Counterfeit

Chapter 4

Topeka, it had turned out, was nowhere near their final destination. The stagecoach had stopped a block or so from the railroad depot and the two men had walked in the darkness to the train that was waiting to depart. Matt felt almost naked and certainly vulnerable without his badge, but at least he still had his gun.

"Where are we going?" he had repeatedly asked the city man, but the only answer he got was "you'll see when we get there."

They were occupying a small private compartment near the rear of the train. Matt had felt the locomotive start to move almost as soon as they had boarded. He figured they were moving in a northeasterly direction, but other than that he had no idea where they were headed. He felt helpless without any control over the situation he found himself in, and that worried him. His fate was totally dependent on another man and he didn't like that unfamiliar feeling. Several times he had felt for the handle of the colt pistol that still hung on his right hip, just to reassure himself, and more than once wondered if he should just leave Quartermaine and return home. Who was this man and did he trust him? He would agree to go along with him for a little longer, but when they stretched out on the two long seats that were on either side of the compartment, he did not relax enough sleep.

Three days went by – meals seemed to arrive at their door on a regular basis and the small privy a little further along the car seemed to be for their use alone.

The second day of the train ride, Quartermaine started a conversation with the lawman.

"There are some facts I want you to learn. Your name from hereon is John Henry Weeks.

"John Henry is a business man from Colorado with less than admirable social ethics. As far as the people you meet are going to know, he is looking to get into the bogus money business, planning to drop the fake bills in many cities west of the Mississippi. Weeks is married and has two children a girl of six called Samantha and a boy of nine named Dermot. His wife's name is Mary – she comes from Irish stock.

"What the people you will be meeting don't know is that we picked up Mr. John Weeks about a month ago in New York City and he is now under arrest in a secluded facility in Washington. He sends weekly letters back to his family and always encloses some money for them, that way they are not complaining. We also know that the people you will be meeting have never met Mr. Weeks, so you should have no problem there."

Matt started to object; he had never been anyone except himself and was not sure he could carry this off.

"Don't worry, we are going to coach you through it."

"Mr. Weeks is a tall skinny man, fortunately he has blue eyes and dark hair. He is a bit of a womanizer and appears to have a preference for those about fifteen or twenty years younger than himself. He, incidentally, is 34 years of age." He went on to describe several of John Henry's less desirable qualities, but was interrupted by a knock on the compartment door and a waiter entered with a large lunch tray. After the meal had been set out for them Quartermaine continued.

"Tomorrow in the early hours of the morning – before the sun is up we will arrive at our destination, and you will learn more then. Please try to remember what I have told you already."

The window shades were pulled down in their compartment, and for Dillon who had not had any real sleep since leaving Dodge, the rhythmic rocking of the train became almost hypnotic and several times he caught himself nodding off and would wake with a start. Sometimes in those brief moments he thought of Kitty, he could still see her tear filled eyes as they said goodbye. Other times he would remain alert by trying to figure out who this man was that he was traveling with. Where did he fit into all this?

It was difficult to judge the passage of time, but it was around suppertime on the third day when Quartermaine said they were nearing their destination.

The train slowed to a stop in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. The two men climbed down from the carriage they had been riding in, at what was little more than a place where a well-worn trail crossed the railroad track. They both stood and watched as the train pulled away and slowly gathered speed. Soon after it was out of sight a small wagon pulled into view. No words were exchanged with the driver as the two men climbed aboard. They travelled for about an hour before Matt saw they were coming into a city. There were a few gas lamps here and there and sometimes the road was paved with cobblestones.

Eventually they pulled up in front of a large building. It was too dark to see it clearly, but Quartermaine indicated that they had arrived at their destination and both men left the wagon and entered the building through a big, heavy oak door that was opened for them.

Dillon found himself in a large elaborately decorated hallway with an enormous stairway at the far end, towards which they were led. He noticed the carved polished wood of the bannister rail and the heavy carpet on the treads. From the top of the stairs they were directed to a room on the right hand side. The door was opened and they were ushered in.

The most obvious thing in the room was an enormous mahogany desk. Dillon thought back to his desk in Dodge, this one was about four times the size. On the wall behind the desk was a portrait of the familiar figure of the nineteenth president of the United States, Rutherford B Hays.

Dillon also recognized the somewhat stocky man with a well-trimmed white beard sitting behind the desk, even though he had never met him. The man rose from his chair and stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

Dillon shook the hand offered by the man who signed his paycheck, the Attorney General, Mr. Charles Devens.

"Mr. Devens, Sir, I never thought I would actually get to meet you."

"Marshal Dillon, it is I who am honored. Thank you for coming all this way, I hope you will be able to help us solve our little problem. I think Mr. Quartermaine has explained the difficulties we are having with counterfeit money entering into circulation in large amounts. The Secret Service, since its inception about twelve years ago has been charged with investigating and eradicating this problem, but it is a small force and recently several of its members have been killed while pursuing the perpetrators of this crime. Marshal, you have been very effective in bringing law and order to your territory and we hoped you could help us out here. In fact, with your permission, I have agreed to place you on loan to their department. This group of counterfeiters seems to know all of our agents; they may even have some source of inside information. We thought that by bringing you here, someone from outside whothey did not know, perhaps we would have a better chance of bringing them to justice. We believe, anyway, that they will soon be bringing their counterfeit money to your territory, so sooner or later you are going to be involved with these people, and better to get this under control now before they bring unrest and trouble for you and other lawmen out there in the western regions." The Attorney General turned to his left and indicated a quiet looking man, clean shaven, short but well built. "May I introduce Mr. James Brooks to you Marshal Dillon. He is the Director of the Secret Service." The men shook hands, and Matt noted his firm prolonged grip, and grey piercing eyes.

"Marshal, Mr. Brooks has a lot of ideas to discuss with you. This is his office and I shall leave you now. I just have to wish you luck and tell you that the very future of this country may depend upon the mission that you are about to undertake."

With that he headed towards the door and Dillon noticed that Quartermaine who was still standing there, reached and opened it for him.

Brooks indicated two chairs by an empty fireplace and he and Dillon headed towards them. Quartermaine continued to stand by the door.

The Director turned briefly to the man standing by the door, "Pour us some brandy Nathan, and have one yourself – then pull up a chair and join the conversation."

Within a few minutes the three men were deeply engrossed in a discussion of counterfeit money and what could be done to put a stop to it.

TBC