Betina Krahn

Baltimore
Late April 1887

“You don’t need a loan, Mr. McQuaid, so much as you need a miracle.”

The diminutive loan officer looked down his gold-rimmed spectacles at Bear McQuaid and gave him an excessively polite smile.

It was the second time in as many days that Barton “Bear” McQuaid had seen that look on a banker’s face. He wanted nothing more than to replace it with a grimace of pain from a fist connecting solidly with a nose. Instead, he rose and tucked his maps and documents under his arm, thanked the man for his time, and walked out. Moments later he stepped onto the street where his partner, Halt Finnegan, was waiting for him.

“How did ye get on?” The big Irishman pushed off from the lamppost he was leaning against, but stopped at the sight of Bear’s grim expression. “We didn’t get it, did we?” He ripped off his Western hat and slapped his thigh with
it, releasing a small cloud of dust from the brim. “Miserable … sidewindin’ …” He trailed off into a blistering curse that was all the more potent for being soundless. “Makin’ ye get an appoin’ment, to get delivered bad news. We oughta—”

“No, we oughtn’ta.” Bear grabbed his partner’s arm and kept him from charging back into the bank. “Look—you bruise a knuckle or two on him … then the police will bruise a few on you … then I’ll have to stick up for your mangy hide … and ten years from now we’ll both be toothless, scarred up, dead broke, and just getting out of prison.” Halt eased and Bear released him.

“What do we do now?” Halt demanded, rolling the lingering tension from his shoulders. “We ain’t got much time. Them land office boys won’ wait long for proof of our ownership of th’ right-o’-way land. Them grants depend—”

“We’ll find another banker.” Bear settled his wide-brimmed Western hat on his head and searched the street for a sign of another financial institution. “Then another. Then another, if necessary. The city’s lousy with bankers, and we only need one. The right one. A man with a soft spot in his heart for railroads.” He grabbed Halt’s arm and dragged him along. “Or a soft spot in his head. Anyway … the next time I try to put the touch on a banker, you’re coming with me.”

“No I ain’t.” Halt stopped dead on the pavement and glared at Bear, who squared off and glared back. It was a contest for a moment, but the outcome was never really in doubt; the power of Bear McQuaid’s stare was legendary around Billings, Montana. Almost as legendary as his independence.

Barton McQuaid had had to make his own way in the world from a tender age, and as a result, had made it his policy not to ask anything or expect anything from others. But as he worked to put together the land and resources
he needed to build his railroad line, he learned there were some things a man simply couldn’t do by sheer force of will no matter how capable or determined he was. Funding something as costly and complex as a railroad line was one of them.

For the last six months he and Halt had worked their way across the country, in search of the money they needed to exercise land options they had contracted and use those options to secure government grants. Over and over they had come close to securing loans, only to have the deal fall through when their potential investors insisted on taking charge of the enterprise. Colorado silver men, Kansas City beef barons, and St. Louis bankers alike watched in frustration as Bear McQuaid headed farther east in search of loans with fewer strings attached.

The simple fact was that it strained every fiber of Bear’s being to have to ask for money from strangers … citified strangers, at that. His Westerner’s self-reliance chafed at having to submit his hard-wrought plans to the judgments of men who had never had to raise calluses in order to eat or to wonder if they would ever see another sunrise during a frigid winter night on the high plains. But if he had to bend his stubborn will, he would do so in order to build something of his own, something lasting, something that would make both his fortune and his mark on the world. And if he was willing to make that sacrifice, Halt Finnegan had better be prepared to make it, too.

“Oh, you’re coming, all right.” Bear’s face hardened to weathered bronze.

“Come now, Bear, me lad,” Halt said in a brogue suddenly as thick as potato soup. “Ye know these Eastern bank fellas don’t like doin’ business with Irish.”

“Yeah, well … if you’re so damned Irish, then brush up on your blarney. Because I’m not going in there again
without a partner.” His legendary stare intensified. “I’ve got a partner … don’t I?”

The next afternoon they sat together in the spacious walnut-paneled office of the president of the Mercantile Bank of Baltimore. Across a huge, highly polished desk sat a rotund and impeccably dressed man, templing his fingers and studying them with a gaze that was somehow both unnerving and disarming.

Philip Vassar, they had learned, owned one of the three largest banks in Baltimore and, despite his enormous personal wealth, continued to run the bank on a daily basis and make most of the decisions about major business loans. Bear took that information as a good sign; it meant Vassar was a man who understood the value and satisfactions of hard work. When their letter of introduction—from the territorial governor of Montana—was taken seriously and they were shown into Vassar’s presidential office, Bear shot a hopeful look at Halt. The Irishman tucked his chin and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, wearing a look that said he would rather be shoveling boiler coal than sitting down to talk money in a banker’s office.

“We are launching a railroad venture that you should find quite interesting, Mr. Vassar,” Bear began. He went on to describe their proposed railroad line, unrolling his maps, detailing their meticulously drawn estimates, and laying out the option contracts and promissory letters from the land office in Washington. Vassar asked pertinent questions and seemed genuinely interested in the spur line they intended to build. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, nodded, and even smiled once. More hopeful signs.

But when the presentation was over, a deep silence descended. Bear shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced at Halt, who squirmed more or less discreetly.
Vassar seemed to be measuring them inch by inch, turning them inside out, examining them as men as well as financial risks.

“Well, gentlemen,” Vassar finally began, then paused to clear his throat. “Yours is a most interesting proposition. Railroads are opening all of the riches of the West to us and this project would certainly make lucrative connections. Who is your primary competition for these right-of-way grants?”

Bear tensed. Vassar was nothing if not astute. He obviously knew enough about men and railroads to understand that the possibility of free land alongside every mile of track laid would draw not only great interest, but also fierce competition.

“To be honest”—Bear shot a glance at Halt—“there are two major competitors. One is James J. Hill and his Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul. He likes to build his own spur lines. Then there is Jay Gould of the Northern Pacific, who would like nothing more than to move in on Hill’s operation. A couple of lucrative spurs or short lines would give him bargaining power with Hill. But we got there first, optioned the land on the only logical route through two major valleys. Our right-of-way will cut through some of the finest wheat land in the West. Once the track is in place, that land will be golden in more ways than one. And of course, I’ve already mentioned the timber in the upper reaches.”

Vassar thought about Bear’s response for a moment, then frowned. “A tempting proposal, gentlemen, assuming all is as you said.” He canted his head, regarding them from a different angle. “If only it were in the next county, or even in this state, you would have your money within the hour. But I am afraid I must decline the opportunity. I simply cannot invest the kind of capital you require on a venture so far from here … in such perilous country
… in competition with men whose reputations and resources far outstrip your own.”

“Of course it’s far away.” Bear shot to the edge of his seat. “That’s where railroads need to be built—where the money is to be made!” He clenched his hands resting on the maps covering the banker’s desk. “Look, Mr. Vassar … as a full partner, your profit from the land sales alone would far exceed the profit from any sort of investment you could make here in Baltimore.”