Imitation as flattery is bound to lack conviction. For conviction, you have to get the accused into court.
Two Shots by Chris McGinley
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Rotgut rye. It was the
Swede's saloon and the Swede didn't comp anyone. Not magistrates, not highwaymen,
not whores, and certainly not lawmen. The Sheriff drank rotgut rye, two shots.
The business that lay ahead required it, and it was all he could afford. He had
put it off as long as he could. Finally he said, "Well, Swede, I'm off to
gather my mother-in-law, for better or ill. See if you can hold down the fort
while I'm gone."
Just outside of town
the Sheriff checked his Colt one last time and turned to look into the
carriage. The shovel was there. Of course it was there, but he had to double
check.
The old jeweler lived
many miles from town. It was another piece in the puzzle. Why not live above
your shop, like other merchants? The Sheriff had spent months on the case after
Treasury officials told him that counterfeit fifties had been tracked to places
around his county. He eliminated the usual suspects through his own unique
manner of interrogation. But punches, kicks, and vice grips yielded nothing,
and for the first time in his life, the Sheriff had to use some imagination. He
sent cables, telegrams, and letters to wardens and lawmen. He did research. He
pored over the counterfeit bills given to him by the Treasury men. Then it
finally came to him, like a vision: the jeweler. He learned what “surveillance”
meant and made a few visits to the jeweler's shop. He even bought an engraved ring that surprised
his wife as much as the fee surprised him. The jeweler was not cheap. Nor was
he just a jeweler.
When he finally reached
the little cabin, the Sheriff knocked on the door. He heard a chair scrape on
the floor inside. "What brings you way out here, Sheriff?" said the
old counterfeiter.
"I'm on my way to
fetch my mother-in-law, but I wanted to thank you personally for the ring. My
wife loved it." When they shook hands, the Sheriff clapped irons on the
man. "Sorry, old man, but I need to be inhospitable."
"Sheriff?"
"It was the mark.
Your bills don't have the Bureau of Engraving and Printing mark. Otherwise,
they're perfect. Beautiful, really. Why didn't you put 'B.E.P' on the
bills?"
"So, that's how
you sussed me out?"
"That, and a
helluva lotta work. You changed your name in Cheyenne after you did a spell in
the Tombs. You're good, old man. The bills are a work of art. I just don't know
why you left off the letters. Anyway, you sold your fifties to a couple of peckerwoods
who didn’t get very far. You’ll see them soon. They’re in my jail.”
This was partly true.
Two days prior the Sheriff had staked out the little cabin. The two men left after a short while and he
dry-gulched them at a cutoff just a few miles away. They were easy to bury
there and it was a nice haul: a bag of the best counterfeit fifties ever
produced, but without the mark. Now, as
to whether or not the counterfeiter would see these boys again? Well, not in
this life, anyway.
The counterfeiter stood
dumbfounded. "I guess this'll make you a big man, Sheriff. My fifties have
been in circulation a long time. If it's just the same to you, let's go now. I'm
ready to be sent away . . . again."
"OK, but I need
the plates first."
Through the window, the
counterfeiter saw the carriage outside. He knew.
"Why the plates,
Sheriff? I admit to the crime. Take me away. But don't take my plates. They're
all I have. I can't stand to think of them as a lawman's trophy. Let them be.
No one will ever find them."
"I need the
plates, now." The Sheriff kicked him viciously in the shin and the old man
wailed. The heavy chains rattled as he fell to the ground.
"You won't have my
plates, Sheriff."
A kick to the ribs took
the breath from the counterfeiter. The Sheriff drew back his foot for another
strike.
"OK, Sheriff, but
let me propose something."
The Sheriff laughed
mirthlessly. "What's that?"
"I'll engrave the
three letters. It's all my bills are missing. It'll only take a few minutes.
Let me make them perfect before you send me away. My work is all I have."
Why not, the Sheriff
thought. The man would be dead soon, and the plates would be flawless and worth
even more. He unhooked him. The counterfeiter hobbled across the room, lifted a
floorboard, and produced the plates.
"Look here,"
he said. "This is where the letters
will go." The Sheriff peered down at the plate, which came up hard across
the bridge of his nose. His hands flew up to his face, but when he reached for
his Colt it was gone from the holster.
A shot rang out. The
Sheriff's gut began to pour blood like a spigot.
"I guess your
mother-in-law ain't gonna make that visit anytime soon."
The Sheriff groaned out
a tiny laugh, even more mirthless now. Blood began to pool on the scarred wood
floor of the cabin. "I'm ended, old man,” he said. “At least tell me why
you never added the letters."
"Because the
plates weren't made by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Would’ve been
dishonest to put that on there.”
Another shot rang out.
