The traveller crossing the continent in a Pullman car is convinced that
West Virginia is one continuous mountain. He has no desire to do other
than to hurry past with all the rapidity of which the iron horse is
capable. He can have no idea that in its central portion is a stretch of
rolling blue-grass country, as fertile and as valuable as the stock-farm
lands of Kentucky; with a civilization, too, distinctly its own, and not
to be met with in any other country of the world. It seems to combine,
queerly enough, certain of the elements of the Virginia planter, the
western ranchman, and the feudal baron. Perhaps nowhere in any of the
United States can be found such decided traces of the ancient feudal
system as in this inland basin of West Virginia, surrounded by great
mountain ranges, and for many generations cut off from active relations
with the outside world. Nor is this civilization of any other than
natural growth. In the beginning, those who came to this region were
colonial families of degree,--many of them Tories, hating Washington and
his government, and staunch lovers of the king at heart, for whom
the more closely settled east and south were too unpleasant after the
success of the Revolution. Many of them found in this fertile land lying
against the foot-hills, and difficult of access from either the east
or west, the seclusion and the utter absence of relations with their
fellows which they so much desired. With them they brought certain
feudal customs as a basis for the civilization which they builded.
The nature of the country forced upon them others, and the desire
for gain--ever large in the Anglo-Saxon heart--brought in still other
customs, foreign and incongruous.
Thus it happened that at an early day this country was divided into
great tracts, containing thousands of acres of grass lands, owned by
certain powerful families, who resided upon it, and, to a very large
extent, preserved ancient customs and ancient ideas in relation to men.
The idea of a centrally situated manor-house was one adhered to from
the very first, and this differed from the Virginia manor in that it
was more massive and seemed to be built with the desire of strength
predominating, as though the builder had yet in mind a vague notion of
baronial defences, and some half hope or half fear of grim fights, in
which he and his henchmen would defend against the invader. Gradually,
after the feudal custom, the owner of one of these great tracts gathered
about him a colony of tenants and retainers, who looked after his stock
and grew to be almost fixtures of the realty and partook in no degree of
the shiftless qualities of the modern tenant. They were attached to the
family of the master of the estate, and shared in his peculiarities and
his prejudices. His quarrel became their own, and personal conflicts
between the retainers of different landowners were not infrequent. At
such times, if the breaches of the peace were of such a violent order
as to attract the attention of the law, the master was in honor bound
to shield his men as far as possible, and usually his influence was
sufficient to preserve them from punishment.
Indeed it was the landowner and his people against the world. They were
different from the Virginians in that they were more aggressive and
powerful, and were of a more adventurous and hardy nature. They were
never content to be mere farmers, or to depend upon the cultivation of
the soil. Nor were they careful enough to become breeders of fine stock.
For these reasons it came about that they adopted a certain kind of
stock business, combining the qualities of the ranch and the farm. They
bought in the autumn great herds of two-year-old cattle, picking them
up along the borders of Virginia and Kentucky. These cattle they brought
over the mountains in the fall, fed them through the winter, and turned
them out in the spring to fatten on their great tracts of pasture land.
In the summer this stock was shipped to the eastern market and sold
in favorable competition with the corn-fed stock of the west, and the
stable-fed cattle of Virginia and Pennsylvania. As this business grew,
the little farmer along the border began to breed the finer grades of
stock. This the great landowners encouraged, and as the breeds grew
better, the stock put upon the market from this region became more
valuable, until at length the blue-grass region of West Virginia has
become famous for its beef cattle, and for many years its cattle have
been almost entirely purchased by the exporters for the Liverpool
market.
So famous have the cattle of certain of these great landowners become,
that each season the exporters send men to buy the stock, and not
infrequently contract for it from year to year. Often a landowner, in
whom the speculative spirit is rife, will buy up the cattle and make
great contracts with the exporter, or he will form a partnership with an
eastern commission merchant and ship with the market. The risks taken in
this business are great, and often vast sums of money are made or lost
in a week. It is a hazardous kind of gambling for the reason that great
amounts are involved, and the slightest fall in the market will often
result in big loss. With the shipping feature of this business have
grown certain customs. Sometimes partnerships will be formed to continue
for one or more weeks, and for the purpose of shipping. One drove of
cattle or a number of droves; and when the shippers are well known the
cattle are not paid for until the shipper returns from the market, it
being presumed that he would not carry in bank sufficient money to pay
for a large drove.
It is a business containing all the peril and excitement of the stock
exchange, and all its fascinating hope of gain, as well as its dreaded
possibility of utter ruin. Often in a grimy caboose at the end of a
slow freight train is as true and fearless a devotee of Fortune, and as
reckless a plunger as one would find in the pit on Wall Street, and not
infrequently one with as vast plans and as heavy a stake in the play
as his brother of the city. Yet to look at him--big, muscular, and
uncouth--one would scarcely suspect that every week he was juggling with
values ranging from ten to sixty thousand dollars.
One Monday morning of July, William Harris, a passenger on the through
St. Louis express of the Baltimore & Ohio, said to the conductor that
he desired to get off at Bridgeport, a small shipping station in this
blue-grass region of West Virginia. The conductor answered that his
train did not stop at this station, but that as the town was on a grade
at the mouth of a tunnel he would slow up sufficiently for Mr. Harris to
jump off if he desired to assume the risk. This Harris concluded to do,
and accordingly, as the train ran by the long open platform beside the
cattle pens, he swung himself down from the steps of the car and jumped.
The platform was wet, and as Harris struck the planks his feet slipped
and he would have fallen forward directly under the wheels of the coach
had it not been that a big man standing near by sprang forward and
dragged him back.
"You had a damned close call there, my friend," said the big man.
"Yes," said Harris, picking himself up, "you cut the undertaker out of a
slight fee by your quick work."
The stranger turned sharply when he heard Harris's voice and grasped him
by the hand. "Why, Billy," he said, "I did n't know it was you. What are
you doing out here?"
"Well, well!" said Harris, shaking the man's hand vigorously, "there is
a God in Israel sure. You are the very man I am looking for, Woodford."
Thomas Woodford was a powerfully built man--big, and muscular as an
ox. He was about forty, a man of property, and a cattle-shipper known
through the whole country as a daring speculator of almost phenomenal
success. His plans were often gigantic, and his very rashness seemed to
be the means by which good fortune heaped its favors upon him. He was
in good humor this morning. The reports from the foreign markets
were favorable, and indications seemed to insure the probability of a
decidedly substantial advance at home. He put his big hand upon Harris's
arm and fairly led him down the platform. "What is up, Billy?" he asked,
lowering his voice.
"In my opinion," answered Harris, "the big combine among the exporters
is going to burst and go up higher than Gilderoy's kite, and if we can
get over to New York in time, we will have the world by the tail."
"Holy-head-of-the-church!" exclaimed the cattle-shipper, dropping his
hands. "It will be every man for himself, and they will have to pay
whatever we ask. But we must get over there this week. Next week
everything that wears hoofs will be dumped into Jersey City. Come over
to the hotel and let us hold a council of war."
The two men crossed the railroad track and entered the little
eating-house which bore the high-sounding and euphonious title of "Hotel
Holloway." They went directly up the steps and into a small room in the
front of the building overlooking the railroad. Here Woodford locked the
door, pulled off his coat, and took a large chew of tobacco. It was
his way of preparing to wrestle with an emergency--a kind of mechanical
means of forcing his faculties to a focus.
"Now, Billy," he said, "how is the best way to begin?"
Harris drew up his chair beside the bed on which his companion had
seated himself.
"The situation is in this kind of shape," he began.
"The exporters have all the ships chartered and expect Ball & Holstein
to furnish the cattle for next week's shipments. I believe that old Ball
will kick out of the combine and tell the other exporters in the trust
that they may go to the devil for their cattle. You know what kind of
a panic this will cause. The space on the boats has been chartered and
paid for, and it would be a great loss to let it stand empty. Nor could
they ship the common stock on the market. All these men have foreign
contracts, made in advance and calling for certain heavy grades of
stock, and they are under contract to furnish a certain specified
number of bullocks each week. They formed the combine in order to avoid
difficulties, and have depended on a pool of all the stock contracted
for by the several firms, out of which they could fill their boats when
the supply should happen to be short or the market temporarily high. The
foreign market is rising, and the old man is dead sure to hold on to the
good thing in his clutches. I was so firmly convinced that the combine
was going to pieces that I at once jumped on the first train west and
hurried here to see you. The exporters must fill their contracts no
matter what happens. If old Ball kicks over, as he is sure to do, the
market will sail against the sky. We will have them on the hip if we can
get the export cattle into New York, but we have no time to lose.
These cattle must be bought to-day, and carred here to-morrow. Do you
understand me?"
"Yes," said the cattle-shipper, striking his clenched right hand into
the palm of his left. "It is going to be quick work, but we can do it or
my name is not Woodford."
"We must have at least twelve carloads of big export cattle," continued
Harris. "Not one to weigh less than sixteen hundred pounds. They must be
good. Now, where can you get them quickest?"
"Well," answered the shipper, thoughtfully, "old Ralph Izzard has the
best drove, but he wants five cents for them, and that is steep, too
steep."
"No," said Harris, "that is all right if they are good. We have no time
to run over the country to hunt them up. If these are the right kind we
will not stand on his price."
"You can stake your soul on them being the right kind, Billy," answered
the cattle-shipper enthusiastically. "Izzard picked them out of a drove
of at least a thousand last fall, and he has looked after the brutes and
pampered them like pet cats. They will go over sixteen hundred, every
one of them, and they are as fat as hogs and as broad on the backs as a
bed. I could slip out to his place and buy them to-night and have them
here in time to car to-morrow, if you think we can give the old man his
price."
"They will bring six and a half in New York, and go like hot cakes,"
said Harris, "but you will have to get out of this quick or you may run
into a crowd of buyers from Baltimore."
"All right, Billy," said the cattle-shipper, rising and pulling on
his coat, "I will tackle the old man to-night. We had better go to
Clarksburg, and there you can lay low, and can come up to-morrow on the
freight that stops here for the cattle. I will go out to Izzard's from
there, and drive here by noon to-morrow. The accommodation will be along
in about a half hour. I will go down and order the cars."
"Wait a moment, Woodford," said Harris, "we ought to have some written
agreement about this business."
"What is the use?" answered the shipper. "We will go in even on it, but
if you want to fix up a little contract, go ahead, and I will sign it.
By the way, old Izzard is a little closer than most anybody else; we may
have to pay him something down."
"I thought about that," said Harris, "and I brought some money with me,
but I did n't have time to gather up much. I have about six thousand
dollars here. Can you piece out with that?"
"Easy," replied the shipper. "The old devil would not have the nerve to
ask more than ten thousand down."
William Harris seated himself at the table and drew up a memorandum of
agreement between them, stating that they had formed a partnership
for the purpose of dealing in stock, and had put into it ten thousand
dollars as a partnership fund; that they were to share the profits or
losses equally between them, and that the partnership was to continue
for thirty days. This agreement both men signed, and Harris placed it in
his pocket. Then the two men ordered the cattle cars for the following
day and went to Clarksburg on the evening train.
Here Harris asked Woodford if he should pay over to him the five
thousand dollars or put it in the bank. To this the cattle-shipper
replied that he did not like to take the risk of carrying money over the
country, and that it would be best to deposit it and check it out as it
should be needed.
Woodford and Harris went to the bank. The shipper drew five thousand
dollars from his own private account, put it with the five thousand
which Harris handed him, and thrust the package of bills through the
window to the teller.
"How do you wish to deposit this money, gentlemen?" asked the officer.
"I don't know, hardly," said the shipper, turning to his companion;
"what do you think about it, Billy?"
"Well," said the commission-merchant, thoughtfully, "I suppose we had
better deposit it in the firm name of Woodford & Harris, then you can
give your checks that way and they wont get mixed with your private
matters."
"That is right," said the cattle-shipper, "put it under the firm
name." Whereupon the teller deposited the money subject to the check of
Woodford & Harris.
"Now, Billy," continued Woodford, as they passed out into the street, "I
will buy these cattle and put them on the train to-morrow. You go down
with them. I will stay here and look over the country for another drove,
and, if you want more, telegraph me."
"That suits me perfectly," replied Harris. "I must get back to New
York, and I can wire you just how matters stand the moment I see the
market." Then the two men shook hands and Harris returned to his hotel.
The following afternoon William Harris went to Bridgeport on the freight
train. There he found twelve cars loaded with cattle, marked "Woodford
& Harris." At Grafton he hired a man to go through with the stock, and
took the midnight express for New York.
The partnership formed to take advantage of the situation which
Harris had so fluently described, had been brought about with ease and
expedition. Woodford was well known to William Harris. He had met him
first in Baltimore where young Harris was a mere underling of one of the
great exporting firms. Afterwards he had seen him frequently in Jersey
City, and of late had sold some stock for him. The whole transaction was
in close keeping with the customs of men in this business.
The confidence of one average cattle-man in another is a matter of
more than passing wonder. Yet almost from time immemorial it has been
respected, and instances are rare indeed where this confidence has been
betrayed to any degree. Perhaps after all the ancient theory that
"trust reposed breeds honesty in men," has in it a large measure
of truthfulness, and if practised universally might result in huge
elevation of the race. And it may be, indeed, that those who attempt to
apply this principle to the business affairs of men are philanthropists
of no little stature. But it is at best a dangerous experiment, wherein
the safeguards of society are lowered, and whereby grievous wrongs break
in and despoil the citizen.
To the view of one standing out from the circle of things, men often
present queer contradictions. They call upon the state to protect them
from the petty rogue and make no effort to protect themselves from the
great one. They place themselves voluntarily in positions of peril, and
then cry out bitterly if by any mishap they suffer hurt from it, and
fume and rail at the law, when it is themselves they should rail at.
The wonder is that the average business man is not ruined by the rogue.
Surely the ignorance of the knave will not protect him always.
The situation would seem to arise from a false belief that the
protection of the law is a great shield, covering at all points against
the attacks of wrong.