THE NEXT COUPLE OF days were spent looking around town. Virgil was quickly convinced that Denver was the major trade center for the Colorado settlements. Yet he sensed that all business and trade was tied directly to the gold camps. He decided that the camps were the place to start.
Earl suggested a week’s trip to Black Hawk. Located a few miles east of Central City, Black Hawk was the second-richest camp in the mountains. Upon arriving there, Virgil discovered that the town was in the midst of a transformation. Once Earl found a poker game, his time was his own, and he set about investigating the process of mining gold. He found there was more to it than a greenhorn might suspect.
Any gold rush began with traces of the yellow metal being located in streambeds. Gold derived originally from veins deeply encased in mountainous rock formations. Over long periods of time, erosion due to weather broke the rock apart and loosened subsurface pockets of ore. The runoff from seasonal rains then carried the gold from the vein and eventually deposited it somewhere downstream. The churning action of water and stone abraded the ore until finally it was reduced to nuggets and thin flakes, or even fine dust.
These streambed deposits were the discoveries located by prospectors. The task of separating gold from solid rock had been done by nature, and by panning the streams, which was known as placer mining, the prospector was able to work the deposits. Within a short period of time, however, these surface deposits quickly played out. The prospector then resorted to ever more elaborate methods of dredging the streams for pockets buried beneath tons of mud and silt. Ultimately, the labor required to uncover an ounce of gold amounted to little more than day wages.
When the placers played out, the next step was to undertake quartz mining. After tracing the vein to its origin, mine shafts were excavated, and the backbreaking job of transporting the ore to the surface was begun. Quartz mining, which was sometimes called hard-rock mining, was essentially a problem of freeing the gold from lodes buried deep within the earth. Yet extracting the gold from a quartz vein was a complex operation that required elaborate machinery.
The mined ore was first crushed in a stamp mill, which was a mechanized version of the ancient pestle and mortar. Ore was then passed over shelves of quicksilver, which adhered to the gold and separated it from the crushed rock. The final step was to free the gold in pure form by distilling it from the quicksilver. The process was laborious, time-consuming, and far more costly than panning a streambed. It required both a knowledge of mining techniques and a heavy investment of capital. For all intents and purposes, quartz mining was big business.
Virgil soon scratched mining off his list. He had neither the experience nor the necessary funds to undertake a venture of such magnitude. Instead, he spent the remainder of the week poking around the business district of Black Hawk. He quickly became aware that a mining camp was dependent on the outside world for virtually every item of daily life. Food and clothing, hardware and utensils, even the grain for work animals, were imported from elsewhere. One staple, which seemed indispensable to the rigors of a mountainous climate, was imported in vast quantities. Miners, so he observed, consumed prodigious amounts of alcohol.
By rough count, Virgil estimated that there was one saloon for every hundred people in Black Hawk. Casual conversation with saloonkeepers confirmed that the ratio was approximately the same in Central City and other mining camps. One of the favorite libations among miners was an explosive concoction known as Taos Lightning. A product of New Mexico Territory, it was made in Don Fernando de Taos and transported by ox wagon over 350 miles of mountain passes. Aged only a week or so, it was a potent strain of aguardiente, distilled from corn or wheat. According to local legend, a sudden jolt of OI’ Towse had been known to stop the drinker’s watch and snap his suspenders.
Yet miners were nothing if not connoisseurs of alcohol in all its hybrid forms. They consumed rye and bourbon, brandy and champagne, and even beer in almost equal doses. Water was all but a foreign substance, used principally to pan gold and wash dirty socks. Upon returning to Denver, Virgil’s initial assessment was borne out by a testimonial to the celebrity of John Barleycorn. As he stepped off the stage, he saw an eighty-wagon caravan, loaded entirely with liquor, pull into town. The wagons were jammed with 2,700 barrels of pop-skull whiskey and 1,600 cases of imported champagne.
Further investigation revealed that alcoholic spirits had been a staple of trade since the days of the mountain men. Western fur traders discovered that firewater was the most profitable of all freight items. It could be packed and carried with relative ease, and not a drop of spoilage. Further, and all the more significant, the price it commanded was sky-high in relation to its weight. A hundredweight of flour went for thirty dollars in the mining camps. An equal measure of whiskey, when sold by the drink, fetched upward of three hundred dollars. Clearly, there was a fortune to be made in quenching the thirst of miners.
Because of harsh winters, wagon traffic from eastern shipping terminals began in April and ended in early November. Throughout the summer and fall, teamsters offloaded tons of alcohol in the mining camps. Yet, with the onset of bad weather, the distribution system ground to a halt. Either saloonkeepers overstocked during the summer—thereby laying out a king’s ransom in cash—or it proved to be a long, dry winter in the mountains. With profits figured at 1000 percent per drink, there was no choice but to overstock.
After scouting around, Virgil determined that there was only one wholesale liquor house in Denver. It seemed that no one was willing to commit the necessary investment capital to supply the mining camps both winter and summer. Bar-keeps, as a result, contracted with middlemen who sold their consignments of liquor to the highest bidder. As Virgil assessed the situation, there was a ready market for a wholesaler who would sell at established prices on a year-round basis. Insofar as he could judge, the one local wholesaler was barely able to meet the demand of Denver’s sporting district. He saw the mining camps as an opportunity literally dusted with gold.
Virgil estimated that he needed twenty thousand dollars to stock a warehouse and carry the business through the initial turnover of inventory. Twenty thousand would allow him to stock various types of bottled liquors, as well as barrel whiskey and a limited selection of champagnes. From the sale of the family farm he had two thousand, and Earl, after listening to his proposal, agreed to loan him another three thousand. That left him fifteen thousand dollars short, and no hope of raising it from private sources. He decided to try Denver’s only bank.
Virgil had his one suit sponged and pressed. He put on a clean shirt, with a four-in-hand tie, and spruced up his boots with bootblack. Finally, after dusting off his hat, he inspected himself in the mirror. He thought it would have to do.
Some minutes later he walked through the door of the First National Bank. A teller informed him that Mr. Walter Tisdale was president of the bank, and pointed him in the right direction. He crossed the room, halting before the open door of an office. Behind the desk sat a rotund man, with a moonlike face and bushy muttonchop whiskers. Virgil rapped on the door.
“Mr. Tisdale?”
Tisdale looked up from an accounting ledger. “Yes.”
“I’d like to see you a minute.”
“Of course.” Tisdale motioned him forward. “Please step inside.”
Virgil introduced himself and they exchanged handshakes. Tisdale offered him a chair, casually examining his shiny store-bought suit and worn boots. He waited until Virgil had seated himself.
“Well, now, what can I do for you, Mr. Brannock?”
“I need a loan,” Virgil said without preliminaries. “I figure to open a business here in Denver.”
“Indeed?” Tisdale said blandly. “Are you new to the city, Mr. Brannock?”
“Yessir, I am. Arrived here a week ago Friday.”
“May I inquire where from?”
“Missouri. A little town called Harrisonville.”
“And what prompted your move west?”
“Couple of things,” Virgil said. “I aim to better myself, and I heard Denver’s growing by leaps and bounds. As to the second reason, my brother has been living out here four years now. You might know him. His name’s Earl Brannock.”
“I know of him,” Tisdale said without inflection. “People say he’s one of the few honest gamblers in town.”
“That’s Earl,” Virgil affirmed. “Square as they come.”
Tisdale steepled his fingers, peered across the desk. “Were you in business, back in Missouri?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t. I’ve been a farmer most of my life.”
“I see,” Tisdale said in a carefully measured voice. “And what sort of business do you plan on opening here?”
“Wholesale liquor,” Virgil told him. “Way I calculate it, the mining camps are a wide-open market.”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
Virgil related his investigation of the past week. He went into some detail with respect to the seasonal nature of the liquor trade. Then he explained that the saloonkeepers, to avoid overstocking for the winter, would gladly switch their trade to a responsible wholesaler. He ended on a note of confidence.
“The market’s already there,” he observed. “And it’s waiting for somebody to meet the demand at reasonable terms. I intend to be the man.”
Tisdale appraised him with a thoughtful look. The banker prided himself on being a shrewd judge of character. Virgil’s practical manner and his logical assessment of the liquor trade indicated an astute and orderly mind. Moreover, his determination and assured attitude outweighed his lack of business experience. Tisdale found himself favorably impressed.
“Denver needs men with your spirit, Mr. Brannock. The bedrock of a solid economy is commerce, not gold. Few men have the foresight to look beyond a bird in the hand.”
“I’m here to stay,” Virgil announced, “and I figure I’m on to a good thing. I aim to make my mark.”
Tisdale nodded wisely. “What size loan are we talking about?”
“I’ve got five thousand,” Virgil said. “I’ll need another fifteen to do the job right.”
Tisdale studied him a moment. “I’ll grant the loan on three conditions, Mr. Brannock. First, instead of renting a building, I suggest you buy property and erect your own warehouse. Second, the bank will hold a lien on the warehouse and land, as well as all equipment.”
Virgil looked at him questioningly. “What’s the third condition?”
“I believe it’s a mistake to undertake any enterprise with limited funds. Fifteen thousand would allow you no cushion, nothing to offset unforeseen contingencies. So I would insist that we make the loan for twenty-five thousand.”
Virgil appeared dumbstruck. “Well, I’ll be . . .” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s damned generous of you, Mr. Tisdale.”
“Not at all,” Tisdale said with a sly grin. “I’m simply protecting my investment. Incidentally, the interest rate is twenty percent per annum on a three-year note. I’ll expect quarterly payments, promptly and on time.”
“Whatever seems fair,” Virgil said buoyantly. “Way I see it, I’ll be rolling in money before the summer’s out.”
“No doubt,” Tisdale agreed. “When things are properly under way, perhaps I’ll introduce you to some of our more civic-minded businessmen. It pays to develop the right contacts.”
“I’d be obliged, Mr. Tisdale. Mighty obliged.”
After the loan agreement was signed and Virgil had departed, Tisdale suddenly remembered something. The lapse was unlike him, particularly upon meeting an ambitious and halfway presentable younger man. He’d forgotten to inquire if Virgil Brannock was a bachelor.