CHAPTER VI – THE TOWN BOOMER
ABOUT TWO WEEKS after Vance Gilder arrived in Butte City, he noticed one morning that everybody was talking about a new town, and each was asking the others what they thought about it. Glancing at the hotel register, he saw the name, Homer Winthrop, of Waterville, Idaho.
In looking over the Butte City Miner and the Inter-Mountain Blade, both healthy dailies and well edited, he was somewhat astonished to find a full-page advertisement in each of the papers, setting forth in blazing splendor the great Thief River Valley, and signed by Homer Winthrop as agent, announcing that he would be at the Mercury Hotel for a short time, and inviting those who were interested in investing a little money in a purely agricultural city, to come early and “get in on the ground floor.”
The advertisement represented Waterville as being in the midst of the great Thief River Valley, with the largest water power in the country, surrounded by an agricultural district of two million acres of the richest land the sun ever shone down upon. He termed the new town of Waterville the “City of Destiny,” and said the price of town lots would quadruple in a few years’ time.
Vance was at once interested. “Here,” said he to himself, “is a genuine town boomer, and as the fellow is stopping at this hotel, it will be an easy matter to learn just how this boom business is operated. It will make an excellent article for the Banner.”
Accordingly, about eleven o’clock that forenoon he called to see the irrepressible town boomer and hear what sort of a marvelous story he had to tell about Waterville.
He was quickly admitted into a reception room by a young gentleman who assured him that Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure, and begged him to be seated, calling his attention to the numerous maps on the walls, one of which covered nearly the entire side of the room.
Winthrop’s young assistant seemed to know his business, and at once commenced the preliminary skirmish of interesting Vance in the great Thief River Valley, and especially town lots in Waterville; but as Vance did not evince any inclination to purchase, the young fellow endeavored to so impress him by calling his attention to the advertisements in the morning papers. Every once in a while he would tip-toe over to the door where the great town-boomer, Homer Winthrop, was holding a private conversation with a would-be purchaser. He would put his ear to the keyhole and listen for a moment, and then come tip-toeing back and assure Vance Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure.
Presently the door opened and a gentleman in miner’s garb came out, and Vance was immediately shown in. As he entered the private room of Homer Winthrop, he involuntarily paused to study, if but for a moment, the face of the man who had arrived in Butte City late the night before, and now had everyone in the place agog over the prospects of a new town that had just been laid out on paper in the Thief River Valley.
Homer Winthrop, with all the easy grace of a Chesterfield, motioned his visitor to a seat, pushing a box of very superior Havanas toward him, and invited him to join him in burning a weed. He was a man above the average height, inclined to be rather slender, and possessed a rather good looking face, beaming with good nature and apparent frankness; a pair of intelligent dark eyes that laughed and smiled with as much expression as the face, changeable, however, into intenseness and earnestness seldom met with; a broad, intellectual forehead; a rather square chin, indicating great determination of character. To this add a luxuriant head of dark hair, and moustache, otherwise a clean-shaven face, and the reader will have a fair idea of his appearance.
He was evidently an adept in reading human nature, and knew his man on sight; had seen much of western life – and yet it required no second interview to discover in him the polished manners and easy grace of one who has seen much of refinement and culture. He could have entered into the gaieties of a reception in a Fifth Avenue mansion with as little effort as he had stirred up a city of 50,000 people in a few hours over the magnificent prospects of a new town that was just budding into existence.
Vance accepted the proffered cigar, and they easily engaged in conversation. They discussed the great out put of ore from the mines of Butte City, and the wonderful development of the western country during recent years; the magnificent mining properties that had been opened up; and, in fact, nearly everything except Waterville and the great Thief River Valley. Homer Winthrop with the skill of a tactician, narrated incidents and legends of different miners who had devoted a lifetime in searching for the precious metal and finally “struck it rich” in some out-of-the-way, unexpected place.
Vance finally inquired in regard to the new town of Waterville, and was not a little surprised at the conservative reply he received, wholly devoid of any enthusiasm.
“Oh,” said Winthrop, “we have a very excellent agricultural country in the valley. We are building our new town of Waterville on the rapids of the Thief River. It has, perhaps, the greatest water power of any inland city in the United States. Many believe a great citv will eventually be built at that point. We also have a great deal of capital invested in the construction of irrigating canals, reclaiming the valley lands from their present arid condition and converting them into productive farms.” He also went on, in a voice full of rhythm that was almost musical in its intonation, explaining in a modest way why many people believed in the future of the place, touching on the numerous natural resources that were apparent to everyone sufficiently interested to visit the valley and see for himself.
Vance was deeply interested in Homer Winthrop’s appearance, and later found himself charmed with his new acquaintance more than he cared to admit, even to himself. On taking his leave, he promised to call again the next day. As Vance stepped into the reception room, he found it almost filled with miners and tradesmen who were waiting for an interview’ with Mr. Winthrop, and he rightly guessed that a profitable business was being done.
In thinking over his interview with the town boomer of Waterville, Vance was compelled to admit that he was one of the most attractive individuals with whom he had ever come in contact. That afternoon he finished a letter to the Banner, but it contained no reference to Waterville.
The result of his second interview was that he accepted an invitation to visit the new town, which was some two hundred miles distant. Agreeable to this arrangement, they left Butte City early one morning, and that evening reached Waterville.
Vance was not particularly attracted by the general appearance and “lay” of the new town site. It appeared crude and unfinished, and abounded with sage brush and sand. The waters of the rapids, however, in their mad rushing as they went foaming down the narrows like race horses, impressed him with a belief that nothing had been overdrawn in regard to this great natural power, which had been idling its time away for centuries.
Homer stood by his side on the rocky bank, but said nothing.
Presently Vance looked up and said: “What a wonderful power is going to waste in these rapids!”
“It will soon be harnessed,” replied Winthrop, “and this vast power utilized in many manufacturing enterprises. I do not feel,” he continued, “that I am over-estimating facts, Mr. Gilder, when I say there is power enough here to turn every spindle in every woolen mill and factory in the United States.”
“My only surprise,” replied Vance, “is that these waters have not been put to use long before this.”
That night at the hotel Vance felt he was indeed “roughing it.” He rose in the morning feeling but little refreshed, and sat down to a very unpalatable breakfast, and immediately afterwards started with Homer Winthrop on a drive through the valley.
The farmers were busy harvesting their grain, and on inquiry they learned the yield of wheat was from forty to seventy bushels to the acre, and that oats yielded from sixty to one hundred bushels to the acre. Vance was greatly astonished, and became almost enthusiastic over the agricultural possibilities of the valley.
“Why,” said he, “Mr. Winthrop, there is no question but this is destined to be one of the richest agricultural valleys in the world. In my work on the Banner I have had occasion to look up statistics on grain products, and if these farmers are telling the truth in regard to the yield of their crops, there is no other place like it in the United States.”
A moment after, he was chagrined to think he had given way to such a burst of enthusiasm. It would have been better for him to remain a listener, and allow Winthrop to grow enthusiastic in praise of the country. Winthrop, however, took no advantage of Vance’s earnestness.
The day was a perfect one; the sun was shining, and yet there was a cool, invigorating breeze sweeping gently down from the snow-capped Tetons. Driving rapidly and pleasantly along, they at last found themselves near the foot-hills on a slight elevation overlooking the valley to the west. Alighting from the carriage, Vance followed Winthrop’s lead, and soon they found themselves on a table rock, at a sufficient elevation to see for many miles to the north, south and west. For a few minutes Vance contemplated the sight in silence, and then said: “This is indeed a grand sight.” Turning to Winthrop, he continued:
“I have seen many beautiful sights – the Green and White Mountains of New England, the Cumberland of Virginia, and the mighty Rocky Mountains through Colorado but standing here on the foot hills, with the mountains rising behind us to the sky, with their hoary crests even on this July day capped with snow, and these mountain streams, foaming cataracts, all shimmering in the sunshine, making sweet and restful harmony in their ceaseless flow, surpasses anything I have ever seen. The valley itself looks like a vast green sward stretching before us like a map. The yellow shocks of golden grain in the farming districts are suggestive of what may be in years to come. No man can look upon such a promising picture and not be convinced of the commercial importance which will attend the development of this valley.”
During Vance’s outburst of ecstacy, Homer Winthrop said nothing, merely acquiescing, in a modest way, to all Vance expressed.
Returning to Waterville, they partook of a sumptuous repast, which Winthrop had ordered especially prepared, Consisting principally of mountain trout, caught that morning in the Thief River.
After lunch Vance accepted an invitation to smoke and walk out over the town site.
“This,” said Winthrop, “is block fourteen of Eagle’s addition. You see it is less than three blocks from the center of the town. It is one of the choicest blocks we have. If you want me to give you some advice, Mr. Gilder, I will do so, and say, buy a few of these lots. The price is only $100 each, and, in my judgment, they will be worth $500 before five years from to-day.”
Vance looked away into the distance at the farm lands, and the music of the sickle was borne lazily to him by a gentle breeze; then he turned his gaze toward the river, where the roaring waters were crowding down the rapids, proclaiming in thundering tones that Waterville was an exception to the rule. After a little he turned to Homer Winthrop and said: “I have been advised to keep clear of these new towns. The person who gave me this advice told me there were a few honorable exceptions to the rule. I must believe, from what I have seen, that Waterville is an exception. I will take twenty-five of these lots, and you may fix up the deed for them as soon as possible.”
The deed and abstract were delivered to Vance that afternoon, and his check for $2,500 was duly deposited in Homer Winthrop’s pocket.
“I may have been foolish,” said Vance, “to act so hastily in this matter.”
Winthrop turned to him, and placing a hand on either shoulder, looked squarely into his companion’s eyes, and said:
“My belief, Mr. Gilder, is that you have acted wisely, and if you will keep these lots five years, you will thank me for suggesting the advisability of making the purchase. I have but one request to make – that you will wait five years before passing judgment on my advice.”
“Your request is cheerfully granted,” replied Vance with great earnestness, and the two men clasped hands, and a bond of friendship was thereby woven.
CHAPTER VII. – A VISIT TO WATERVILLE
A NEW WESTERN TOWN is usually provided with a public square, and the business houses and shops are arranged along the four sides of it in sentinel-like position, the corner lots going at a premium, and where the most substantial buildings are erected. Waterville, however could not boast of a public square, but it had two iron bridges spanning the Thief River.
A large stone grist mill had been built on the side of the river opposite the town, and on the elevated ground beyond, it was said the State Agricultural College was to be built.
It was a favorite pastime with the real estate agents to sit on the depot platform, and while waiting for the incoming trains, to whittle pine sticks into shavings, telling of the different manufactories, state institutions, colleges and asylums, etc., that would be located in the near future at Waterville.
That evening after Vance had made his purchase of town lots he strolled away by himself across the great iron bridge, and gave himself up to meditation. Had he acted wisely? Would Waterville after all prove a “boom town” and his investment a losing one? Was Homer Winthrop, with his suave manners and great earnestness, which at times seemed to carry conviction to the hearts of all who heard him express himself, the noble specimen of manhood he appeared to be, or were his fascinations merely the arts of the ordinary skilled western boomer? Would the managing editor approve his action in purchasing lots in such a new and undeveloped place as Waterville?
It is a common experience with mankind, that after a doubtful transaction has been consummated, we can deliberate with far more intentness of thought than before the trade was made.
A peculiarity of a western town is its plentifulness of real estate agents, who seem to travel in swarms, and find an abiding place in the town that promises the greatest activity.
After a reaction sets in and hard times overtake them, this peculiar class usually pick up their “ink-horns” and fly, as from a pestilence.
Another peculiarity is, that if a trade is made with a “tender-foot” everyone in the village usually knows of it in a very few hours.
As Vance was returning from his walk he was met on the outskirts of the village by a number of this class of hangers-on, who make their living by selling town lots on commission. Each one was desirous of saying “just a word” to Vance in private.
The story of one was practically the story of all. They advised him to stop and think what he was losing by not buying more property in Waterville. One particularly long, lank individual, who wore a sombrero and high-topped boots, assured him that “the opportunity of a lifetime was at that very minute knocking at his door; it might never come again.”
“You might go away from Waterville,” said he, “and come back here in a few mouths’ time, and you’ll find the town lots I can sell you to-day for a mere song, going at ten times the price that you can buy them for now. My name is Steve Gibbons, and I presume I am doing the biggest real estate business in Waterville. I sell more lots than any other half dozen agents in town. You’ve made a great mistake, Mr. Gilder,” said he, “in buying of the Town Company. Of course, this is confidential, but if you had come to me instead of buying of Winthrop, I could have saved you big money.”
“What do you mean by ‘the company’.” asked Vance.
“Why, you see, the Waterville Town Company own mighty near all the property in town.
That man Winthrop is a member of the company. Now, while I have not as many lots for sale as the Town Company, my prices beat them all holler.”
“Do you think,” asked Vance, “that Mr. Winthrop charged me too much for my lots?”
“Think!” said Steve Gibbons, “think? why, pardner, all the agents in town are laughin’ about it; he took you in.”
Vance bit his lips, and mentally concluded to investigate very thoroughly before he quit Waterville.
“You see,” Gibbons went on, “all us fellers are down on the Town Company. We don’t like corporations, nohow; they don’t give us honorable-intentioned fellers a fair chance. We are the men that’s buildin’ up this here town – givin’ it the bone, and the sinew, and the standin’, so to speak. Don’t you see?”
“Yes,” said Vance, “I understand,” and begging to be excused, he turned and walked away from the “honorable-intentioned” Steve Gibbons, and soon after sought the privacy of his own room in the Ballard House.
Dick Ballard was a Grand Army man, and kept the only hotel of any importance in Waterville. The only thing first-class about it was the price for lodging. Immediately after the average traveler settled his bill at the Ballard, there was generally a half-distinct impression in his mind that he had been stopping at a first-class hotel, but the remembrance of three kinds of meat cooked in the same kettle was not easily forgotten.
As Vance sat in his room, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, there came a gentle knock on his door. He quickly admitted his visitor, and found it was Dick Ballard, the proprietor.
“I reckon,” said he, as soon as he stepped in, “you’ll be one of us by and by. Bought property already, and a mighty good buy you’ve made of it, too. Oh, you know a good thing when you see it; you bet yer life you do.”
“Do you think,” said Vance, “the lots I purchased were reasonable at the price?”
“I should say so; yes, sir, mighty cheap. This here town is comin out of the kinks in fine shape. We’ll have a drum corps in our State militia before another year; you bet we will. I presume you know we have the finest drilled company at Waterville, outside the regular army, in the state?”
“I have been told,” said Vance, “that I paid too much for the property. I am more interested in learning the truth or untruth of the statement than I am about your militia company.”
“Who told you that:” asked Ballard, with indignation. As Vance did not answer, the hotel proprietor went on to say: “I’ll bet it was J. Arthur Boast. Now, look’ee here, Mr. Gilder, you can’t believe everything these fellers tell you.”
The truth of this remark pressed itself on Vance so forcibly, and his indignation getting the better of him, he turned upon Dick Ballard and said bitterly:
“Who in thunderation can I believe?”
“You can believe me, sir, and I’ll produce prima facie evidence of everything I say. This town is all right; your investment is a good one, and the man who says it is not is surely trying to stick his nose into other people’s business – but, say, hold on a minute,” said Ballard, as if he had forgotten something, “will you take a drink?” and he produced a bottle from his pocket.
“No, thank you,” said Vance.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I will,” said the landlord, as he proceeded to treat himself to a liberal portion of the contents of his bottle.
“Now,” said he, as he sat down smacking his lips, “everything I tell you is prima facie. I know how it is; some of these fellows have been trying to make you dissatisfied with your purchase. I am not selling town lots. My business is to run this hotel and see that everybody has a fair deal.”
“Who is the Town Company?” asked Vance.
“The Town Company, sir, consists of some of the most remarkable men in this country. They are strong men, brainy men; they are hustlers; and I,” said Ballard, rising to his feet, “I am their friend. This man, Homer Winthrop,” he went on, “carries more gray matter about on his brain than all the shark real estate agents in Waterville put together. He is one of the company, but you’ll see them all before long; and when you do, I know you’ll agree with me in saying they are the cleanest cut lot of men on the continent. Winthrop is a great man, but there are others in the company that are a mighty sight stronger than he is. They are all men of honor, and their integrity is prima facie.”
“Prima facie” seemed to be a favorite expression of Dick Ballard’s. After he had delivered himself in the strongest language at his command, he treated himself to another drink and retired.
Vance sat far into the night, looking out at his window into the mellow moonlight, listening to the ceaseless roar of the waters and the yelping coyotes in the distance, which were answered by half a dozen dogs in different parts of the town. At times he regretted his purchase, and again he felt it must, in the very nature of things, increase many times in value in a few years.
The moon came up the eastern sky, and seemed to hang in space like a ball of fire, beckoning him to return to his eastern home before disaster overtook him. The three great Tetons of the mountain range bearing their name stood out in bold relief, throwing long, menacing shadows directly towards him. The shimmering of the soft moonbeams glistened on the restless waters of the musical river, whose alluring song of promise and power was wafted to him on the night wind.