Autumn of the Gun (38 page)

“Yeah,” said Yeager, “and when you get caught, you'll turn me in. No, thanks.”

“Don't be a damn fool,” Seaborn said. “How can I turn you in, when I'm circulating the phony pieces myself? I'm part owner of a saloon where I'll be passing the stuff, and if I'm caught, it'll be me doing time.”

Yeager laughed. “I like the sound of that, havin' done two years while you went free. But I'm out of business. They took my equipment and my materials, and I ain't even got the money to eat regular.”

“I'll pay for the necessary equipment and materials,” said Seaborn. “Consider that an investment. What must you have?”

“For starters,” Yeager said, “a ten-mold die and a small charcoal stove. Bring me two ingots of copper, two of gold, and one of silver.”

“Damn,” said Seaborn, “that'll cost a pile.”

“Your choice,” Yeager said. “You know of a cheaper way of gettin' your hands on ten thousand dollars in gold eagles?”

Seaborn laughed. “You got me there. I'll bring you the equipment and double all the metals. Turn me out as many eagles as you can as quick as you can. I'll pay you cash, no strings attached.”

“Seaborn,” said Yeager, “you got yourself a deal.”

“We hate to see you folks go, Wes,” said Sheriff Tidwell. “Won't you stay with us until after Christmas?”

“Please, Wes,” Rebecca said, “can't we?”

“I reckon,” said Wes.

The next several days were memorable ones for Wes and Rebecca. After a bountiful Christmas dinner in the hotel's dining room—an event attended by the entire town—Mayor Patten presented Wes with a silver-mounted Colt 44-40. Upon it was engraved his name, the year, and the town's name. Into each side of the walnut butt was an inlaid ivory replica of a lawman's star. Wes said nothing for a moment, his eyes on the toes of his boots. Finally, swallowing hard, he spoke.

“It's the finest thing anybody ever did for me. Thank you.”

Removing his Colt, he slipped it under his belt, placing the new weapon in his holster. Rebecca said nothing until they had returned to their hotel room, and Wes wasn't prepared for her response.

“I'm so proud of you,” she said, her voice breaking. She then flung her arms around him and wept.

“Hey, now,” he said, “I didn't get shot. Why all the tears?”

“You still have a lot to learn about women,” she sniffled. “They cry when their hearts are broken, and when they're so happy, nothing else will do.”

“Tarnation,” he said. “Somebody oughta write a book.”

When Cash Seaborn entered Saul Yeager's room, he eyed the four canvas bags on the table.

“Two thousand of them,” said Yeager. “Have a look.”

Seaborn took one of the eagles and dropped it on the table. It looked, weighed, and even rang like government issue. Each of the coins had been poured from molten copper, and then plated with a thin layer of an alloy of which nine parts were gold and one was one part silver-copper. It was the exact ratio used by the U.S. Mint in the manufacture of bona fide gold eagles. Seaborn grinned with delight.

“You owe me ten thousand dollars in genuine gold coin,” said Yeager.

“I aim to pay you in full,” Seaborn said.

He flicked his wrist, and suddenly Yeager's horrified eyes were fixed on the ugly snout of a double-barreled derringer. Seaborn fired once, then fired again. Saul Yeager slumped against a chair and then crumpled to the floor. Seaborn opened the second-floor window. Using the fire escape—a rope with one end tied to the bedstead—he lowered the four bags of coins to the ground, and slid down the rope after them. Already he heard pounding on Yeager's door. His death would go virtually unnoticed—a sleazy little man on the outs with the law whose past had caught up with him.

Nathan and Kate were having breakfast when they heard the news. Pat Garrett was on his way to Fort Sumner, having learned from an informant that Billy the Kid had a girl there.

“Where's Fort Sumner?” Nathan asked one of the cafe's cooks.

“Over east of here,” said the cook. “It's an abandoned military post that's been took over by a gent name of Pete Maxwell. That's where he houses his ranch workers, and he's got a roadhouse there.”

The Kid had been hiding near Fort Sumner, and after dark slipped into the old post to see Celsa Gutierrez. Feeling safe in the girl's bedroom, the kid relaxed until midnight. When he got hungry, he took his pistol and made his way to Maxwell's for something to eat. He reached Maxwell's porch, not knowing that Sheriff Pat Garrett was inside questioning Peter Maxwell as to the Kid's whereabouts. Deputies McKinney and Poe waited outside, and Billy saw their shadowy forms.

“Who is it?” the Kid asked softly.

McKinney and Poe said nothing. Drawing his gun, Billy stepped into the house. He entered one of Maxwell's un-lighted bedrooms, where he could see Garrett's dim form on a bed.

“Who is it?” the Kid asked again.

It was the last he ever spoke. As he backed out the door, Garrett fired twice. One went wild, but the other struck Billy in the chest, killing him instantly. Two men built a wooden coffin, and the following day at noon the Kid was buried in the old post cemetery. He was barely twenty-one years old, laid to rest in a borrowed white shirt that was several sizes too large for his skinny frame.
²⁸

As rapidly as he could, Cash Seaborn began working the counterfeit eagles into the funds of the Silver Dollar. Every fourth night, he was in control until closing, and all the genuine gold coins reaching his hands were quickly exchanged for the counterfeit eagles. He had no doubt that the scheme would be discovered, but when it was, he was determined none of the evidence would be in his hands. As he paid Nathan and Kate their percentages, he gave them only the counterfeit eagles. Nathan became more and more suspicious, at a loss as to why Cash Seaborn hadn't made some move against them.

“Perhaps he hasn't thought of a way, without making a fool of himself,” Kate said.

“He's too damn sneaky and devious to suit me,” said Nathan. “I'm used to men who'll grab a gun and come looking for me, not some weasel that tries to get at me in a way I can't get my hands on him.”

“We don't have to stay here,” Kate replied. “We could just move on.”

“We could,” said Nathan, “but it purely rubs me the wrong way to run out on some varmint that's out to get me. He always shows up at the wrong time, and I have to face him on his terms. That's how it was with Slack Tarno. Let's stick around a while until this rattler decides to strike.”

It became a decision Nathan would regret. Just a week after Cash Seaborne had disposed of the last counterfeit eagles. Horton Goodner, president of the local bank, called on Jess Delaney, ranking partner in the Silver Dollar.

“Mr. Delaney,” said Goodner, “we find ourselves in an ... ah ... delicate situation, and it involves the Silver Dollar.”

“Then speak up,” Delaney said. “What is it?”

“I'd prefer that you see for yourself,” said Goodner, producing a gold eagle. Part of the surface had been scraped away, revealing the copper underneath.

“Why, that's copper,” Delaney said. “It's counterfeit.”

“Precisely,” said Goodner, “and we have more than eighteen thousand dollars' worth on our hands. The Silver Dollar is our largest depositor, and only your deposits can justify such an accumulation so quickly.”

“Have you spoken to Sheriff Garrett about this?” Delaney asked.

“No,” said Goodner.

“Then don't,” Delaney said. “We'll stand good for the loss, if there is one. I'll want to talk to my house dealers and possibly question your tellers.”

“Very well,” said Goodner. “I'll allow you one week.”

Before leaving, Wes had some questions about south Texas that Sheriff Tidwell tried to answer.

“It's mostly cow country,” said Tidwell, “unless you're interested in freighting. There is a mighty lot of goods comin' in by sailing ship, with landings at Galveston, Port Lavaca, and Corpus Christi. Now that the Comanches has been took care of, it's likely the safest thing a man can do.”

“What about ranching?”

“Learnin' cow is just day-in and day-out hard work,” Tidwell said. “Horses, now, it's a mite more interesting. Frank Bell's got a horse ranch on the Medina River, a few miles east of San Antone. His breakers are Lipan Apache Indians, and they gentle their horses without ridin' 'em down. Frank's horses are winning races all over Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Lord knows where else. As you'd expect, they're prime targets for rustlers. If you'll tell Frank I'm vouchin' for you, he might take you on to protect his stock.”

“That does sound interesting,” said Wes. “I reckon we'll ride down there and talk to him.”

Wes and Rebecca, following Sheriff Tidwell's directions, reached what they believed was the Medina River. To their surprise, as they rode downstream, they came upon what seemed the beginning of a small town. Already there was a mercantile, a saloon, and a pair of other buildings whose log foundations had been laid. A crudely lettered sign across the front of the store read “Medina Mercantile.”
²⁹

“Might as well stop at the store,” Wes said.

Entering the mercantile, they found its merchandise limited. The owner was probably in his fifties, slightly bald, and over a boiled shirt and dark trousers, wore a white apron.

“Gib Watts, at your service,” he said.

“I'm Wes Tremayne, and this is Rebecca,” said Wes. “We're on our way to the Frank Bell ranch. We're headed the right way, I reckon.”

“Indeed you are,” Watts said. “Fact is, Mr. Bell's place is what give rise to the town. Without the business from him and the Lipans, wouldn't be no need for a store. We got more goods comin'. Another month or so, and they won't have nothin' in San Antone you can't find here.”

“We'll take a couple of tins of peaches, for now,” said Wes, “and we'll likely see you again before long.”

“Do that,” Watts said, collecting a dollar for the peaches.

“His prices seem a little high,” said Rebecca after they'd left the store.

“Not from what I've heard,” Wes replied. “There are parts of the frontier where these tins are a dollar each and more. From the maps I've seen, we can't be more than a hundred and fifty miles from Corpus Christi, and trade goods should be plentiful.”

The Frank Bell ranch had a look of prosperity. Besides the ranch house, there proved to be numerous outbuildings. There were two long, low barns, each surrounded with six-pole-high corrals. There were horses in some of the corrals. The grounds were shaded by enormous oaks, and a line of cottonwoods bordered the Medina River. As they neared the house, a man stepped out on the porch. Wes and Rebecca reined up, and Wes spoke.

“I'm Wes Tremayne, and this is Rebecca. We'd like to talk to Mr. Frank Bell.”

“You're lookin' at him,” said the man on the porch. “You and the missus step down.”

He was tall—over six feet—and his high-crowned Stetson made him seem taller. His dress consisted of dark trousers, a pale yellow shirt, and polished black riding boots. On his right hip was a thonged-down Colt.

“Sheriff Tidwell, at Lampasas, thought you might have a place for me here,” Wes said.

“I know Tidwell,” said the rancher. “Why would he be sendin' you to me?”

“I like horses,” Wes said, “and Sheriff Tidwell thought maybe you could use a gent that's handy with a gun. That is, if you have rustlers interested in your horses.”

“Entirely too many rustlers,” said Bell. “How handy are you with that pistol?”

“Handy enough,” Wes said.

Bell took a two-bit piece from his pocket and flung it into the air. With a swiftness the eye could scarcely follow, Wes drew and fired, plugging the coin.

“You'll do,” said Bell. “See the house over yonder, to the left of that horse barn? It will be quarters for you and your missus. There's extra stalls in the barn for your horses. Come over to the house after you're settled, and we'll talk. Supper's at five o'clock.”

The house, while small, was roomy enough. It had once been white, but the elements had taken their toll, and it, along with its shake roof, had weathered gray. The furnishings were modest but adequate.

“I like it,” Rebecca said. “Hotels are nice, but there's nothing like having a house.”

“Let's stable our horses and get back to Bell's place,” said Wes. “I'd like to know more about his problems, and about those horses.”

Jess Delaney said nothing to his partners about the distressing visit from the bank's president, Horton Goodner. Instead, he waited until the following day, when it would be his turn to remain at the Silver Dollar until closing. Business was always slow until after supper, and when Nathan and Kate reached the saloon, Delaney herded them to a table. He didn't beat around the bush, but told them exactly what Horton Goodner had told him. He still had the counterfeit eagle from which the gold plate had been scraped away, and this he placed on the table. Nathan took an eagle from his pocket, and with his knife started to scrape the surface. Seeing what he had in mind, Kate presented an eagle of her own. When Nathan had scraped away the thin gold plate from his coin, he took Kate's eagle and performed a similar operation. Only then did he speak to Delaney.