“Why did you get us together so urgently, Kit?” Carsten asked as they gathered in Kit’s ma’s kitchen.
Kit fished something out of his pocket. “I need to show you something. And I need you to tell me if I’m crazy about this.”
Amos narrowed his eyes. “Why would you be crazy?”
“I got this money in town. Something seems different about it, but I can’t figure out what. Did you all bring your dollar bills?”
Carsten, Amos, and Edmund all nodded.
“Good. Give them to me, and I’ll shuffle them up. Then you can each try to figure out which is mine.”
Carsten handed his dollar bill to Kit and watched as Amos and Edmund did as well.
Kit mixed them up and laid them down on the table. “Which is the one I put in?”
Carsten let Amos and Edmund go first. They looked at each bill thoroughly and pushed them over to him. Carsten started at one corner and checked the top first, then the bottom, setting each down after he finished.
“Well?” Kit asked.
“Number three,” Amos answered.
“I agree,” Edmund said.
“Me, too,” Carsten replied. “I think it might be a different paper.”
“But why?” Amos asked. “Why would it be different?”
“I don’t know.”
Carsten picked up Kit’s money and rubbed it between his fingers again, staring at it the whole time. “I…” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve heard of people making money. They call it… counterfeit.”
“As in, not real at all?” Kit asked. “I have a worthless dollar bill? What will I tell Pa?”
Amos patted his back. “Once we solve this, your pa will understand and not blame you at all. So, the money is fake. Why would someone make fake money?”
Carsten shrugged. “If it was good enough, you could technically get rich doing this. And it seems they’ve got it pretty good. Could someone from out of town have left it? If not, who in town would benefit from something like this? And why? I would think there would have to be more than one person involved. A mastermind and a worker. Maybe? But what could they get out of this partnership?”
“Maybe they are having money troubles,” Amos said.
“Obviously,” Kit said. “But—”
“Why ‘obviously’?” Carsten interrupted. “Don’t the rich usually want to get richer? And wouldn’t they need someone to pay for the equipment? Not that I think any of the well-to-do people here are doing this, but it’s something to think about.”
Kit shrugged. “I suppose. But around here, it’s more likely to be someone with money troubles. Which also implicates you to an extent, Carsten. Except we know you better than that.”
Carsten sighed. His friend was right.
“But,” Kit continued, “as I was saying, I think whoever is doing this needs a deeper motivation than money troubles.”
“Do we really need to figure out the motive?” Edmund asked.
Amos paced from the stove to the table. “No. But should we even try to find out who they are?”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Edmund asked, face lighting up.
Carsten pursed his lips. “It could be dangerous. There could be more people involved, and this isn’t what we planned to do. Unless they set me up to take the fall for the counterfeiting, too.”
“Which they probably did,” Kit said. “And even if they didn’t, if there are people making counterfeit money, we need to find out who they are so we can tell the authorities.”
“Or tell the authorities now, and they can find the people,” Carsten suggested.
“But what authorities?” Amos asked. “I don’t trust the marshal.”
“I don’t either,” Carsten said. “But it would be safer than us investigating on our own.”
“And if the marshal is part of it?” Kit asked. “If he knows we’re onto him, he could come after us.”
“True,” Amos said. “We should look into it before we tell anyone.”
Carsten sank onto a nearby chair. His job. If there was counterfeiting going on, at least one of the men at the print shop had to be involved. A printing press bought by anyone except Mr. Graves would have been suspicious. Could that be why the machine suddenly didn’t work that one day?
“Is something wrong, Carsten?” Amos asked.
“No,” Carsten responded too quickly. He pursed his lips. “Well, probably not. I might lose my job if we keep investigating.”
“What job?” Edmund asked.
Kit turned to Edmund. “He makes deliveries for the print shop.”
Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Right. Do you still help the widows?”
“A little,” Carsten said. “I’ve only made one delivery so far, so I still have some time to help one widow a week. I’m running out of widows to help, though. And it was only a temporary idea. Not something I was going to do all the time.”
“If you do lose your job, you could hire out as a handyman,” Amos said.
“I suppose.” Carsten took a deep breath. “So how do we find the counterfeiters?”
“Who would be corrupt enough or desperate enough to benefit from having extra money?” Kit asked.
Amos scoffed. “Almost everybody in town. We’re not exactly known for rich people around here. Well, except Pa and I, I suppose.”
“People who are heavily in debt,” Edmund said. “But they would be about as hard to find as figuring out who the counterfeiters are.”
Kit handed the real money back to each of them. “Let’s take time to think about it and gather at the lake in two days.”
“Good idea,” Carsten said. He left first. He needed to be alone. Fake money, fake accusations. His mind spun in circles. His pace got faster and faster the longer he went. He didn’t want to show his friends how much this new revelation affected him.
Pieces from his past and present started to fit together. Getting caught by Luella five years before had saved him a lifetime in jail with his father. And had made him talk to Ma about eternal salvation.
And now? Now he was accused of a robbery he didn’t do, and him and his friends had the chance to catch criminals who were worse than robbers. Is that what God had planned? Had God allowed Carsten to be falsely accused so he could find the true criminals in this town?
He made it home and went straight into the field. He couldn’t talk to Ma right now. Not until he sorted a few things out. Why had all this talk of counterfeiting brought up his past? Were there things he hadn’t fully dealt with? If so, how did he figure that out?
He stopped in the middle of a row of alfalfa. “God, I don’t know what to do. I’ve got things I need to take care of, but I don’t know how. I still feel guilty about the horse I borrowed. Was I the cause of the owner’s death? I don’t know. I also don’t know how to discourage my friends from helping me more. I don’t want to endanger their lives. When we were only going after a thief, it was dangerous enough. But now?” He sighed.
“Are the counterfeiters dangerous? Do I need to find someone else to take over the investigation? I don’t know. Help me, God. I need You. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Carsten left the prayer at that, grabbed a hoe, and went to work on the alfalfa. He’d neglected it a bit the past couple days while he worked in town and then met with his friends. The weeds were getting a bit bigger than he liked, so he took a hoe to them, working out his frustration on them. The burn in his muscles somehow helped soothe the pain in his heart.
After a couple hours, he stopped to catch his breath. His vision went a little dark around the edges, and he sucked in a deep breath, which led to him coughing hard. His parched throat felt like sandpaper. No wonder his head spun. He had worked hard under a hot sun without any water.
He stumbled out of the field to the well in their backyard. He pulled the bucket up and dumped it over his head to cool himself off. With a deep sigh of contentment, he sent the bucket down for more water. This time, he drank deeply and sat on the edge of the well, gazing out at the field.
When had the field gotten lusher? A couple weeks ago, the field worried him. But then he set the worry aside to concentrate on the accusations against him.
Maybe that’s what he needed to do. He needed to set aside the guilt of borrowing the horse those four years ago. It had been a childish fantasy to ride a palomino and steal the horse. Something he needed to get past. In all likelihood, he hadn’t been the cause of the owner’s death. He needed to get over it. But how?
Carsten sighed. It was definitely easier said than done.
Suppertime was close, so he decided not to go back out to the field. Hopefully Ma wouldn’t be too nosy and talkative today. He wasn’t sure he wanted to converse much. But maybe discussing things with her would help.
How did one find counterfeiters? Was there a way to know who was making the counterfeit money and using it?
* * *
The next day, Carsten rode their aging mare, Sarai, to the print shop.
Mr. Graves met him outside. “I’ve got a delivery today. Do you know where Old Man Jenkins lives?”
“Can’t say as I’ve met him, but I’ve been past the place. My friends and I used to make up stories about him.”
Mr. Graves chuckled. “Most kids do, I think. This is Mr. Jenkins’s.” He handed over the rolled-up paper.
Carsten quirked an eyebrow. A hermit who ordered a print? “I’ll get it to him. Anything else?”
“Nah. You can go do whatever you like after. Here’s your pay.”
Carsten took the money and unconsciously rubbed it to see if he could tell if it was counterfeit. “More than fair. Thank you, sir. When should I come next?”
“Stop by early next week. I’ve got another item that should be ready by then.”
“All right. See you then.”
“Take care, Carsten.”
Carsten carefully strapped the print to his saddlebag and swung up onto Sarai. The ride out to the Jenkins place was pleasant and soothing. He’d been in such turmoil yesterday and even this morning that he needed a little time doing something different. He hummed Be Still, My Soul and as he reached the second verse started singing.
Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.
As he got near the Jenkins place, he paid keen attention, knowing his friends would want an accounting of everything.
Trees surrounded the place, but there was a path through them onto which he led Sarai. They came out into a small clearing, and he saw a small log cabin. Built on the side was a stone chimney.
Carsten let out a small breath. He saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. An older man ran toward him with a rifle. His heart jumped into his throat, and he dismounted, keeping Sarai between Mr. Jenkins and himself.
“Mr. Jenkins, I’m delivering your print from the print shop.”
“Graves didn’t say there’d be a delivery. How do I know you’re tellin’ the truth?”
Carsten unstrapped the print from the saddlebag and stepped away from Sarai, holding the print in one hand and both hands up in the air. “This is your print.” He let it unroll so Mr. Jenkins could see what he had ordered.
Mr. Jenkins lowered his rifle so it faced the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. Mostly kids come out and bother me. I don’t get visitors much.”
Carsten’s heart slowly went back into its place, and he managed a wry smile. “I used to be one of those kids. But without the bothering. We tried to catch a glimpse of you.”
“We?”
“Me and my three friends.”
Mr. Jenkins came closer and took the print from him. “So you were one of those four, eh? I remember seein’ you and wonderin’ what you were doin’. Tryin’ ta see me. If I’d known, I’d have made sure. Most kids did some kind of destruction instead.”
Carsten smiled. “If you’d made an appearance, it probably would have scared us more than anythin’. We wanted to see you but also were scared to see you.”
“Come. If you’re not still scared of me, rest your horse a bit and come in for a cup o’ coffee.”
He took Sarai’s reins and led her to the hitching post in front of his house and followed Mr. Jenkins into his cabin. For a bachelor’s cabin, it was pretty tidy. Tidier than Carsten’s would be if Ma wasn’t there.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Carsten Whitford.” He sat down and waited for Mr. Jenkins to realize who he had invited in.
“Nice to meet you.” The man went to the stove and poured two cups of coffee out of a pot. “Are you the son of that thief who went to prison?”
And there it was. Though different from most. “Yes.”
“I knew the man had a son and always felt sorry for the boy. Growin’ up without a father ain’t easy.” He came back to the table. “My pa died when I was twelve.”
Carsten took a sip of coffee. “It’s been hard, but Ma’s been great. And Obadiah Raskins helps out when I need a man to talk to.”
“Is that Raskins from the Bar X?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Jenkins shook his head. “I knew his pa. Good man.”
“How much of the town news do you hear?”
“Not a lot.” He leaned back on his chair. “When I get to town, Mr. Martin tries to make sure I know what is happening in town. Last I was in, he told me he got robbed. Some paper or somethin’, but he seemed to make a big deal out of it.”
“Did he say who he thought did it?”
“Some kid, but I don’t think he said a name. Or he did and I don’t remember. Why?”
Carsten shook his head. “No reason. Just curious.” He finished his coffee slowly. Someone who didn’t know what he’d done or even what he’d been accused of? He didn’t think that was possible.
“What do you do when you aren’t delivering prints?”
Carsten set his coffee cup aside. “I actually only started the deliveries a week ago. I have a farm and grow alfalfa for some of the ranchers in the area. What do you do?”
“I saved up quite a bit cowboyin’ years ago, so now I live off that. Gives me a chance to be a crazy hermit. Every town needs one o’ them anyhow. Scare the kids and generally be a creepy guy.”
Carsten chuckled. “You succeeded in that. Although, now that I know you, you aren’t scary.”
“Thank you kindly.”
Carsten stood and stretched. “Thanks for the coffee. I should get back home before Ma starts wondering where I disappeared to.”
“Thanks for bringin’ my print and for visiting with me. I’ve got an injury from the war in Mexico. It gave me some good stories, but I can’t move as well anymore, and walkin’ or ridin’ to town is hard. I may be an old hermit, but I enjoy company once in a while.”
“I was happy to do it. If you ever want to visit, feel free to stop by. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to come out here much.”
Mr. Jenkins shook his hand. “I appreciate it. Take care o’ that ma of yours. She’s a special lady.”
Carsten mounted Sarai and rode off, only afterward wondering how Mr. Jenkins knew his ma. Maybe Ma could answer that question.