down so his back was to the tent entrance. He almost faced Slocum and Abigail where they peered up from under the canvas at the rear of the tent.
“’Bout time you showed,” Quenton said, drunkenly slurring his words. “We need to decide when the time’s right for takin’ the money and gettin’ the hell out of this jerkwater town.”
“Jerkwater,” laughed Ferguson. “That’s rich. There’ll never be a railroad in No Consequence. Hell, they don’t even have water enough for a stock tank, much less a steam engine.”
“The only thing I want to be rich is me,” Carleton said. “If we wait till Westfall finishes speaking at the rally, we might die of old age.”
“You are a windbag, Westfall,” Beal confirmed needlessly. He almost toppled from his chair. The brandy bottle was empty, and Beal looked as if he had consumed most of its contents.
Slocum waited to hear the details and was taken by surprise when Abigail jerked away, lifted the back of the tent and scrambled inside.
“You all should be ashamed of yourselves!” she cried.
Slocum knew the fat was in the fire now when the men went for their hideout guns.
12
A thousand thoughts flashed through Slocum’s mind, and nothing but death seemed a likely outcome. He hated running in the face of trouble, but getting himself ventilated wouldn’t help Abigail. Slocum pushed back and let the edge of the tent drop, leaving the blonde inside with the angry, armed outlaws.
He scrambled backward on his belly, rolled onto his side and then got to his feet. The Colt Navy came easily to hand, but he faced too many armed men—and from the sounds inside the tent, they had taken Abigail prisoner. Any shootout he started now would quickly end the impetuous woman’s life.
