[W. Fay Boericke, Finance in Fairview, Sunset, February 1907]

 

FINANCE IN FAIRVIEW

By W. FAY BOERICKE

Author of "Sand Springs to Hazen"

            BY PROFESSION I am a promoter, dealing particularly in mining properties. It is an occupation requiring a certain mental makeup that is born, not made. The ideal promoter must have supreme confidence in himself, he must be a keen judge of men, he must be able, after a few minutes of acquaintance, to lay his finger on the weak point in a man's character, concentrate his attack there, and thus carry his proposition successfully.

            All this argues brains, foresight, shrewdness, in certain combination that must be inborn. To be successful he must be willing to take large risks, to carry on without a tremor a stupendous bluff, content only, as is a professional gambler, to keep the percentage in his favor all the time.

            All this does not in any way mean that a promoter is a parasite on the community. On the contrary, the promoter is generally a creator of new values, and hence the means by which new wealth is added to the world. He is the advertising agent by which buyer and seller get together, and as such is entitled to his legitimate reward. Any further return he gets than this is the result of his manipulation of the properties he handles, and he should no more be blamed for this than anyone who bulls something he wants to sell, or bears it when he buys.

            The deal that marked the beginning of my career occurred some years ago. I had been employed as a clerk in one of the large brokerage firms of southern Nevada, and had already saved several hundred dollars from my modest salary. I say this with some pride, for the atmosphere was not one in which economy was encouraged. Our office was filled with men who had made their fortunes on lucky turns of the stock market. Everyone speculated, everyone had a stock that was bound to go up. The air was filled with tips, always bullish. The men who had lost were ever discreetly silent. The town itself, one of the mushroom growths that spring up almost in a night in a mining country, was filled with saloons, gambling houses, and dance-halls. Roulette, faro and craps offered easy and tempting ways to double your capital. My brother clerks were about equally divided between wearing diamond pins, renting automobiles, or trying to break the faro bank, and asking their friends for the price of a meal ticket the following week. It was the typical life of a mining camp—easy come, easy go; won to-day and lost to-morrow.

            Now I do not want to pose as being morally opposed to speculation, whether on the market or on the roulette wheel. (There is little enough difference between the two for the outsider.) But I was firmly determined never to play the other man's game, neither in stocks nor cards. When I should play, it would be I who dealt the cards, and the percentage should be in my favor. I quietly waited until the opportunity should come, and in the meantime was content with the modest five per cent that the bank paid me on my deposit.  The chance came one evening when I was in the Oberon, a pleasing combination of gambling house and restaurant where I used to get my meals. I was looking around for a seat, for it was six o'clock and the room was crowded, when I felt a jerk on my arm. Turning about, I saw a rough looking specimen in a khaki suit and high boots, who held out his hand to me. From his well worn clothes, and free and easy air of independence, I took him for a prospector.

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            "You don't remember me, I suppose ?" he asked.       

            "Can't say I do," I replied, though his face looked familiar.

            "I met you six months ago around here," he answered. "Was dead broke—the tinhorns had got to me good and plenty. You staked me to a meal and a fiver I think, and I want to pay you back. Take dinner with me."

            Then I remembered. He told me, as we opened a bottle of Bud together, of his wanderings during the past year. Strange and unco' names flowed from his lips in a steady stream. He had prospected in all the new camps, covering all points of the compass, without finding anything worth while, until he struck Fairview.

            "Where's that ?" I interrupted.

            "I'm telling you," he continued. "It hasn't been heard of so far. And the guineas who are there don't know what a mighty fine proposition they have yet. I've got claims there that are good, and you can play that hunch straight up to the limit. I ain't worrying any more about the future. And I'm putting you next, in a friendly and Christian spirit. If you get out there before the boom, you can pick up something good, and turn it easy when the hooray strikes it."

            "How do you get out there?" I asked, interested.

            "Best way is to go from here to Austin and then to Fairview. It's two hundred miles, no less. You can probably work your way up with a prospecting outfit, or you can buy a horse, and ride. There's plenty of ranches up Smoky River Valley where you can get feed. But you'd better hurry. The boom's liable to come any minute, and then there'll be nothing to it. I saw Westfield in there before I left and he'll start it within a week."

            "I'm much obliged to you," I said as we parted later. "I'll think it over and decide quick."

            "You want to," he returned. "And another thing—don't be afraid to plunge, if you do go up there. That country has the ore."

            That night I decided to go to Fairview. There was no reason to suspect that the information I had just received was false.

            No one had anything to gain by sending me there. Moreover, it was my own game to handle as I pleased. I resigned from the brokerage company, drew all my savings from the bank in paper money—for cash talks in a boom camp—bought a horse and set out for Austin the next day.

            It was one hundred and thirty miles thither, and I made it in four days, fairly quick time, considering the state of the roads and the difficulty of procuring water. I found the town fairly surcharged with excitement. It seemed that I was too late; the news of the wonderful richness of the Fairview strike had already leaked out. Every saloon was crowded with men talking, gesticulating, contradicting. The wildest stories were believed of the values uncovered on the surface. But men in such a state of mind as they were will believe anything. They moved as if in a kind of frenzy. The only prevalent idea was to get out, at once, at any cost. A stranger might have thought that a plague had struck Austin. Every wagon and vehicle in town had long since been bought; burros were guarded at night with loaded rifles. My entrance along the main street meant that I should be instantly surrounded with a crowd of eager bidders for my horse. This was remarkable, as horses are generally not cared for in the desert country, requiring as they do expensive feed and equally expensive water—six dollars a barrel was the price reported in Fairview.

            I was in no hurry to sell, however. I tied the pony outside a saloon (keeping a careful eye on him the while) bought a drink, and was all ears to the talk around me. In the pauses I tried to get a clear grip on the situation.

            A little reflection showed me it was better than I thought at first. In the first place, I was only seventy miles from Fairview, a good hundred miles nearer than anyone in the south. Even if they had already received the news, I had all of a three-day start on them. Prices of all good properties had naturally taken a tremendous bound, I reasoned, which was unfortunate for me. But I still might get in before they reached the top notch figure. But it must be at once.

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With the pony I could not do it in less than three days, with a bad, unknown road, and scarcity of water. I dismissed that idea immediately.

            There was only one course open. The wise promoter knows that the truest economy often involves the most seeming extravagance. I sold the pony for eighty dollars--an exorbitant figure. Having burned my bridges behind me, I went to the chaffeur who had charge of the only automobile in town, on which was labeled:

and asked to have a seat reserved for me when it started, which was in an hour.

            He shook his head. "Nothin' doing. I'm loaded to the mudguards now; couldn't crowd another pound on for love or money. As it is, I've got three extra tires, and expect to use 'em all, and twice the amount of gasoline. This car has never broke down yet, but it's got the chance of its life this trip. Yer see, I can't help you out."

            He was perfectly correct—it was impossible to crowd another man on. "In that case," said I, "will you point out to me some of the men who are going?"

            "There's one by the Big Strike saloon —him in a blue flannel shirt with his sleeves tore open."

            Going over, I accosted him of torn flannel, and told him bluntly I wanted to buy his seat.

            "Won't sell it," he answered.

            "Give you sixty dollars."

            "No."

            "Seventy."

            "No."

            "Eighty."

            He began to waver. I noticed with pleasure that quite a crowd had collected around us. Though disliking cheap notoriety, I saw in this case it would further my ends by proclaiming me a man with money.

            "No, it's worth more than eighty dollars for me to get out there," he blurted out.

            I knew I had him, and need not exceed my bid.

            "Anyone else here who's going in the auto ?" I called loudly.

            "Hold on," he said. "We may do some business yet. It's yours for eighty-five dollars." I closed with him on the spot.

            When we started, an hour later, I noted complacently that I was favored with many stares and curious glances from my fellow passengers. Evidently the story had spread. They tried to find out who I was, why I was going into camp, who were backing me, but I copied the proverbial oyster. Result—they manufactured theories to suit themselves, the favorite being—so I overhead—that I was the confidential representative of the biggest banking house in Tonopah, one man declaring, in mysterious secret, that he had often seen me closeted with the president.

            We made the trip over the desert in seven hours without a break-down, which was a truly remarkable run. Half past nine at night we came puffing up Main street—a sad looking path between partially cleared sage-brush, flanked on either side with tents. There were no frame buildings, and hardly a stick of timber in the whole camp. Inside most of the tents were improvised bars, where drinks were sold, of dubious quality, at a quarter apiece. Then there was a general supply store, more saloons, and a somewhat larger tent, marked Grand Hotel. Beds consisted of a mattress and a pair of blankets, and were in active demand at two dollars.

            I sauntered down to the saloon having the largest number of men within, and bought drinks for the crowd. Then I laid back and listened. Without saying much, I contrived to give them the idea that I was either a capitalist myself, or represented capital. I wanted to get their attitude.

            This was not hard. The actual owners of the ground, who had already made valid locations or vicinity of the new strike, were plainly up in the air. They were torn between greed and caution. Every business instinct they possessed urged them to sell their holdings while the boom was on. But had it reached its height? On this point they could only guess, while I had definite knowledge. I knew it had not.

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            That night I made arrangements with one of the men I had met to look at his claims, which, he declared, were only half a mile distant from the scene of the big strike on the "Nevada Hills." He was a short, heavy-set fellow—I was a good six inches taller—with sandy hair, faded to a nondescript color by the scorching desert sun. His eyes troubled me. They were narrow, slanting, and suspicious, belonging to a man who rings a dollar before pocketing it. It looked like a hard game.

            Next morning we started out early, before the heat of the day. On sizing up a prospect I was not entirely a "sucker." A constant acquaintance with mining men had taught me a vast amount of practical knowledge, which I had supplemented by reading and observation. After all, the main thing one needs is merely common sense. There is nothing mysterious about it. If the average person put as much acumen in buying a mine or a prospect as he does in an ordinary business deal, instead of regarding the whole thing as a blind gamble, there would be less agitation in favor of an anti-wildcat law.

            I let Craney—the owner of the ground —do the talking. That is the easiest way to catch a man if you suspect anything shaky. But in this case the ground spoke for itself. The main strike on the Nevada Hills was only eight or nine hundred yards off. The outcroppings of the two properties looked identical, and from the strike of the ledge there was no doubt but that it went through Craney's property. Surface rock, though not panning gold along the paystreak, showed a heavy line of black sulphides which I judged carried silver in good amount. This was confirmed by assays shown me. I sampled the ledge myself, however, clear across, in a painstaking manner. Then we went back to camp.

            It is not always wise to trust the assayer of a camp too completely. Frequently he has an interest in the claims about to be sold, and it is for his interest to see that a good return is given. There are many tricks of the trade that accomplish this without making too severe a strain on his conscience. The assayer, if accused of salting, may say with entire truth that the specimen was badly "spotted," which made it impossible to get a fair sample. So I therefore assayed the specimens myself, making use of the knowledge I had picked up from hanging around a friend's laboratory in Tonopah.

            The results were better than I hoped. I remembered the words of the man I saw before I left, "Don't be afraid to plunge —that country has the ore." I hunted up Craney, told him I had received a fair return from the samples—I took good care none but myself should know the results—and might consider taking up the proposition, should we arrive at suitable terms.

            He evidently had enough faith in his property to believe I would come to him, for his price was ready. "Them claims are worth every cent of fifteen thousand dollars," he said bluntly.

            "Oh, come, Mr. Craney," I said, though the price was as reasonable as I had a right to expect. "Consider what you've got. You have a surface showing, not even a gopher hole to test the depth. How do I know that it's not a blanket deposit, and play out before I go six feet?

            "The formation's the same as the Nevada Hills," he answered truthfully. "And it hasn't played out, by a long shot, though they have a sixty-foot shaft. No, the price I give you is the lowest."

            "Well, I'll think it over," said I, after some further parley. "Be down at the Gold Reef saloon to-night at eight, and I'll tell you if we can make a deal."

            That afternoon I spent principally at the Gold Reef. My stock of ready money was rapidly disappearing, but it would never do to let up at this stage of the game. I became especially intimate with the barkeeper and proprietor, a man of considerable influence in the camp. I played seven-up with him and took good care to lose most of the time. Each time this happened, I produced a fat roll of bills, on the outside of which a yellow fifty clung impressively. It is needless to say that said fifty reposed in solitary grandeur on top of the roll, which itself had been skillfully padded. By eight o'clock my reputation as a good fellow

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was quoted high. The corollary, entirely unjustified, but the favorite one that the world draws, that I had plenty of money, went likewise.

            Promptly at eight o'clock Craney entered. I motioned him to a side table where we were by ourselves to some extent, and got down to business at once.

            "Mr. Craney," I began, "I've been thinking your proposition over, and though your price is high, I admit I like the looks of your ground. My people—er—that is—I did not contemplate paying so much for a mere prospect. Nevertheless,—"

            But he was firm. "You won't make any mistake, Mr. Russell," he said. "That property is worth every cent of what I want, and I can get it if I wait around."

            "I doubt it," I said. "Still, I'll take a chance. I'll give you fifteen thousand for your claim, with a clear title recorded."

            "Done," he replied.

            "Now we'll have another little drink, and we'll all get in it," said I, motioning to the barkeeper.

            I produced a well-worn check book—a new one is always regarded with suspicion. The time had come for the most difficult part of my role. I, who had not a cent remaining in the bank, had to give a check for fifteen thousand dollars, and make this form of payment in a camp where gold, and gold alone, was the only medium of exchange.

            "If you want," I said nonchalantly, striving to keep my face from flushing, "I'll write you a check for the amount now."

            Every suspicion in Craney's make-up gashed out. "Say," he called, in a tone quite different from his former, "is that check certified?"

            "Certainly not," I retorted loudly. "When a man gets a hurry call from—er —gets a hurry call to come up here, he hasn't time to lose a day by going to the bank to get his checks certified. I didn't, anyhow. Do I understand you refuse my check?"

            There was a little murmur from the men around us. They were as much interested in seeing the sale go through as I was. It would be the first big deal made, and a splendid ad for the camp. The price dazzled them—fifteen thousand dollars for a piece of ground not worth a dollar an acre a few weeks ago.

            Craney made no answer, and I saw he was wavering. I knew too much to stay there at that time. Closing my check book with a snap, I slipped my fountain pen in my pocket, and turned on my heel. "Sorry the deal's off, Mr. Craney," I remarked, going out of the door. "Perhaps some obliging person may oblige you next time with gold coin—but not for fifteen thousand."

            I went up to the Grand Hotel, drew out a chair, lit a dry and very bad cigar, and waited. It took just thirty minutes for Craney to be overwhelmed by the voice of popular opinion. I imagined the arguments they used against him—my appearance, the break I had made concerning "my people," the easy way I had spent money, and finally the utter lack of risk, merely involving a trip to the Tonopah Bank, which would not take over a week at the most. Most powerful of all, I reasoned, to a person of his character, was that someone else would take me to-morrow and interest me in another property, and he would thus lose me for good and all. In half an hour he came up where I was sitting, and was a very, very good dog. No aspersion was meant to be cast on my check, and he was sorry if I had gathered as much from his actions, which certainly intended to convey no such sentiments. If still agreeable to me, he would like to put through the sale on the old terms.

            "Well, Mr. Craney," said I, "I don't blame you for being suspicious. A check book isn't hard to acquire, and I know many people are stuck by them. As I said, I'm not terrifically anxious to close this deal, as I'm exceeding my limit on it. However, I like your ground, so—your initials are C. P.?"

            I tossed the little slip of blue paper over to him, and imagined the look of amazement with which the teller would regard it when presented.

            "Here you are; I think that is correct," I said. And before you take that little trip to Tonopah, I want you to get your

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location notice recorded, and the rest of the papers attended to. I want a clear title, you understand."

            "Certainly," he agreed. It was important enough to get the papers, but infinitely more so to keep him in Fairview the next day or two. Each hour gained meant so much more chance of swinging the deal. I figured that Westfield had let the news out by this time, and that the road was already crowded with automobiles, teams, and supply wagons, filled with men hoping to get in on the ground floor. I expected them in Fairview in two days.

            So there was nothing to it but to wait. I set three men to work on the claim, trenching across the vein where I had got the assays. The width was better than I expected, and the quartz, stained to a red-brown, was very promising.

            Craney left the camp Wednesday for Tonopah, and I knew the crisis was rapidly approaching. Thursday at noon the first automobile, dusty and oily, came puffing up Main street. It was loaded with men, among whom I recognized some of the most prominent operators of Goldfield and Tonopah. Fortunately, none of them knew me.

            The very advent of these men, any one of whom could draw his check for fifty thousand on his own credit, had a tremendous effect on the camp. Town lots doubled in price the next hour. Ragged prospectors, with hardly the price of a meal in their battered overalls, talked of thousands as if already in their grasp. Stocks in mere prospects took jumps and bounds on the simple statement that it was near the big strike.

            But I knew that the majority of the big men—two more autos had come in during the meantime—were too old to be stampeded. They would look around first. So instead of joining the crowd surrounding Dixon, Westfield, Gates, and Stoddard—the four biggest men in Goldfield—I went off to the "Quien Sabe," as I had named my ground, and talked with the men, while examining the latest developments.

            Late in the afternoon, I saw the big four examining the strike on the Nevada Hills. After spending some time there, they proceeded slowly along the dike, following the line of the outcroppings. They were headed for the "Quien Sabe," as the ledge went directly through it. I lit a cigar, and sat down on a boulder until they came up.

            "Howdy, gentlemen," said Dixon, evidently taking us all for partners, as he came within range. "Any objection to our looking over your property ?"

            "Help yourselves," I answered. "This is the 'Quien Sabe' claim, and we've got nothing to hide."

            "Thank you," said Stoddard, courteously. "We'd like to examine this ledge, if you don't mind."

            "Certainly. Here's a pick if you want. The quartz you have in your hand runs very well. Same character as Nevada Hills."

            "Looks that way," returned Stoddard. "But—"

            "Say," interrupted Westfield here. "Don't this property belong to Craney?"

            "It did," said I, calmly. "Now I own it."

            Westfield cursed audibly.

            "How wide is your ledge," asked Gates.

            "Measure yourself," said I. "And sample across if you want to. I don't mind free advertising. I'll tell you, if you want, that the paystreak averages $80.00 in silver, with some gold values."

            They filled an ore bag up with specimens and marked it. Then Dixon said:

            "You're in town here, Mr.—"

            "Russell," said I. "Yes."

            "We may want to talk to you later in the evening."

            "All right. I'm around at the Grand."

            I bought for the men when they quit work at five o'clock, and hinted at silence. They were reliable, and I was sure they would say nothing.

            The big four came to me about eight that night, and after some skirmishing, said flatly they wished to buy the "Quien Sabe" outright from me.

            "Won't listen to it," said I. "That ground will make any man's fortune. If there's a trace of merit in the whole camp, it's on the "Quien Sabe." No, I won't sell it outright."

            "Well," said Gates, "we might arrange for you to keep an interest in it."

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            "State your proposition, "said I, easily. "I'll listen to it."

            "We'll form a company, and give you fifty thousand shares of stock, to be pooled with ours. That will give you a good interest."

            "What else?"

            "Ten thousand dollars in cash." "Couldn't think of it," said I, which was entirely true.

            There was a minute's silence.

            "You'll excuse us," said Gates.

            "Certainly," I replied, rising from the table, and standing by the door out of earshot. They conversed together for a short time while I bit my cigar to pieces. Finally Gates called me.

            "Mr. Russell," he said, "we'll give you the stock and fifteen thousand dollars in cash. These are our highest terms."

            I paused judiciously. "Gentlemen," said I, "it's a waste of time for me to boost for the property. You've sampled it yourselves and have the assay returns with you. You know the Nevada Hills are sacking ore on the thirty-foot level, and I expect to do the same. I'm not particularly anxious to sell anyway, and certainly not at those terms."

            "Well, what are your terms?"

            "Seventeen thousand, five hundred, in cash, ten thousand more in sixty days, and fifty thousand shares of stock," I answered briskly.

            No one replied. "We'll give you an answer to-morrow, Mr. Russell," said Gates, as they filed out.

            During the night an auto filled with Reno capitalists came in. The next morning I had scarcely got out of my blankets before Gates came up, and without a word, handed me a certified check for $17,500.00.

            "We've decided to accept your terms, Mr. Russell," he said. If you come with me, we'll make out the necessary papers."

            Half an hour later I went hurriedly up to the chauffeur of one of the biggest cars, and said:

            "What time does the Tonopah train leave Hazen?"

            "Five o'clock."

            "Can you make it?"

            He shrugged his shoulders.

            "Well, take a chance. What's it worth to you?"

            "Fifty dollars."

            "A hundred if you make it. Start right off."

            In spite of steep grades, bad roads, and sand six inches deep, we reached Hazen, just in time. The last two miles was a race against the train itself, but the road was good, and we beat it in, much to the chagrin of some sporting men on the rear platform.

            I reached Tonopah the next morning, and as soon as the bank opened, I deposited the check. Craney had not arrived. He had gone around by Austin, and I thought he would get in that morning, if he had an averagely good trip. Hence my anxiety to catch the train at Tonopah, and save a precious day's delay.

            Later, in the afternoon, Craney arrived, and seemed surprised to see me. I introduced him to the cashier of the bank, and the last step in the deal was terminated.

            In the evening I remember meeting Clarkson, one of the clerks in the brokerage firm in which I was formerly employed. "Great Scott ! Russell," he exclaimed, "where've you been and what's doing? Never saw you look so bad in my life. You must have been off on a week's spree. Bet you've lost ten pounds since I saw you last."

            "Maybe you're right," I remarked.

            "Cost you some money, too," he continued, grinning. "You must have cut a wide swath through your bank roll."

            "Right again," said I. "I've spent about five hundred this week."

            "That will be a good one to tell the boys—Puritan Russell cutting loose at last. Going to start an office of your own now, or a bank, maybe as you've thrown up your old job ?"

            "I'm considering it," I answered gravely.

            A note from my broker's market letter before me reads that shares in the "Quien Sabe" are advancing rapidly in a buoyant market.