Autumn of the Gun (39 page)

“Somebody's been workin' these counterfeit eagles into the saloon's take, and I reckon we're among the suspects. But there's somethin' I want you to consider. Once every four days, Katrina and me have been paid our percentage in eagles, and I think I can promise you that every one of those coins is counterfeit. Do you reckon we'd be settin' on a pile of these phony coins if we'd been slipping them into the Silver Dollar's daily take?”

“No,” Delaney said. “That's why I wanted to talk to you and Katrina before going to the law. Or for that matter, even to my partners.”

“I don't aim to accuse anybody without proof,” said Nathan, “and if you'll go along with me, I can get that proof.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Have the bank's president question his tellers as to the day or days of the week most of these eagles have been deposited,” Nathan said. “Then tally up the nights you, Kilgore, Guthrie, and Seaborn have closed. Get the idea?”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “You're looking to link one of us to specific days when most of these counterfeit eagles were taken to the bank.”

“I am,” said Nathan. “Can you think of a better way? It has to be one of you, me, or Katrina. I believe we've been here long enough to have proven ourselves.”

“I'll do as you suggest,” Delaney said, “because we must do something. But even if it all points to one of us, it'll still be only circumstantial evidence.”

“Just do as I've suggested,” said Nathan, “and if it works out as I believe it will, I'll get you the evidence you need. These counterfeit coins are so near perfect, I'd never have known unless some of the plating had worn off. That means somebody, somewhere, is a master craftsman, and such perfection suggests he's done this before. If he has a record, I believe we can find him and learn how these counterfeit eagles ended up here at the Silver Dollar.”

“You—or somebody—would have to telegraph every sheriff in the country to get information such as that,” Delaney said. “We only have a week before Goodner turns this over to the law.”

“Information on known counterfeiters should be on file with the Treasury in Washington,” said Nathan.

“Probably,” Delaney agreed, “but I doubt they'd release such information to us.”

“I can find out with one telegram,” said Nathan. “I'll send it in the morning.”

“Good,” Delaney said. “By then, I'll have written down our closing schedule for the past few weeks. Tomorrow, Goodner should have spoken to his tellers.”

That ended the conversation. Delaney went about his business while Nathan and Kate took their places for the night's dealing. They didn't get a chance to discuss the situation until after closing.

“It's Seaborn,” said Kate. “He's framing us.”

“He's trying to,” Nathan said, “but we're going to beat him at his own game.”

 

When Jess Delaney reached the bank the following day, Horton Goodner, was waiting for him. Goodner had some papers spread out on his desk.

“There is some kind of pattern emerging here,” said Goodner. “According to my tellers, virtually all these counterfeit eagles have been deposited on specific days. Every fourth deposit has been heavy with eagles, light on everything else. Is this information going to help you reach some conclusion?”

“Yes,” Delaney said with a sigh. “It already has.”

Carefully, Nathan prepared a telegram to be sent to Byron Silver in Washington.

“I'll be back for the answer,” Nathan told the telegrapher.

From there, he went to the Silver Dollar, where Jess Delaney was waiting.

“Here's the report from Horton Goodner at the bank,” said Delaney, “and here's what I came up with, based on individual closings over the past couple of months.”

It stacked up almost exactly as Nathan had expected. On days when large numbers of eagles had been deposited, Cash Seaborn had been in charge of the till until closing the night before.

“Looks bad, doesn't it?” Delaney said.

“It all depends on who you want to believe,” said Nathan. “You have every right to suspect Katrina or me—or both of us—unless there's evidence pointing to someone else. Whoever's responsible had to get the counterfeit coins somewhere, and I'm hoping the telegram I'm expecting will answer that question.”

The answer to Nathan's telegram was brief and unsigned. It said:

“This is where we'll have to let Sheriff Garrett in on the secret,” said Nathan. “He'll be in a position to request information from the sheriff in Santa Fe.”

Nathan and Delaney explained the purpose of their investigation to Sheriff Garrett, and he telegraphed the sheriff in Santa Fe. The answer, when it came, was shocking.

“Now you've got my curiosity fired up,” said Garrett. “Delaney, let's you and me ride up there and see what's behind all this. Stone, you want to come with us?”

“I'd like to,” Nathan said, “but I'll be needed at the Silver Dollar. We're trying to keep the lid on this until we learn more about it. This wouldn't be a good time for me to disappear, for several reasons.”

“That's sound thinking,” said Delaney. “I promise you, we won't come back without some answers.”

“Indian-gentled horses sell for as much as five hundred dollars,” said Frank Bell.

Wes and Rebecca had spent a week at the ranch, and were having supper with Bell and his wife, Martha.

“I can appreciate that,” Wes said, “after watching Tameka and Wovoka work. They've been talkin' to the same horses for a week. How long does that go on before they're tame enough for a saddle?”

“As far as Tameka and Wovoka are concerned,” said Bell, “that day never comes. The horses are never introduced to a saddle. They're expensive for saddle horses, and most of them are bought for the track. Unless a rider is mighty small, he can't afford the luxury of a saddle. Barnabas McQueen, a gent from New Orleans, bought two horses from me. He has a lady rider who rides them bareback, and they've never lost a race.”

“Where do these two horses go when they've been gentled?” Rebecca asked.

“You'll be meeting McQueen in Beaumont,” said Bell. “As long as the buyer is in Texas, I think we'll deliver the horses. Several buyers had their horses stolen. It'll be up to you to get this pair to Beaumont.”

“I'm going, too,” Rebecca said. “I can lead one of them.”

“There may be some danger,” said Bell. “Outlaws from Indian Territory often drift into Arkansas and Louisiana, steal whatever they can get their hands on, and then hightail it back into the territory.”

“There's a track at Beaumont?” Wes asked.

“Yes,” said Bell, “and it draws horses and gamblers from everywhere.”

“And outlaws, I reckon,” Wes said.

“Yes,” said Bell. “Sometimes there's as much as half a million dollars in that town. It depends on the race, and the horses in competition. I keep expecting a bunch of outlaws to ride in and take it all.”

“This is exciting,” said Rebecca as they made camp near a spring. “After we deliver the horses, why don't we stay for the race on Saturday? I've never been to a horse race before.”

“Neither have I,” Wes replied. “Since we're involved with Bell's horses, I reckon it'll be interesting to stay and see 'em run.”

“Perhaps we can win some money,” said Rebecca. “I still have most of the money from the sale of the mules.”

“Fetch me a bucket of water from the spring,” Wes said. “I need hot coffee.”

But when Rebecca returned from the spring, she brought more than Wes expected. Behind her walked a trio of men, their weapons drawn. About to reach for his Colt, Wes froze when he recognized the trio.

“You always was a rotten shot with a Winchester, Doak,” said Burris. “The varmint's alive, bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“No matter,” Sellers said. “He's brung us a pair of prime hosses, and after he's dead, we can put the gal to good use.”

Knowing what was coming, Wes drew, but the odds were impossibly long. Weapons roared, and a slug struck his head with the force of a sledge hammer. The world suddenly went black, and he knew no more.

When Delaney and Garrett reached Santa Fe, they went immediately to the office of the sheriff.

“I'll tell you as much as I know,” Sheriff Hollings said, “and show you what we found in the room where Saul Yeager was murdered.”

“We're obliged,” said Garrett.

“We know almost for a certainty that Yeager is the man who molded your coins,” Hollings said, “because he's been convicted at least twice for that very crime. I'm especially interested in your case because Yeager had an accomplice, and we believe that's the man who murdered him. This hombre who circulates the counterfeit coins is a slippery coyote. There was never any evidence against him and nobody to testify. This time, however, we may have him cornered. The metals needed to mold those counterfeit eagles aren't cheap and they can only be had through certain sources. We contacted those sources when our friend Yeager was released from prison. If he bought any of those metals—anywhere in New Mexico—we were to be notified. Having gotten no word, we believed Yeager had at last decided to go straight, or had perhaps quit the territory. However, in the room where he was murdered, let me show you what we found.”

Hollings opened a closet door and removed the items from a shelf. There was part of a bag of charcoal, a small charcoal stove, a ten-die mold, and parts of three bars of metal, one of which was gold.

“My God,” said Delaney, “that's all it takes to create gold coins the equal of those coming from the U.S. Mint?”

“That,” Hollings said, “and the skill to mix and mold the proper ratios. This may well be the key to capturing Yeager's accomplice, solving a murder, and nailing the culprit who is flooding your town with counterfeit coins.”

“We're in over our heads,” said Garrett. “We'll follow your lead.”

“Then you brought the photograph of the man in question,” Hollings said.

“Actually,” said Delaney, “it's an etching. Four of us bought a saloon, and there was a story in the newspaper. The paper created the etching to go with the story.”

“Here's what we believe happened,” Hollings said, “and the etching may get us proof. We believe that Yeager, just out of prison and broke, would have been reluctant to get back into counterfeiting so quickly unless somebody provided some strong motivation. It's pretty obvious, from the amount of metals used, and from the accumulation of counterfeit eagles you've discovered, that Yeager must have molded at least twenty thousand dollars' worth.”

“Enough for a pretty damn good stake,” said Garrett, “or he wouldn't have shot the goose layin' the golden eggs.”

“Exactly,” Sheriff Hollings said. “We believe Yeager's accomplice bought the equipment and raw materials right here in Santa Fe. Armed with the etching you brought, we're going to knock on some doors and ask some questions.”

The third shop they visited brought results. The proprietor studied the etching for a moment and immediately pointed to Cash Seaborn.

“He's the man you're looking for,” said the merchant.

When the trio reached the street, it was Jess Delaney who spoke.

“I know what's comin' next, and it won't be pleasant.”

“I reckon it won't be,” Sheriff Hollings said. “It'll be up to the courts of Lincoln and Lincoln County to prosecute. As much as I'd like to try the varmint here, he committed his crime outside of my jurisdiction.”

“We won't waste any time nailing his hide to the barn door,” said Garrett.

“Before you do,” Delaney cautioned, “we must try to recover the genuine gold coins he's replaced with counterfeit. The remaining three of us can't swallow such a loss.”

“It's unlikely that they're in a bank in his name,” said Sheriff Hollings. “You can count on him having hidden them somewhere. Much as I hate to suggest it, you might have to plea-bargain him a lighter sentence as a means of recovering the money.”

When Wes Tremayne regained consciousness, he was alone. The outlaws had been too anxious. One slug had creased his head, while a second had struck the buckle of his gunbelt. His belly felt like he had been kicked by a mule. While his physical hurts were minor, his ego suffered mightily. For the second time, these three outlaws had gunned him down and had left him for dead. That in itself would have been a disgrace, but they had gone a step farther. They had taken his horse, his woman, and the two expensive Indian-gentled horses Frank Bell had trusted him to deliver. Thinking him dead, they hadn't bothered taking his gun. He reloaded the empty chambers, shoved the weapon into his holster, and set out walking. The trail led east, and he gloomily concluded they could be bound for Houston, Beaumont, or some distant point in Louisiana. But he had two powerful forces driving him: He knew the men he was trailing, and he wanted the three of them dead. Graveyard dead.