The West Liberty
tourist camp murder hit the front pages in July 1924 like a thunderclap.
Harland Gabe Simons
Orton and Diana Ferguson had been on the road for almost a year, wandering up and down the West Coast, drifting from camp to camp, letting the dirt roads decide their path. July 12 was Diana’s thirty-fourth birthday. They were heading home to Atlanta, Michigan, tired but happy, planning to catch a concert in town and sleep under the stars afterward.
They pulled
into the West Liberty camp just before dusk. A man stepped out of the trees and
waved them down. He called himself the park ranger.
He told them
someone had spilled crankcase oil on the grass up front. He’d show them a
better spot. Something quiet. Something private.
He guided
them deep into the grounds, well away from the other travelers. He helped them
settle in, then said he had other campers to look after, and vanished between
the tents.
His name was
Harland “Gabe” Simons.
Later that
afternoon, he reappeared, casual as a neighbor dropping by to borrow sugar. He
chatted, joked, and offered to watch their tent while they went into town. He
seemed kind. Polite. Harmless.
