Counterfeit
Chapter 2
Matt could still remember the morning he left Dodge. As he lay there on a dirty mattress rammed beneath a cobwebbed stairway in a deserted warehouse, his mind kept wandering. That one scene played over and over in his mind. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done to leave the warm soft bed above the Long Branch that morning and walk out into the harshness of the unknown. One final kiss and then he had grabbed his gun belt and left before he lost his resolve. If he closed his eyes he could still hear her parting words, and see the salty tears welling up in her eyes. She tried not to let them show, but he knew they were there.
His problems had started the afternoon before that. The man in the city suit was Nathanial Quartermaine at least that is how he had introduced himself, and he carried a letter from the office of the Attorney General signed by Attorney General Charles Devens himself, confirming that was so. The letter also told Matt that Quartermaine would explain an assignment that needed doing. Matt was under no obligation to accept it, it would not be without risk, but the wellbeing of this nation could depend on a successful outcome. Somehow Matt Dillon's name had come up as the one man that may be able to carry it out. Of course there was no way he could refuse. That badge, his devotion to this nation, struggling to reinvent itself after years of civil war, the ideals of law and order it brought to a westward moving frontier, all these things would not let him say no. At the time he could not have brought himself to refuse, although if he had known the many dangers that lay waiting ahead for him, he might have thought longer and harder before saying yes.
He searched for the canteen that had been left within reach for him. He remembered to move slowly, even so, pain shot like fiery knives through his leg. He fought to hang on to consciousness hoping the bleeding wouldn't start again, then tried to relax against the make shift pillow while he waited for the hurt to subside.
His mind went back once more to that afternoon in his office in Dodge City, how long ago had it been? Maybe three or four months, he had lost count of time. Nathanial Quartermaine had told him a story that would maybe cost him his life.
-XX-
A group of individuals in New York City had started making counterfeit paper money. To begin with their fake bills were not very good and were easily spotted. With time they improved – they must have found a new artist to engrave the plates - and what they were producing now was barely distinguishable from the real thing. Furthermore, somehow or another they were acquiring the special paper and ink used in the official printing process.
About a year ago, in 1877, the Bureau of Engraving and Printing had been given the charge of printing American money. At the time they were located in the basement of the Department of the Treasury in Washington DC. A special agency -The Secret Service - had been started to track down counterfeit money and eliminate its source, but so far no one had managed to stop this group. Two agents had come close, but their bodies had been found in the Potomac River and all trails leading to the counterfeiters had vanished. Recently evidence came to light, that they had moved their operation and were now working out of Richmond Va.
"Where do I come into this picture?" Dillon had asked the obvious question.
Quartermaine got up from the table on which he had been sitting and paced the room for a few minutes.
"What I am going to tell you is very er.. sensitive information, Marshal. It cannot go beyond this room."
"I understand." The lawman leaned a little further back in his chair as Quartermaine, once again, parked his hip on the corner of the small table that stood in the middle of the office.
"You have to understand that if too much of this counterfeit money enters into circulation it will have the effect of devaluing our currency which would cause wide spread panic among the people and drain our banking system. It could even bring about the downfall of the whole federal system. Somehow it has to be stopped. Just lately a fair number of the bogus notes have shown up in Kansas City and Wichita. It seems they are moving their operation westward. In actual fact we think the printing is still being done in Virginia, but they are selling the fake money to other dealers at a discount from the face value. Those dealers are carrying it westwards. Dodge would be a ripe target Marshal, so much cash exchanging hands at cattle auctions. A man would only have to buy a few thousand head of beeves with bogus bills, then ship the cattle back east and sell them at a profit. Double profit in that scenario, and we believe it may be about to happen, or worse still may already have happened."
"I'd be glad to check the money here in Dodge and watch for these counterfeit bills," Dillon replied – wondering what all the big fuss was about if that was what they wanted him to do.
"We need more than that. We want the plates that they are printing from. Once we have those we can track down and arrest the artist who engraved them and that will put the counterfeiters out of business for a long time."
At that point Dillon still did not see where he came into this picture.
-XX-
It was not even daylight when he and Quartermaine boarded the stage east. They were the only passengers and the driver was a man Dillon was not familiar with. He introduced himself as Tourney Williams, and told the two men it would be a direct ride to Topeka Kansas. There would no other passengers boarding and the few breaks they would take would be just long enough to change horses. They should make it to Topeka in less than twenty-four hours.
Dillon turned to look at the government man.
"This is no regularly scheduled stage run, Quartermaine, the east bound stage isn't supposed to leave for another half hour."
"That's true Marshal," the man replied, not volunteering any other information. He indicated with his hand that they should board the coach. Carefully Matt climbed inside and took the seat facing the horses, leaving the other for the city man.
No sooner where they seated than the stage moved off – slowly at first till they were clear of Dodge, then he heard the driver whip up the horses and soon they were careening along the east bound trail at an unusually high rate of speed. The coach swung wildly from side to side as the horses sped up but both men sat back in their seats, trying to appear relaxed. Dust and small rocks were flying around outside – stirred up by the horses hooves and the iron rimmed wheels and they could be heard hitting the sides of the coach. A few even made it into the compartment by finding a way around the window shades that were pulled firmly down. About ten minutes into the ride Quartermaine leaned forward.
"Marshal, take off your badge and hand it to me."
Matt looked at his travelling companion, not fully comprehending his request.
Quartermaine waited a second or two then extended his right hand, palm up.
"Your badge, please, Marshal."
TBC