At the Santa Fe depot, Tilghman got a pleasant surprise. The noon train was on time, and Neal Brown hopped off the steps of the caboose. Brown was short and wiry, with a quick smile and an uncanny way with horses. He waved, motioning toward the last boxcar on the freight train. His mouth split in a grin.
“By God!” he said, pumping Tilghman’s arm. “Thought you never was gonna send for me.”
The telegraph lines were now operating out of Guthrie. Two days before Tilghman had wired instructions for shipping the horses. “Good to see you,” he said as they shook hands. “How was the trip?”
“Smooth as butter,” Brown assured him. “Think the horses slept all the way.”
“Glad to hear they’re rested and full of vinegar. Big Red’s scheduled for a race on Saturday.”
The reference to the long-legged chestnut caught Brown short. “Gawdalmighty, Bill,” he said, somewhat amazed. “That’s pretty quick, ain’t it?”
“Quick enough,” Tilghman informed him. “The racetrack’s all but done, and no need to dally around. You can start working Big Red this afternoon.”
“You just move right along, don’t you?”
“Timing worked out perfect, Neal. There’s a prize fight set for Saturday, heavyweight championship. The bout’s scheduled to start right after the race. We’re bound to draw a big crowd.”
“Goddamn,” Brown said in mild awe. “Told me you aimed to make your fortune down here. Guess you wasn’t kiddin’.”
Tilghman smiled. “Never kid about money, Neal. Let’s get those horses unloaded.”
Brown began barking orders at the train crew. A ramp was rolled into place and the boxcar door thrown open. Big Red was the first in the string to set hoof on Oklahoma Territory.
* * *
The Turf Exchange was mobbed Saturday morning. The doors opened at eight o’clock and Tilghman and Sutton worked the betting cages straight through until noon. Guthrie had again led the way, staging the first sporting events in the territory, and people treated it like a civic celebration. Hardly a man in town failed to wager a bet.
Saloons and gambling dives also took bets. But just as Tilghman had foreseen, the public flocked to what was considered a legitimate sports book operation. To such a degree, in fact, that Tilghman and Sutton had deposited over thirty thousand dollars in wagers at the Citizen’s National Bank. A nightly tally of the betting slips indicated that the wagers were roughly split between the prize fight and the horse race. At noon, with bettors still waiting in line, they were forced to close the doors. Their bankroll, taken with the odds, would cover no more wagers.
Post time at the track was scheduled for two that afternoon. An hour before some fifteen thousand spectators were mobbed around the track railing. On trains, by buggy and horseback, people had traveled from across the Territory to witness a double-barrelled sports extravaganza. Cafes and saloons also had struck pay dirt, and half the crowd was ossified on spirits by post time. The police force, led by the newly appointed town marshal, finally called it quits. There was no way to control such a large crowd.
The race went off shortly after two o’clock. Big Red, with Neal Brown aboard, surged across the starting line and took an early lead. Half a length behind was a roan stallion, imported for the event by a rancher outside of Oklahoma City. The rest of the pack, never really in the race, were strung out some distance behind. Big Red set the pace, but by the far turn the roan was edging closer. In the homestretch, the roan’s rider applied the quirt and the stallion made it a neck-and-neck race. Valiant to the end, with Brown urging him on, Big Red matched the roan stride for stride. At the finish line, the roan at last gained half a step and won it by a nose. The crowd, hoarse from shouting, roared approval for both horses. Talk of a future rematch instantly swept the track.
An hour later, in a field west of the track, the prize fight got under way. Paddy O’Shea, the heavyweight champion of Kansas, was matched against Davy Dolan, a pugilist from St. Louis. The match was bare-knuckle, conducted under Marquis of Queensberry Rules: no hitting when a man was down. The crowd, raucous with excitement by now, surrounded an earthen ring of posts and ropes in the center of the field. At the opening bell, O’Shea proceeded to give the contender a lesson in the gentlemanly art of boxing. By the twenty-third round, Dolan looked like a man who had been savaged by wildcats. O’Shea charitably put him down and out with a clubbing right to the jaw.
The crowd went wild as O’Shea strutted around the ring. Tilghman and Sutton, who were standing near one of the corner posts, were only slightly less restrained. Laughing, pounding one another on the back, they exchanged mutual congratulations. Neal Brown, who had only just finished tending Big Red, found them moments after the fight ended. Consternation swept his face when they grabbed him, still laughing, and heartily shook his hand.
“What the hell you two lookin’ so happy about? Our horse lost!”
“Who cares?” Sutton crowed. “Won or lost, it’s all the same!”
“You gone nuts?” Brown demanded. “Won or lost ain’t the same a’tall.”
“Yeah, it is,” Tilghman said. “Leastway if you’re running the right kind of business.”
“You’re gonna have to spell that out for me, Bill.”
Tilghman pulled him aside and told him. No matter who won or who lost—horses, baseball, or pugs—the oddsmaker had it covered both ways. The Turf Exchange, Tilghman revealed with a low chuckle, was the biggest winner
