DAVID HUGHES WAS A man of meticulous habit. Every morning, on the stroke of eight, he walked through the door of his law office. His male secretary was already hard at work.
Nodding brusquely, he crossed the outer office. His secretary was accustomed to the silent greeting and merely smiled. Hughes’ morning routine was by now an established ritual, and seldom broken. The first hour was devoted to ordering his thoughts, structuring the day ahead. He rarely spoke to anyone.
The inner office was comfortably furnished. Hughes hooked his hat on a hall tree and moved behind a large walnut desk. Awaiting him was a stack of legal correspondence as well as a schedule of the day’s appointments. He briefly scanned the correspondence, then pushed it aside. His gaze went to the appointment schedule, lingering there a moment. Something in his expression changed, and he swiveled around in his chair, staring out the window. His eyes were remote, and hard.
Mayor Stodt and Luther Evans arrived precisely at nine o’clock. Theirs was the first appointment of the day, and neither of them thought it prudent to keep Hughes waiting. The secretary ushered them inside and they took seats before the desk.
When the door closed, Hughes finally turned from the window, acknowledging their presence. He came straight to the point. “We’ve got troubles,” he said. “Yesterday I received a letter from my man in Washington. The news is all bad.”
Neither man questioned why he had delayed sending for them. Hughes rarely sought anyone else’s counsel, and he’d obviously taken overnight to assess the situation. Nor were Evans and Stodt unaware of why they’d been summoned here today. Anything originating out of Washington almost certainly dealt with the railroad.
“I have it on good authority,” Hughes went on, “that Denver will be bypassed. The Union Pacific plans to build through Cheyenne.”
Stodt appeared visibly startled. “What does Wyoming have to offer that we don’t?”
“An easier route,” Hughes replied, “and a more direct route. Building through Cheyenne will speed completion of the line.”
“Is it final?” Evans asked. “No chance we could get the decision reversed?”
“No chance at all.”
Stodt let out a gusty breath. “Without a railroad, we’re ruined. All our plans will come to nothing.”
The statement merely underscored their problem. All three men had heavily invested in Denver real estate. Their holdings were funneled through Evans’ land company and bought without any great fanfare. Yet their belief in Denver’s future was tied directly to the railroad. No town prospered without a link to the Eastern markets.
A transcontinental railroad line was no longer a pipe dream. While the Union Pacific built westward, the Central Pacific, which originated in California, was laying track eastward. One day the lines would join, connecting the nation’s distant shores with a ribbon of steel. Any town located along the right-of-way would be linked to an artery of commerce and trade.
“What happened?” Evans said at length. “I thought we had firm assurances from the Union Pacific people.”
Hughes seemed to look through him. “Whatever we had, we don’t have it now. Cheyenne will definitely get the railroad.”
“Good God,” Stodt said gravely. “We’ll lose any chance of getting the capital moved from Golden. The railroad was our best hope.”
“It still is,” Hughes informed them. “However, we’ll have to revise our plan.”
Evans and Stodt stared at him. When neither of them spoke, Hughes lifted his hands in a shrug. “If the railroad won’t come to us, then we’ll go to the railroad.”
Evans angled his head critically. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Exactly,” Hughes said in a dry cold manner. “We’ll organize our own railway line and lay track to Cheyenne.”
“You’re not serious!” Stodt said. “It’s more than a hundred miles to Cheyenne. Where would we raise the money?”
Hughes’ smile was cryptic. “I have reason to believe Congress will award a land grant along our right-of-way. Something on the order of a million acres.”
“What, then?” Evans inquired. “A land grant isn’t cash in hand.”
“Suppose we call it an asset,” Hughes said. “An asset to dangle before investors.”
“What investors?”
“The people of Denver.”
“You propose to raise the money locally?”
“Who has a better stake in the future of Denver? We’ll form a corporation and promote sale of the stock. I suspect it won’t be all that difficult.”
Stodt looked worried. “Will this corporation be on the up and up?”
“Of course,” Hughes replied loftily. “I won’t say as much for some sideline ventures I have in mind. But that’s a discussion for another time.”
Evans’ eyes narrowed. “What is it we’re discussing right now?”
“First things first,” Hughes noted. “Denver needs a board of trade, similar to the one in Chicago. Such an organization could rally the people, get them behind the railroad. Particularly if it were headed by the right man.”
“And you have someone in mind”—Evans hesitated, watching him—“don’t you?”
Hughes laughed suddenly, a harsh sound in the closed room. “I have just the man we need. Honest and reliable, a man of the people.”
Stodt shook his head. “I don’t get it. If everything’s on the up and up, why do we need a front man?”
“Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“In case anything at all”—Hughes paused to underscore the words—“should go wrong.”
Late that afternoon Hughes entered the First National Bank. Walter Tisdale and Virgil Brannock were waiting in the banker’s office. Hughes shook their hands warmly before taking a seat.
“Gentlemen,” he said, looking from one to the other, “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“Happy to oblige,” Tisdale said. “Although I must admit, your message has me curious. You said it was a matter of the utmost importance.”
“Nothing less,” Hughes affirmed. “I think it’s fair to say we’re faced with an emergency.”
“Indeed?” Tisdale peered across the desk at him. “What sort of emergency?”
Hughes recounted the problem in some detail. He told of the Union Pacific’s decision to bypass Denver and build instead to Cheyenne. In a somber tone, he went on to relate how the decision affected Denver’s rivalry with Golden. Then he outlined the one countermove that might yet save the town. A railroad, incorporated and financed locally, to provide a link with the Union Pacific.
“Either we do it ourselves,” he concluded, “or Denver faces a very uncertain future.”
Tisdale eyed him keenly. “You haven’t mentioned the Kansas Pacific. I understood they also planned on building to Denver.”
“I regret to say,” Hughes confided, “the Kansas Pacific has stumbled on hard times. At last word, the line was stalled in eastern Kansas, trying to raise additional capital.” He stopped, let the idea percolate a moment. “Our one hope is to establish a direct link with Cheyenne.”
“Quite an undertaking,” Tisdale observed. “You’re talking about a great deal of money.”
“Progress!” Hughes invested the word with import. “That’s what we’re talking about, and it doesn’t come cheap. However, I have every confidence that the people of Denver will give it their support.”
“Perhaps,” Tisdale said rather formally. “How would you proceed?”
Hughes oudined his plan for a board of trade. An instrument of civic betterment, it would be presided over by responsible business leaders. The purpose of the board would be to organize the people behind a community effort, namely the railroad. To that end, the board president had to be someone the entire town would accept. A man of vision and bold thinking.
“In my mind,” he said finally, “our young friend here fits the bill perfectly. How would you feel about it, Virgil? It’s an important job.”
Surprise washed over Virgil’s face. “You want me to head up the board?”
“Why not?” Hughes laughed indulgently. “You’ve shown yourself to be an astute businessman. I hardly think the town could do better.”
“Well . . .” Virgil sounded flattered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Of course,” Hughes went on smoothly, “we could only recommend your name. The townspeople would have to approve.”
Virgil smiled broadly. “I’d consider it an honor.”
“Then it’s settled,” Hughes said, turning back to the banker. “Unless you have anything to add, Walter?”
Tisdale’s look betrayed nothing. Yet he viewed the offer with mixed feelings. He was aware that Virgil and his daughter were in the initial stages of courtship. Privately, he’d already given the union his blessing and therefore took a personal interest in Virgil’s affairs. He thought the younger man’s prospects would be greatly enhanced by serving on the board of trade.
Still, he was always cautious where David Hughes was concerned. He accepted Hughes as Denver’s power broker, for it was an unavoidable fact. In a sense he even admired Hughes, for it took nerve and skill to exercise control over the town’s political apparatus. But he was nonetheless aware that powerful men sometimes justified unconscionable deeds in the name of noble ends. He wondered if the railroad was just such a scheme.
For all that, he was himself a pragmatic man. Denver would wither and die unless it was infused with the lifeblood of a railroad. In the end there was no alternative for him or the townspeople. Nor was it a time to dither and hesitate as to Virgil’s involvement. There were, quite simply, no alternatives to David Hughes.
“One question,” he said at last. “How will you proceed with respect to the board of trade?”
Hughes gestured forcefully. “I suggest we organize a public meeting. The town has a right to vote yea or nay.”
“And if they vote nay?”
“They won’t,” Hughes said with a measured smile. “Not after Virgil gives them a stem-winder of a speech. Isn’t that right, Virgil?”
Virgil grinned, knuckled one side of his mustache. “I’ll do my damnedest, Mr. Hughes.”
“I know you will, Virgil. I’m counting on it.”
Looking on, Walter Tisdale experienced an uncomfortable moment. He was reminded of himself when he was young and ambitious, and not quite so cynical. He made a mental note to have a talk with Virgil. A word to the wise would work to everyone’s benefit.