Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  Will didn’t think Charlie meant anything negative by the comment, even so, it bothered him that his son saw how much his job demanded of him, and how often his duties as a soldier took him away from his responsibility as a father. Now, with marriage on the horizon, he couldn’t help wondering if Becky would eventually come to the same conclusion. He hoped not. He liked the way she made him feel when she was close and the last thing he wanted was to ever repeat the same mistakes William B. Travis had made in the years before Will’s transference.

  Will tousled the boy’s red hair and said, “Thanks, Son. We’ll make it work.”

  Chapter 18

  The lone Texas Ranger nudged his horse up Congress Avenue in the new town of Austin. The establishment of the government here the previous year led to a flood of construction, although most of it was for administrative buildings to house the growing government. The Ranger passed by a clapboard structure, on front of which there was a sign proclaiming to all who passed by the building housed the Republic’s War Department. He continued around the large Capitol Square, where masons and carpenters were building a capitol building. The structure he was looking for was across the street from Capitol Square. He guided his horse to a hitching post in front of a modest building where a sign announced it belonged to the Commodities Bureau.

  The youthful Ranger climbed down from his mount and secured the reins to the hitching post and stepped up to the door. It opened as he reached for the knob. A soldier stood in the door frame, eying him. After a moment, the rifleman stepped aside, and allowed him the enter. His feet had barely crossed the threshold before the door was closed and locked behind him. A clerk, with thick spectacles, rose when he saw the Ranger. “I’ll be right back, sir.”

  The narrow lobby was devoid of furnishings, other than the clerk’s desk and a hardback chair, which the soldier had settled back into as he looked out the window by the door. Only a flag hung on the spartan wall. The horizontal blue field, which stretched for a third of the flag’s length, held a white star in its center. Two vertical stripes, a white and red, extended from the blue field. It was adopted by the army in the months following the Battle of the Nueces, and called the Fannin Flag in honor of Colonel James Fannin, the highest ranking Texian to die during the Revolution. A couple of years later, Congress had formally adopted it as the national flag.

  The Ranger was staring at it when a door against the back wall opened and an older Tejano gentleman walked through. “Captain Hays, I’m glad you were able to get here as quickly as you did.”

  The Ranger shook the other man’s hand. “Señor Seguin, it is my pleasure, sir. I confess, General Travis was short on details about why my services were needed here.”

  “Come on back. I’ll show you.”

  As Hays followed the elder Seguin into the rear of the building, he saw a large printing press in one corner of the room and several large tables shoved together in the center. Seguin led him to the nearest table, on which were several stacks of commodities certificates.

  Seguin said, “This is where we print the certificates which are backed by the basket of commodities, Captain.” He indicated to a sheet of bills, which were denominated in ten dollars. There were twenty bills in the sheet.

  Seguin pulled the sheet over to them and passed it to Hays. “Feel the paper.”

  Hays ran his fingers over it. It was heavy, and the engraving plates had indented the image of an Indian maiden on one half of the paper and on the other half, a river steamer. Seguin said, “It’s made from a cotton blend. We get it from a paper manufacturer in Philadelphia. I’ve been assured the blend of this particular paper is unique to our certificates.”

  Hays set the sheet of uncut currency back on the table. “It does have a particular feel to it. Never noticed it when I collected my pay before, but I can see how it feels different than normal paper.”

  Seguin said, “Now, look at these certificates.” He slid a small stack over to the Ranger. Hays picked up a couple of bills and ran his fingers along the indentions, which felt different. He set one of the bills next to one on the sheet and leaned in, closely studying them. At first inspection, the two looked identical, but as he took time to look more closely, he noticed the level of detail on each certificate on the sheet of currency. The individual bill lacked some of the finer details. And after rubbing his fingers on it, he thought the paper’s weave felt different from that of the currency sheet.

  When he mentioned the differences to Seguin, he replied, “Exactly, Captain. The quality of the cotton paper is high. If I had to hazard a guess, I wouldn’t be surprised to find the paper used to make these counterfeit bills came from some bank that prints its own currency, like in the United States or Mexico.”

  Hays nodded in agreement. “How many of these fake certificates have been found?”

  Seguin pointed to the stack on the table. “I fear those bills just scratch the surface. We’ve audited the bills the treasury has received from tax payments and those received by the Land Office’s bank and have found more than ten thousand dollars in bogus certificates. It’s just a guess, Captain, but I fear as much as ten percent of the certificates in circulation could be counterfeits. If this gets out before we find the source and close it, it could destroy the people’s faith in the Commodities Certificates.”

  Hays grimaced at the thought. “I suppose that’s why General Travis ordered me to come here.”

  Seguin nodded, “I realize this doesn’t really fall under the function of the Texas Rangers, but General Travis said you have a sharp mind and that if someone could figure out who is bringing the forgeries into Texas, it would be you.”

  The Ranger smiled ruefully. “I got lucky breaking up Cordova’s little rebellion, sir. I’ll give this a go, and hope I have some luck. Do we have any idea where these counterfeit certificates are entering the country?”

  Seguin pulled a small ledger from across the table and referred to the opened page. “Almost half the forgeries which we have discovered have come from the Galveston area. And nearly all of the rest, one can make a reasoned argument, could have flowed through the port on the way to where they were detected.”

  After studying the book’s entries, Hays slammed it shut and said, “Well, Señor Seguin, it looks like I’m going to Galveston.”

  A week later, the coastal cutter sliced through the water of Galveston Bay. Jack Hays watched the docks of Galveston come into focus as the small single-masted ship approached one of the docks, which jutted into the channel separating Galveston from Pelican Island, along the leeward side of the island. Several schooners and other merchant ships were either at dock or were riding at anchor in the channel. As Hays understood it, the town was already larger than San Antonio.

  As the cutter was secured to one of the docks, Hays’ eyes were drawn to a warship, anchored northeast of the town. He recognized it from the woodcut, which had been on the front page of one of the newspapers. It was the TRS Nueces, recently constructed in the Annapolis shipyards. She was the second of three steam-powered warships to be purchased between 1838 and 1840. Her sister ship, the Crockett was currently at sea, patrolling off the gulf coast of the Republic. As Hays recalled from the article he read, the Nueces was finishing up her outfitting and training of her crew.

  The young Ranger officer found lodgings at one of the hotels in town and immediately went to work. There was scant doubt in his mind, Galveston was either a point of entry for the counterfeits or they were printed in town.

  ***

  Lucien Thibodaux clenched a cigar tightly in his mouth as he swept the dust from below the printing press in the small office out of which he ran his advertising business, when the door opened, and a breeze caused the dust bunnies to fly before his broom. He swore under his breath as he looked up and saw a young man, in his early or mid-twenties come up and lean on the counter, which separated the press from the front of the building. Thibodaux eyed the young man. What did he want? Maybe leaflets advertising the newest saloon. Ma
ybe something different. Then his eyes fell to the newcomer’s waist where he saw the holster and the revolver.

  Thibodaux came to the counter, took his cigar, and placed it between his fingers and asked, “How can I help you, young sir?”

  “Captain Jack Hays, Texas Rangers. I’ve got a mind to look at your printing press, sir.” A stack of neatly cut business cards on the countertop announced the proprietor. “Ah, Mr. Thibodaux.”

  It took everything within him to keep his nervousness from creeping into his voice. “It’s not much to look at, Captain. But there it is.” Thibodaux turned and pointed to the press.

  “Mind if I take a closer look?”

  Thibodaux shrugged and gestured to the low, swinging door, “Help yourself.”

  He watched the Ranger walk around the press several times, lift the print plates, and go over to the wall to examine the brass letters Thibodaux used in the design of his advertisements. Despite his nervous apprehension, he tried to keep his voice steady when he asked, “Perhaps there’s something in particular you’re looking for?”

  After a pause which stretched out to an eternity as far as Thibodaux was concerned, the Ranger shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think you have what I’m looking for.” With no reason to stay, the Ranger left.

  After he clamped down on his cigar again, it took the better part of a half hour for Thibodaux’s heartbeat to return to normal after the Ranger had departed. There was no doubt in his mind the Ranger was looking for proof of counterfeiting. He drew a ragged breath as he thanked the blessed Virgin he had decided against running any counterfeit currency on his own press.

  Part of him considered shutting up shop then and there and finding the next boat back to New Orleans. But the risks of returning to Louisiana were high. He had taken a large fee from a group of Spanish speaking investors to come to Galveston. They would not take kindly to him abandoning the press or breaking the chain bringing in the fake commodities certificates.

  “Still,” he thought, “the timing is bad.”

  The next shipment of certificates was due later that night. If he stayed clear, his investors might decide he had cold feet and their reaction was unpredictable. He shuddered at the choices he faced. Finally, as he thought about how much he was being paid, he swallowed hard. “There is nothing to be done. I shall collect my fee. A few more such as the last one, and maybe I can find somewhere other than New Orleans to retire to.”

  He took a lantern from a shelf and locked the door to the office and decided a satisfying meal was in order, oysters on the half shell would help to steady his nerves and he knew just the oyster bar.

  “Easiest choice I’m faced with today,” he thought as his legs carried him toward the docks. There is only one oyster bar in town.

  The sun had retired in the western sky when he stepped out of the bar, pleased his steps were steady and sure. He’d managed to find the right ratio of beer to food. Even so, as he stepped off the wooden sidewalk the risk he was running caused him to get nervous. He fumbled in his jacket and retrieved a cigar. Once it was lit, he puffed on it, as he made his way toward the other side of the island, passing by the hotel in which Captain Hays was staying.

  ***

  Hays leaned his chair back, on two legs, resting his head against the wall of the hotel’s porch, where he was balancing a tobacco pouch in one hand and rolling paper in the other, when the pungent smell of burning tobacco caught his attention. It hadn’t been that long before when he last smelled that particular blend of tobacco. He let the paper fall to the ground as he cinched the pouch. He watched, bemused as the owner of the last printing press he had looked at earlier in the afternoon, hurried by, a cigar in his mouth and a lantern swinging by his side.

  His own cigarette forgotten, and curiosity piqued, Hays let the chair’s front legs fall to the floor as he stood up and descended the hotel’s steps and settled into a gait matching that of his prey, as he followed him toward the ocean side of the island. Between the red glow of the cigar’s tip and its pungent, burning smell, the Ranger allowed some distance to separate him from his quarry. Thibodaux’s sure and steady steps moved straight as an arrow in flight until they arrived at the end of the street where it terminated against the sand dunes. In the distance, he heard the ocean lapping against the seashore.

  He watched Thibodaux slide down one of the sand dunes on the beach and hurry over to the water’s edge. Hays crawled onto the sand dune and inched forward until he looked over the lip. Thibodaux had lit the lantern and was swinging it in front of him, as he looked out into the gulf.

  At less than half a mile distance, as Hays judged it, he saw a light appear offshore. The moon overhead, was adequate to let him see Thibodaux on the shore, but the ship in the gulf was invisible except for the light which flashed some sort of signal to the ersatz printer. This was getting interesting, Hays thought. A bit later a longboat surged out of the murky darkness and slid onto the shore with a soft crunching noise. Several men leapt from the boat. The first, with a rope, secured the boat to the shore. Two others stood on either side with their muskets at the ready.

  Hays thought, “Yes, it’s getting more and more interesting.”

  A small lockbox was hefted over the side into the waiting arms of one of the sailors, who deposited it at Thibodaux’s feet. A small bag was also handed over, which Thibodaux made disappear into his jacket pocket.

  The exchange was over, and the sailors pushed the longboat back into the surf, and climbed back in as they shipped oars and pulled toward the waiting ship. Thibodaux hefted the strongbox onto his shoulder and turned toward the sand dune. Hays ducked below the lip and hurried down the other side, until he reached the dirt road running along the gulf side of the island. He found a cross street and hurried down it, just before Thibodaux crested the dune and started back toward his office on the other side of the island.

  As he hurried along, back toward the center of town, Hays was convinced he’d found his man. Thibodaux’s hurried behavior was plenty suspicious, but the transaction under the moon on the beach with a mysterious crew clinched the matter. He had gone no more than few hundred yards when he saw several shadowy figures moving with purpose down the center of a cross street. His hand flew to his holster and he drew up at the intersection as out of the gloom, a small group of armed men in blue uniforms emerged. As they approached Hays’ position, he saw each of them carried a carbine. It was a patrol of Marines from the island’s small naval garrison.

  A gray-haired NCO, with three stripes on his sleeves, saw Hays and raised his hand as the men following him spread out in the road, forming a semicircle behind him. Hays thought it best to quickly defuse any potential situation, “Captain Jack Hays, Texas Rangers. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting on this fine spring evening?”

  The graying sergeant spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the street, a few feet short of Hays, “If you say it is, Captain. I’m Sergeant Williams and these are my men. We saw some lights offshore and were coming out here to take a gander at it.”

  Hays said, “You can save yourself a trip, Sergeant. I think it may have been smugglers or more likely counterfeiters. The men who came ashore have already returned to the ship. A couple a hundred yards behind me is a man I’d be happier than a hog in mud if you’d help me capture. He’s hard to miss. He’s carrying a strongbox.”

  Hays led the marines to a vantage point near the intersection, where they waited until Thibodaux trudged by. The heavy weight of the strongbox slowed his pace. After he had passed by, Hays waved for the Marines to follow him and they trailed behind the oblivious Thibodaux.

  No sooner had the Louisianan entered his printing office, locked the door behind him, and lowered the window shades then Hays drew his pistol and stepped onto the porch. With the marines right behind him, he kicked in the door. The lock shattered the wooden door frame, and with the weight of several marines at his back, Hays practically flew through the door. Like a deer caught in the glare of a lantern, Thibodaux s
tood next to the printing press. The lockbox rested on the floor, where he had set it. A couple of boards had been moved, revealing a hidden space under the building.

  With a vicious grin, Hays pointed his pistol at the smuggler. “Move and you’re a dead man!”

  Thibodaux stood, frozen in place. Hays called out, “Get the strongbox and cover him.”

  Two marines dashed by Hays and knocked the counterfeiter to the ground, hard. One retrieved the small metal strongbox while the other leveled his carbine at the cowering Thibodaux.

  The strongbox was secured with a padlock. “If you’ll tell me where the key is, I’ll make these men go easier on you,” Hays said to Thibodaux.

  The sergeant took something from his pocket and as he fiddled with the lock, said, “Never mind him, Captain. We’ll get in and see what he’s got.”

  A moment later, the padlock clicked open. “How in the hell?” Hays asked.

  Smiling malevolently, the sergeant said, “Let’s just say I had a misspent youth, Captain.”

  When opened, the lockbox revealed hundreds of commodities certificates. Hays picked up one on the top and it felt just like the earlier counterfeit bills he had handled in Austin. He put the bill back in the lockbox, “Alright, Sergeant. Close it back up. If any of those go missing, I’ll personally see to it, you’ll find yourself transferred to the furthest fort on the Red River.”

  Closing the box, the Sergeant said, “Hell no, Captain, sir. I’d rather die at sea than live that close to the Comanche.”

  Hays own smile matched the sergeant’s earlier malevolence. “Now that you mention it, I do believe they’d find your silver locks quite the pretty trophy. I’d hate to tempt you. Why don’t I take the lockbox and let you and your boys take this rapscallion to the nearest jail?”

  The sergeant laughed. “Have it your way, Captain. You want my boys to take good care of him?”