Like the time Loco Larry Peters used a fake money-making machine as a bribe to get out of jail. It had lots of knobs and cranks on it, and turned out shiny new greenbacks every hour. The kicker was the chump who fell for it was the very same town sheriff who’d already arrested Loco for running still another scam.
That sheriff of all people should have known how crooked Peters was, but, strange as it may seem, he refused to believe a jailbird like Larry would ever be brazen enough to sell a lawman something so obviously fake. Since nobody could be that foolish, he rationalized, the machine must therefore be real. Curiously the idea of a machine falling into his hands that made real money was so ludicrous and Larry’s pitch so smooth, the sheriff was forced to believe it. He bought Loco’s sales pitch, hook, line, and sawbuck. Of course the marshal’s greed was also a contributing factor, one the con artist was glad to take advantage of.
They never did catch Loco Larry, but eventually the sheriff ended up in his own jail after trying to spend those machine-made greenbacks. Seems the first couple of bills cranked out of the box, the ones the sheriff saw Larry Peters make, were real enough, but the rest, not surprisingly, turned out to be counterfeit.
As far-fetched as it seems, when suddenly forced to deal with something incredible, or something outrageous, many people, like the sheriff, simply can’t handle it. Looking as misbegotten as I did, the last thing I would ever be mistaken for was a wealthy cattle baron, so that’s exactly what I decided to play.
“Yes, sir,” I said, sweeping the dust off my chaps with my hat as if I owned the place. “Just got into town and decided to cut right to the quick. As my old uncle Zeke always says, the best businessmen are the ones who get a jump on the competition.”
The bank manager, Mr. Alfonse Norwell, a rather timid pencil pusher, was the epitome of the company man. With his pair of wire spectacles, thinning hair, shiny brown vest, and gold watch chain he might have stepped right out of one of those new dime novels.
The man was small-framed, he couldn’t have stood more than five foot three and had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. Loud, boisterous speech apparently was not the norm in this rather sedate establishment, and he actually shuddered when I spoke. I was counting on that effect as well as the fact that I’d caught him off guard by brushing right past his secretary and straight up to his desk. I guess you could say I gave him the old bum’s rush.
“Yep, sold my herd in Colorado for a pretty penny and came straight on here to Californy to buy land and stock it. Rode right through without a stop and that’s a fact. Just got in…didn’t even have a chance to change. Already got my eye on a nice little ranch right near here, next to the McFarlen place I think it is. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll offer to buy him out, too.” I wasn’t giving Alfonse any time to stop and think. “Uncle Zeke always said not to fiddle-faddle around. Go right to the town banker, he’d say. They’ll have all the low-down, if anyone will. So, now, Mister Nor-well, you tell me how to go about buying this little parcel.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “But our bank does have some holdings in the next county you might be interested in. Can I have my secretary bring you some coffee?”
The act was working; he already smelled money to be had.
“Nope, don’t think so. You know, once I got my mind set on something, I usually see it through,” I bellowed. “And I already took a fancy to that ranch.”
“Well, you see, sir, the property I believe you are talking about is already owned by a Mister Brett Davies.”
“So tell me…what’s his price? Everyone’s got one,” I said brashly, purposely brushing more dust off my shirt and onto his desk.
Norwell shook his head emphatically.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Well, to be perfectly frank, I believe you will be disappointed. Of course, I can’t go into all the financial specifics, but I believe Mister Davies is currently trying to expand. In fact, I understand he is in the process of obtaining the McFarlen property next to his for himself. You see, he is a rather influential man around these parts and would be more interested in purchasing than selling.”
For the right amount of money most bankers would sell their own mothers, yet it sounded to me like Mr. Norwell was more interested in furthering Mr. Brett Davies’s goals than in listening to any counter offers.
“Well, you don’t get to be influential without considering all your options, right, Mister Nor-well?” I said, slapping him on the shoulder for added effect. “Now, if you’ll just direct me to the Davies ranch, I believe it’s the Four Box spread, right?” I asked.
“Yes, that is correct,” he answered, adjusting his glasses. He seemed unusually agitated.
“Good, as I was saying, if you’ll just point me in the right direction, I think I’ll have a chat with this Mister Brett Davies. After I brush off some of this trail dust, that is. By the way, mind if I use your name by way of introduction?”
“Uh, certainly,” he replied nervously. “Here let me draw you a map.”
“Mister Norwell, I certainly am obliged.” I shook his hand a little too firmly and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” I added with a wink, “if I close this deal, there will be something in it for you, rest assured. But in case you meet up with this Mister Davies before I get a chance to talk to him, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention our little conversation.”
He nodded to me. “I think I understand.”
I smiled back. “Right, no sense tipping my offer to him before I’ve had a chance to make it stick. Wouldn’t be smart business, now would it?”
“No, of course not,” he answered, wiping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. “Rest assured confidentiality is a trademark of our establishment.”
“Knew it would be, Mister Norwell, knew it would be,” I said, slamming the door behind me.
From the map Mr. Norwell had drawn, I could see why Davies was so interested in the McFarlen place. Brett Davies had bought or stolen all the adjacent lands around until they formed a horseshoe, with the McFarlen ranch smack in its center.
The problem, however, was that the McFarlens had settled on and around the only principle source of water locally. Furthermore, his ranch was situated so as to be the first place travelers from the north and west would pass on the way to town. Someday San Gabriel would grow to attract business from Los Angeles or even from San Francisco, and it wasn’t too difficult to imagine a railroad line being laid down. Should that ever happen, the McFarlens would be as wealthy as anyone could ever want. Unless, of course, Davies had his way.
I debated riding right out to the McFarlen Ranch to explain my situation and to enlist their help, but it occurred to me that Don Enrique might already have wired his brother-in-law about what had happened. If that were the case, McFarlen would probably blame me, too. I could be walking right into a noose.
Wired his brother …. That thought set me to reconsidering something else Pete Evans had said. When I had grilled Evans back in the Arizona Territory, he mentioned that Davies had gotten his information by wire. Logically the telegraph office would be the next place to check out.
For Davies to have known ahead of time a drive was even being planned, he would have to have read McFarlen’s wires from Don Enrique. Since telegraphs are supposed to be confidential, and if that were, in fact, how the rustlers learned our plan, then either someone in the Hernandez camp was sending other telegraphs directly to Davies in California, or he was somehow having private messages intercepted. The latter made more sense to me. More importantly, if true, it also made the local operator suspect.