Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (5 page)

“I'll take one!” shouted a stout-looking fellow with a wide face and black, boiled-wool suit. A dented black derby sat perched atop the pear-shaped man's head as if it were afraid to topple off.

“Good man,” said Smith as the stout man, none-too-gingerly, angled his girth through the crowd to stand before the soap sales display stand. The smiling salesman nodded and handed the man a neatly wrapped bar of soap as the man handed him a dollar bill. As the man walked back through the crowd, peeling the paper off his soap, he shouted, “Hey! Hey! Lookee here!” He ripped off the rest of the paper and waved a $5 bill in his pudgy fist above his head. “I won! I won me five dollars!”

The salesman beamed and nodded. “That's exactly what I hoped would happen! Now folks, if the soap's quality won't lure you in on its own merit, maybe the enticement of a few dollars for you to enjoy will help sweeten the deal, as the gamblers say.”

But he needn't have explained, since the crowd all but drowned him out as they pressed forward, waving dollar bills and grasping for the bars of paper-wrapped soap. Soon he saw the scattering of disappointed faces as people tore off the wrapping to see nothing but a cake of soap that was worth far less than the dollar they had invested in it. But then many of those same people would gaze at their fellows, see the same results, and surmise that the other wrapped parcels must have not yet been purchased.

Just then, a happy shout bubbled up from a small, thin man to the side of the crowd near the front. “I'm a winner! A winner! Never in my life . . .” The smiling man rattled a crisp $1 bill and beamed at everybody near him.

“Here,” a chorus of voices surged. “I'll take another!” They waved their dollar bills at Smith, the salesman, the purveyor of soap. After another few minutes of this flurry of activity, Smith held up his hands and with the barest of smiles said, “I have good news!”

The crowd quieted, all eyes forward.

“The $100 bill has not yet been sold. I repeat, the $100 bill is still hidden somewhere in this pile, available and ready for a new home.”

The clamor to buy the remaining bars was great, but again the young man held up his large hands and slowly shook his head. “No, no folks, I cannot in all good conscience sell the remaining bars in such a manner.”

“Why not?” shouted a woman from the back row, her scowl doing its best to sear a path through the air toward him.

“Because, my good madam, folks such as yourself who are not near the front would not have a fair shot at the winning cake of soap. No, I wish this harmless game to be fair to all who took the time to come out and see me and my humble yet top-notch products. The fairest way to go about this, it seems to me, is to auction off the remaining wrapped bars of soap to the highest bidders in the crowd.”

The announcement, as he knew it would, drew a few groans from the crowd, mostly from folks in the front row. The rest of the gathered folks fidgeted, ready to place their bids.

All told, the “auction” drew swift response, with nearly everyone flailing a hand skyward at first. But as the figures crept ever higher, bidders backed off, irked they'd not be the one to reap the promising reward, but relieved, too, that they would not have to explain to an irate spouse why their weekly wage had dwindled noticeably between work and home.

Once the soap cakes had all been sold, Smith closed his display suitcase, folded the supporting tripod, and, doffing his hat to the various lingerers in the crowd, made his way down the sidewalk, turning left, right, left . . . before ducking into a side-street saloon where everyone knew his name.

Shortly, in walked the fat man who had won a $5 bill, followed by the thin man who had also won money wrapped around soap. They flanked the soap salesman at the bar and soon all three were exchanging looks, giggling, then elbowing each other and chuckling.

“Worked like a charm,” said the thin man.

Smith nodded. “Just like last time. And the time before.”

“Hey, Jeff, you read what the Denver paper is calling you?”

“Calling me?” said Smith, raising his dark eyebrows as he quaffed the foamy head off his beer.

“Yep, they're calling you Soapy Smith.”

The tall, dark-haired man knitted his brows a moment, then smiled wide and nodded. “Yes sir, I'd guess that's about right. I'd say I earned that name. What do you think, boys?”

The other two men nodded. “Drink up,” he said. “Soapy's buying!”

Over the next few months and years, Soapy Smith concentrated his ample efforts on exploiting the wide-open, free-for-all market that was Denver, Colorado. The town offered few restrictions on games of chance. Short cons such as his so-called “Prize Package Soap Sell” were merely a means to an end, some would say a way for Soapy to stay sharp. But they also provided a vital flow of always-useful cash that helped fund the more elaborate setups of his larger cons that included, at various times, sales of “stocks.”

These stocks were anything but, as were the “offices” where one might go to place bets or gamble the lottery. With Soapy Smith at the helm, a gambler was guaranteed to come out on the short end of the stick. But in Denver in the latter decades of the nineteenth century, anything went, and for a time, most of it “went” to Soapy Smith. By 1879 he and his ever-growing gang had laid well-earned claim to the role of kings of the city's criminal undertakings.

How was he able to work out in the open, largely unharried by city government? Smith did what had always come easy to him. He paid off, threatened, blackmailed, and cajoled persons of official nature in Denver. He paid bribe money to a number of business owners—those he wasn't shaking down, that is—so that he and his men might operate unmolested in the relative safety of those establishments. He was so well-connected with the city's overseers that local newspapers referred to the triumvirate of Soapy, Denver's Mayor Londoner, and police chief Farley as “the firm of Londoner, Farley, and Smith.”

Soapy wasn't wholly without heart, though. As he gained in reputation as a swindler, so he gained a reputation for fierce devotion to anyone who was likewise devoted to him. If a member of his gang needed help, and that member had proved himself of worth to the organization, Soapy went out of his way to ensure that man was provided with whatever he might require, be that help in a fight, a wee loan (with interest, of course), or with a bail bond should the hapless thug land in the jailhouse.

Likewise, Smith was careful not to drain the local population of cash, instead concentrating on milking travelers—businessmen, people just passing through on their way elsewhere. Shrewdest of all his kindly moves might well have been his not-so-private support of various charitable institutions, notably churches and the town's impoverished.

By 1888 Soapy Smith had assumed ownership of a number of properties, among them several drinking establishments. And chief among those was the Tivoli Club Saloon and Gambling Hall. Here was a spot fit for Soapy Smith to hold court, to direct the comings and goings of those in his employ, as well as the various nefarious dealings in his town.

Smith wasn't by any stretch dour in his business dealings, however. The man also had a funny bone, as evidenced in the sign above the door to the Tivoli that read, “Caveat Emptor,” Latin for “Buyer Beware.” Fair warning, indeed.

Ol' Soapy wasn't alone in his filching ways, however. His younger brother, Bascomb, joined him in this thriving family business, adding his own twist by running a cigar store that was anything but. Turns out the establishment soon gained a reputation as a joint where the games in the back room were rigged—what a shock!

Soapy was often portrayed in the press as an affable, aw-shucks character. And while he was considered a good-natured gent, generous in his donations to charities—though only to those he could ultimately benefit from—Soapy Smith was also a man who harbored unusually dark moods and a temperament to match. His black moods only increased as he gained more power in the city.

When the
Rocky Mountain News
exposed Soapy for the huckster and thief he was, Smith happened to be vacationing with his family in Idaho Springs. The paper made the rounds, however, and soon Soapy's family was snubbed by the high-society folks with whom they'd been hobnobbing. Soapy returned to Denver and, along with one of his thugs, a big brute of a man named Banjo Parker, braced Colonel John Arkins, owner-operator of the very newspaper that Soapy had perceived as maligning him.

Soapy gave vent to a litany of oaths and accusations at the well-liked Arkins, then, still in full fury, proceeded to bash the man atop the head with his cane. Arkins came away with a fractured skull and a headline for his next day's release: “Soapy the Assassin.”

Soon, Soapy and his crew found that their accustomed stomping grounds of Denver had all but dried up for them, so incensed had the locals become at his presence.

He sold his holdings in Denver, skedaddled from that town, and encamped in Creede, Colorado, a raw, anything-goes mining boomtown brimming with gold dust and tired but happy miners. Soapy and his gang swooped in, set up shop, and proceeded to separate those miners from their hard-earned money. While there he also used one of his most unusual employees, one “McGinty,” a petrified corpse of a miner that he exhibited for a viewing fee of ten cents. McGinty became quite an attraction and lured folks into his establishment, the Orleans Club, where they spent freely and lost a boodle to his various rigged games, including shell games and three-card monte.

Eventually, Creede's boom petered out and Soapy and his gang—McGinty included—caromed back to Denver. He enjoyed a few solid months of swindling, but soon it became apparent that the town had, in his absence, grown fond of not having him around. Various other shady characters had moved into greater positions of power, including his old nemesis, Lou Blonger.

Despite the tremendous amount of infamy he acquired during his time in the contiguous lower states, most notably in Colorado, swindling left, right, and center, Soapy Smith decided it was time to move on just before the turn of the century. It was probably a wise decision since he had largely worn out his welcome in Colorado. His decision to uproot and move on may also have had something to do with the fact that the law had become less tolerant of Smith and his ilk. What's a notorious swindler to do? Look to more promising pastures, of course.

Finding them at the time was no difficult task. One need only glance at newspaper headlines and listen in on the bar-top scuttlebutt to hear all about the fortunes being made way up north in Alaska.

Soon after the Klondike Gold Rush kicked off in 1897, Soapy relocated to Alaska. But all did not begin well for him there. As he and his men scammed their way along the famed White Pass Trail, working the crowds with their time-tested games of chance, three-card monte, and shell games, his increasing wealth began to contrast sharply with the men he'd been fleecing.

Soon, Soapy was convinced by various hardworking miners that it would be in his best interest to get the heck out of Dodge, as it were. And so he did, and he embarked on an extended journey that took him from St. Louis to the nation's capital, before returning—early in the next year, 1898—this time to the towns of Dyea and Skagway, Alaska.

Soapy and his boys entrenched themselves as boulders in a stream around which all water must flow. No matter who came in or out, traveling through the gateway town of Skagway, it seemed they had some sort of experience with Soapy and his gang.

It didn't take him long to figure out that Skagway, while still a rough cob of a town, was also a pulsing, promising nexus of commerce, a bustling if muddy little burg, through which nearly all trade in or out of the interior, conveniently for Smith, had to pass. His first order of business was to lay claim on a choice lot in town where he established his own public drinking establishment-cum-headquarters, aptly named Jeff Smith's Parlor, in March 1898. It was from here that he ensured that the law, such as it was, was tucked neatly into his back pocket by paying bribe money to the local US marshal.

From his spiffy new saloon, Smith established a number of cons, the most notorious being a telegraph office out back. Trouble was, the very notion of telegraph wires running to Skagway was at the time a distant and laughable dream. Establishment of a proper telegraph office in Skagway wouldn't come to fruition until 1901. But that didn't stop Soapy.

What dewy-eyed newcomers didn't know wouldn't hurt them. And so the wires of Smith's telegraph ended at the wall. Soapy assured the senders, newly minted miners, he was sending their heartfelt messages back East to their families. He'd collect their money—an exorbitant fee per message—lick the tip of a pencil, and diligently take down the touching telegram messages, before disappearing into the back, to “send” the message. Of course the missives never went beyond Soapy's notepad.

And while the newcomers waited for their messages to be sent, Smith made sure they were invited to sit in for a few hands of friendly poker with his regular players. And more often than not, these fresh-faced miners would limp on out of there, light in the wallet, wondering how they were going to buy the supplies they'd so carefully saved for, their heads in a daze of befuddlement.