Tilghman saw it in another light entirely. The frontier he’d known, from buffalo hunting to the cowtowns to the land rush, was swiftly vanishing. The telephone, rather than a modern convenience, represented the death knell of a way of life. To him, the jangle of a telephone bell was a sound he was never meant to hear. He didn’t want to be there when it arrived in Guthrie.
On the Fourth of July, he made his decision. By a small quirk of nature, the fourth was also his birthday, and he thought it an auspicious time to put his life in order. The town celebrated the holiday with a parade and fireworks, and the Turf Exchange pulled down the largest single daily gross since the doors opened. A spectator of sorts, Tilghman celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday by stepping across a line he’d skirted for the last month. He decided to sell out.
The next morning he discussed his plans with Neal Brown. The reaction he got was much as he’d expected. Brown was more comfortable with horses than he was with people. Apart from a Saturday night on the town, he much preferred wide open spaces and working with horses. His years on the plains had left him with a general distaste for towns and an ingrained distrust of townspeople. Guthrie, with its mushrooming growth and hurly-burly of people, was for him the worst of all worlds. He’d stayed on only out of loyalty to Tilghman.
Early that afternoon Tilghman entered the Alpha Saloon. The interior was pleasantly cool, despite sunlight streaming through the front windows. A long mahogany bar occupied one wall, behind it a large mirror flanked by the ubiquitous nude paintings popular in Western saloons. Opposite the bar were faro and twenty-one layouts, with poker tables toward the rear. A four-man poker game was under way at one of the tables, and Fred Sutton, finishing a breakfast of ham and eggs, was seated at a nearby table. Tilghman took a chair across from him.
“Afternoon,” he said. “Or by the looks of your plate, it’s still morning.”
“Late night.” Sutton waved his fork around the room. “We had a crowd in here till the wee hours. Wish the Fourth of July came more often.”
“Older I get, the less I like it. Just adds another year to my calendar.”
“Damn!” Sutton dropped his fork and extended his hand. “What with the crowds and everything, I forgot to wish you happy birthday. All the best, Bill.”
“Thanks.” Tilghman shook hands, then nodded toward the nearby poker table. “Those boys been at it all night?”
The four men were hunched over their cards. One of them, attired in a checked suit and derby hat, had at his elbow stacks of gold coins and a large stack of greenbacks. The other three, scowling at their cards, were clearly losers.
“Some fools are born losers,” Sutton scoffed. “The big winner’s a tinhorn who passed himself off as a notions drummer. He’s plucking the other three.”
“Honest game, or is he a cardsharp?”
“Way it appears, he’s just got ’em outclassed. ’Course, I’ve been fooled before. Some are slicker than others with a deck of cards.”
Tilghman lost interest. “Want to talk to you,” he said. “Are you satisfied with our take from the Turf Exchange?”
“Satisfied!” Sutton said, a bite of ham speared on his fork. “Christ, it’s like a license to steal. We own the mint.”
“How’d you like to own it all?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Simple,” Tilghman said. “I’m thinking of selling out my half. Thought I’d offer it to you first.”
“Sell out?” Sutton said, astounded. “Why would you do a damnfool thing like that?”
“Fred, I’m wore out on the city life. Guthrie got too big, too fast for my tastes. I’m thinking of moving on.”
“Where would you go? What would you do?”
“Figured to raise horses,” Tilghman said. “There’s another Land Rush toward the end of September. I’ve got a spot picked out on the Sac and Fox reservation.”
“I’ll be dipped.” Sutton shook his head. “You’re just a sackful of surprises.”
“Hell, Fred, I wasn’t cut out to be a businessman. All a pipe dream, and no sense kiddin’ myself any longer. I see that now.”
“Sort of sudden, isn’t it? You never gave a clue.”
Tilghman thought of it another way. He kept his own counsel, rarely seeking the advice of others. Still, in looking back, there had been nothing sudden about his decision. A great deal of weighing and deliberation had taken place over the past month. The idea of telephones in Guthrie had merely been the last straw.
“Sudden or not,” he said, “I aim to sell out. You interested?”
Sutton took a swig of coffee. He set the mug back on the table, his features unreadable. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Tilghman sensed that the mood between them had changed. Friendship was one thing, business was another. Sutton would attempt to drive a hard bargain.
“Fred, I’m not one to haggle. So I’ll make you a fair deal.”
“Go ahead.”
“Twenty thousand cash,” Tilghman said, “plus thirty percent of profits for six months. After that, I retain ten percent interest.”
Sutton frowned. “Sounds pretty steep to me, Bill.”
“I’ve thought on it, and that’s my only deal.”
“Are you saying, take it or leave it?”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” Tilghman told him. “Lots of people would jump at the deal. I’d rather sell to you.”
Sutton was silent a moment. “What about the racetrack? You plan to unload that, too?”
“Ten thousand cash buys the lease, the stables, the whole works.”
“Throw in your house and we’ll shake on it.”
“Nope,” Tilghman said slowly. “The house will fetch a good price on its own. We’re talking the track and the sports book.”
“Goddamn,” Sutton grumbled. “Anybody says you’re not a businessman, he’s loco. You squeeze the turnip.”
“One horse trade’s like another, Fred. We got a deal?”
“Hell, why not! I’m
