On Tuesday, August 6, two days after the fire, men from the various national and territorial insurance organizations began to arrive in Spokane Falls, armed with the power to make good on policies for business owners and homeowners alike. They set up shop in the basement of downtown’s largest remaining church, behind rickety wooden tables with banners displaying the names of each company. Barton was invited to visit this operation and speak with the insurance men, as many of their customers would be patronizing his bank in the coming days, looking to cash checks. He assured each that his bank was sound and had plenty of cash on hand. The insurance men were pleased. Barton too felt bolstered by these interactions. The insurance men had come from Seattle and Portland (more would arrive soon from Chicago, New York, elsewhere). They were professionals. They shook Barton’s hand, looked him in the eye, and if they thought anything at all of his hair, they politely kept it to themselves. He felt he was among peers. He returned to the bank puffed up with the knowledge that there were in fact people in the world who saw and knew his worth.
The clients of the insurance men began arriving later that day, their checks in hand. Barton told Jim and Del to send all insurance check cashers directly to him. They didn’t question this, happy to have their workload trimmed.
The first was a man so covered in pitch, Barton suspected he had literally been living inside a pine tree. What business or establishment such a person could have lost to the fire was beyond Barton’s imagination. The man marched up to him, tossed his check down on the teller’s desk, and said, simply, “Gimme.”
No respect. From a person so dirty and sticky, he left prints on everything he touched. On a previous day, such treatment would have sent Barton roiling. He’d have been rude to the man. Then he would have taken his anger out on the Dwellers. Then he would have taken his anger out on himself. But not this day. On this day, he only smiled.
The man’s check was for twenty-five dollars. Whatever he’d lost couldn’t have been more than a shack. It didn’t matter. Checks large and small would be treated the same. Barton took a narrow strip of blank paper from a drawer and in his most careful script wrote: “In lieu of $25. First Bank of Spokane Falls. August 6, 1889.” He had a rubber stamp with his signature that he applied below this.
He explained to the pitch-stained man that the bank was out of paper currency, but that this note, which he held in his hand, was as good as cash, validated by the bank as it was.
The man looked at him with rightful suspicion. “I don’t want that,” he said. “I want money.”
“This is money,” Barton said. “It just looks different. Paper money stands for gold in a bank. That’s all. This does too. It means the same.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed. Barton stayed cool. He held his gaze and nodded slightly as if to say Yes, you can do it, you can believe what I say.
The pitch-covered man relented. “All right,” he said. “As long as it’s money.”
“Trust me,” Barton said, holding out the paper. “It’s money.”
And just like that, it was.
Barton took the twenty-five dollars. He pulled it from the till at the teller’s desk and put it in his pants pocket. By the end of the day, he had $375.