Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (37 page)

And what of the various scoundrels who took the US for a ride, who bilked no fewer than each member of the US public of millions gained from illicit timber profits? The US District Attorney Francis J. Heney went for their throats. Senator Mitchell was charged by Heney with using his privileged position of power to help his law firm's clients with acquiring fraudulent land claims. Even his business partner and secretary testified against him. A jury pointed the finger of guilt and Mitchell forked over a $1,000 fine, then shuffled off to the slammer for six months. Before his appeal circled back to the courts, he up and died from a botched tooth extraction.

Congressman Binger Hermann, who also happened to be former commissioner of the General Land Office in Washington, DC, got off easy. His first trial, in which he was accused of destroying public documents, found him not guilty. His second trial was postponed for several years, then ended in a hung jury. And Congressman Williamson was similarly somewhat lucky. He was convicted of perjury, but on appeal the verdict was overturned due to jury tampering and witness intimidation.

Lest anyone think US District Attorney Heney was a pushover, he went for US Attorney John Hicklin Hall, who had been the original investigating attorney who ended up canned by US President Theodore Roosevelt for his lack of ambition in investigating the case. Convinced that Hall had been swayed by the promise of padding his own nest, financially and politically, using information obtained in his investigation, Heney prosecuted Hall, and the jury agreed, convicting him in 1908. President Taft later pardoned the ruined Hall.

In 1905 Stephen Puter, puppet for Southern Pacific Railroad president Harriman, was indicted. Several years earlier, Harriman and Puter had words that resulted in Puter's dismissal. So when it became apparent he was going down with the ship, he fled from Oregon and ended up in Boston, braced by a pair of US Secret Service men. He escaped and went on the lam—it would be months before he was finally captured—armed, cornered, and desperate—in Alameda, California.

Finally in custody, Puter was transported north to Oregon, where he sat in a cell in Multnomah County jail for two years. Much bold accusation came from Puter as he gladly turned on Harriman. He testified against his former employer in court, then while in jail he co-wrote the tell-all confessional,
Looters of the Public Domain
:
Embracing a Complete Exposure of the Fraudulent Systems of Acquiring Titles to the Public Lands of the United States
, peeling the lid off every little detail, nuance, and backroom meeting surrounding the scheme. Despite the fact that he referred to himself as “King of the Oregon Land Fraud Ring,” what he wrote raised eyebrows and helped confirm what Attorney General Heney had been working on digging up.

Puter wrote: “Thousands upon thousands of acres, which included the very cream of timber claims in Oregon and Washington, were secured by Eastern lumber men and capitalists . . . and nearly all of the claims, to my certain knowledge, were fraudulently obtained.”

Puter continued to be the nexus of the nefarious activities when, after eighteen months into his sentence, President Theodore Roosevelt pardoned him, on Heney's recommendation, on December 31, 1907. He was freed not because he deserved it, but because he agreed to name names—to turn state's evidence. He testified and ended up helping indict a bevy of Oregon's big wheels, private and public, including Senator John Mitchell, Congressman John Williamson, and Congressman Binger Hermann, a full three-fourths of Oregon's congressional delegates, as well as US attorney John Hicklin Hall. He also admitted on the stand to having bribed a grand jury.

After all that, and after experiencing such a close shave and having received no less than a presidential pardon, you would think that Puter would lie low, perhaps explore quiet and legal means of earning a living. Once again, however, we see that once a swindler, always a swindler: Scarcely a decade later Puter again found himself afoul of the law. And this time he dragged his sons and son-in-law with him. In 1916 he was indicted for “Illegal Use of the Mails and Fraud.” Some folks never learn.

MOWRY LAND SCANDAL

On private land along a forgettable stretch of Perrin Road, along the Mimbres River northwest of Deming, New Mexico, you'll see . . . nothing. Well, apart from cacti dotting a gritty and rolling landscape, you'll see no sign of the less-than-thriving burg formed by fraudsters and intended as the capital city of Arizona Territory. Never mind that it's now in New Mexico, never was considered as a capital of anything, but rather as a symbol of swindle, and was situated poorly enough that it existed less than twenty years, during which it contained a hotel, a couple of shops, and more saloons than residents.

The people who moved there needed the fleeting escape those saloons represented. They were distraught at being hoodwinked into sinking their savings into Mowry City, into believing this place was a veritable Eden on earth, the locus of the next big thing. When the truth hit them like a long-dead fish to the face, they likely felt they had little recourse but to drown their disappointments in booze. The land was populated with buzzing rattlesnakes and angry Apaches, neither of which were in any hurry to be displaced. It's no wonder the town was a short-lived, abysmal failure. So why did anyone think it would be a good idea to establish a town there? And not just any town: Mowry City was to be nothing less than the capital city of the Arizona Territory.

It's how Mowry City came into being that is the interesting part of the story. . . .

The silence stretched on for many minutes, maybe much of an hour, before Sylvester Mowry nibbled his bottom lip one last time and cleared his throat. He leaned forward from his cramped spot in the stagecoach. “You'll pardon me, sir, I trust, if I say you look like a man who could use a conversation.”

The man to whom he spoke, Robert P. Kelley, a slender fellow with dark hair, fixed his piercing gaze on the newcomer. Then he looked back out the window.

“I . . . I do beg your pardon, but please forgive my intrusion.” He leaned back, as if both embarrassed and resigned to his own boring fate—at least for the duration of the seemingly never-ending ride.

“No, no,” Kelley found himself saying. Quite before he knew what he was doing, he smiled. “It is I who should apologize. This confounded ride has left me sullen and moody.” He proffered a hand and the men shook. “I am Robert P. Kelley. I hail from Mesilla. And you are?”

The man seated across from him brightened. “I am Sylvester Mowry.”

Kelley's eyes widened. “I know of you, sir. You are an advocate for recognition of Arizona as a separate territory, am I not right?”

“Why, yes, yes, I am pleased you know that. For it means all my proselytizing has not been in vain.” He smiled at this surprising meeting. The floodgates of conversation opened and Mowry found himself relieved.

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Mowry. Might I inquire as to the purpose of your trek on this god-awful stagecoach?”

Mowry nodded. “As it happens, I am venturing far from my chosen home, all the way to Missouri to seek backers . . . for my mine.” He looked left and right then, as if what he had said was information that should not be overheard. For a few brief moments, the creaking wheels, the choking dust, the slapping of the wholly ineffective window coverings, and the driver's barely audible tuneless singing were all to be heard and felt.

Kelley bunched his brow. “Ah, so it a business venture you're embarking on as well then?”

“Yes,” Mowry said finally. After all, he thought. Am I not seeking investors for my mine, large and small, singly and in a group? Is it not conceivable I might find one on this very stagecoach? “Yes indeed,” he said, and leaned forward. “I'm happy to tell you about it, if you've no objection.”

Kelley smiled wide and leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Mowry, I am a captive audience. Perhaps I might even be of assistance. You see, I am a businessman as well. A speculator, you might say.”

“Excellent, Kelley! Say, perhaps our meeting was fortuitous, after all?”

“Time will tell, my good man. Time will tell. Now, what about this mine of yours? I'm all ears.”

The two travelers were of a shared mind that the region known as Arizona should be given its own status as a separate and unique territory. Kelley listened politely as Mowry prattled on about the possibilities of his mine, about the possibilities for territorial recognition for Arizona, and on and on.

All of it interested Kelley, and none of it surprised him, for he, too, was a man of vision. At least he liked to think of himself as such. But the one thing he was most interested in was Mowry himself. The man was well known in the region and that alone could be useful.
Yes, useful, indeed
, thought Kelley as he smiled and nodded.

Unfortunately for Mowry, the all-too-friendly and eager-to-listen man he met on that stagecoach was less interested in his mine—they were a dime a dozen—and far more interested in capitalizing on Mowry's renown as a man who had already gained much attention banging the Arizona drum. And on that fateful 1858 stagecoach trip, a plan began to foment in the oily mind of Robert P. Kelley. And soon after he returned to Mesilla following his business trip north, he visited with two like-minded acquaintances, Lewis S. Owings and Samuel J. Jones.

“A freshly minted territory must have a capital city, no?” The blank stares he received from them were less than flattering. He gave it another go. “I propose we do what some other forward-thinking soul will surely do before long. We are as industrious as the next, are we not?” He plowed ahead. “I further propose that we take full advantage of an already established name in order to hasten interest in our venture. This will give us a leg up over competition.”

“Do you think others are having the same thought?” Jones said, worry creasing his brow.

“It is quite possible, but I should think that by using the name Mowry City, we will beat them at their own game. You see, Sylvester Mowry, as we all are well aware, is well connected and well regarded, especially back East. We all three of us are businessmen, our interests in Mesilla are vast. But I believe we are agreed that none of this will amount to a hill of beans if we aren't able to broaden our scope. The one thing we need out here is settlers. Settlers who will build and buy and, over time, help make us rich.”

“How do you propose we get them here?” said Jones.

“We need more people in the region, in short. We need new money, fresh investment. And the best way to do that is to settle an entirely new town,” said Kelley with a smile. “And then attract people to it, fill it with people whose very presence will require all manner of new goods, services, and such.”

“Such as what?” said Owings.

“Such as hotels, mercantiles, saloons, gambling houses, millineries, you name it and they'll need it.”

Owings clapped his soft hands together, rubbing them briskly. “How do we begin?”

“Good man,” said Kelley. “And I anticipated that very question. What I propose is that we publish a pamphlet.”

“Indicating our intentions?”

“Further than that—our pamphlet will tell the world how glorious the City of Mowry already is. We'll call it something along the lines of ‘Report of the Mowry City Association, Territory of Arizona, 1859.'”

In fact, Kelley had already mapped out a plan that included the printing of the phony report as well as a newspaper of the place, both depicting the wonders of Mowry City and the region. And he conveniently had a printer in mind—his brother-in-law, a printer by the name of D. W. Hughes, in Missouri—far enough away that suspicions would not be aroused.

The pamphlet was printed and widely distributed, and it proved to be a stunning collection of lies. Among the many alleged virtues purported to exist in Mowry City, according to the pamphlet and newspaper, were a perfect climate, a peaceful way of life, a forgiving terrain rich with promise of gold and all manner of minerals, and the materials even hinted at the promise of agricultural pursuits.

The truth, however, was nearly as far from such balderdash as was possible. The location at which the hoodwinkers sited their “city” was already inhabited—by Apache Indians none too pleased to see the increasing incursions of whites, men who acted as if they had some right to be there. In addition to the resident band of hostile Apaches, Mowry City was in a hot, unforgiving place more suited to rattlesnakes and cactus—of which there was an ample supply—than peaceful tree-lined streets suitable for happy families.

But the site was also home of the Mimbres River Station, on the Butter-field Trail Overland Mail stagecoach route. The town received a needed early boost in 1860, when a deposit of placer, or surface gold, was found nearby at Pinos Altos. But the gold soon ran out and Mowry City had to rely on its own rough charms to survive. It seems those rough charms were enough—for a time, anyway.