Elias Vance was a rancher, a down-to-earth man accustomed to dealing with the weather, cattle, and honest or cunning cattle dealers.
At this moment, he stood in front of the corrals on his ranch, looking at the hundred fat, strong beef cattle, already branded with the delivery mark, his brow tightly furrowed.
"Mr. Thompson," he said to the man beside him, who looked out of place in his fashionable Chicago suit, his voice as rough as the rocks on the prairie, "the cattle are all here. According to the contract we signed a week ago, today is your payment day. Where is my money?"
Thompson, the agent who called himself the "Western Livestock Cooperative," put on a professional smile, but his eyes were a bit shifty.
"Of course, of course, Mr. Vance. There's no problem with the money." He took a new handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "It's just... there was a small, tiny accident. Our company's fund transfer in Philadelphia is undergoing an emergency internal audit. You know, those damned financiers always like to show their rigor at the most inopportune times."
"So?" Elias Vance was not a man who liked to hear excuses.
"So, your payment might be delayed by a few days," Thompson's smile seemed a bit stiff. "But please rest assured, the Cooperative will absolutely not joke with its reputation. Every cent we promised will definitely be paid to you."
"A few days?" Vance's brow furrowed even tighter. "My cowboys are all waiting for this money for their wages. I told them that as soon as the cattle are sold, their wages would be settled. This is our rule on the prairie. But what you are doing now doesn't seem to follow the rules."
"Three days at most, I guarantee it!" Thompson quickly added. "In three days, you will definitely see boxes full of silver coins."
Elias Vance looked at him in silence for a long time, and finally nodded helplessly, "Alright, Thompson. I'll trust you one more time, just three days."
Many other ranches saw similar scenes... In Chicago, Philip Armour's office.
This place was completely different from the ranches in Kansas; thick carpets absorbed all sounds, and the air was filled with the scent of Cuban cigars and leather. Armour had intended to try the lunch he ordered from a French restaurant, but a series of urgent telegrams from the west completely ruined his appetite.
"What's going on?" he asked his assistant, a capable man named Martin. "Why is the payment delayed? Didn't I tell you to ensure that the funds for the 'Cooperative' must be in place immediately?"
"It's a problem in Philadelphia, sir," Martin's tone was helpless. "I sent a telegram to Mr. Davenport early this morning. He replied that some investors in their company raised doubts about the risks of the Western project and requested a temporary internal audit. He assured me that it's just a temporary procedural issue, and it will only be delayed by a few days at most."
"Davenport!" Armour cursed under his breath. "That guy always messes things up for me at such critical moments!"
"Do you need me to send someone to Philadelphia?"
"Not for now," Armour shook his head. "Mr. Sloan has eyes and ears over there. If a big problem really arises, we'll know immediately. It should just be a management issue with that incompetent fellow himself."
Although he was annoyed, he didn't truly suspect anything. In his view, Davenport and his credit company were merely tools used to execute the plan—reliable but occasionally prone to minor malfunctions.
"Tell our agents on the prairie," Armour gave the order, "to appease those ranchers. Say good things, promise future benefits. We absolutely cannot let them turn back to the New Yorkers at this time."
However, he underestimated the power of cash on the Western prairie, and he also underestimated Bill's beast-like business acumen... In Kansas, a roadside tavern outside Dodge City.
This was the only place within a fifty-mile radius where all ranchers and cowboys could get a cold beer after a trading day.
Elias Vance was sitting at the bar, drinking silently, glass after glass. Today was the deadline for the "three days" promised by the Cooperative agent Thompson, but he hadn't even seen a shadow of him.
The atmosphere in the tavern was a bit subdued; several ranchers had encountered the same problem. They began to suspect that the Cooperative, which claimed to represent "Western interests," was a complete scam.
Just then, the tavern door was pushed open.
Caleb, the chief buyer for Metropolitan Trading Company, walked in with two men. He didn't greet the familiar ranchers one by one as usual. Instead, he walked straight to the bar and heavily placed a weighty leather pouch on it, producing a crisp metallic clinking sound.
"Bartender," he called out to the tavern owner, "three beers. Also, please keep an eye on this money bag for me. This is the payment our Boss, Mr. Bill, asked me to bring for the Goodnight Ranch's goods. He said that in wartime, only silver coins in hand are the most tangible thing."
He deliberately untied the string of the money bag, revealing the gleaming, freshly minted Eagle dollars from the Federal Mint inside.
The entire tavern instantly fell silent. Everyone's gaze was drawn to that bag of silver coins.
Elias Vance looked at the bag of money, then thought about his cattle still in the corrals, eating feed but not bringing in a single cent, and his heart felt as if it had been sharply pierced by something.
He picked up his glass and walked to Caleb's table.
"Caleb," he began, his voice a little dry, "I heard... your Metropolitan Company is still buying cattle these days?"
Caleb looked at him, a knowing smile appearing on his face.
"Of course, Mr. Vance," his reply was unhurried. "Our factories always need good cattle. As long as the cattle are of good quality and the price is fair, our money is always settled on the spot."
"My cattle are the best in all of Kansas," Vance said. "But I signed a contract with the Cooperative."
"Contracts are signed by people, Mr. Vance," Caleb took a sip of beer. "If one party doesn't keep its promise, the other party naturally has the right to make a new choice. This is a truth even the Indians understand."
Elias Vance fell silent.
He looked at Caleb's sincere face, at the envious eyes of the other ranchers in the tavern, and then thought about his cowboys waiting for their wages.
He made a decision.
He drained the remaining beer in his glass and heavily placed the glass on the table.
"Go," he yelled at one of his ranch's cowboys outside the door, "find that smooth-talking liar, Thompson!"
"Tell him his 'three days' are up. Today I want to see his silver coins, otherwise," a look of determination flashed in his eyes, "he can just wait to see my cattle walk into the Metropolitan Company's corrals."
A low cheer erupted in the tavern.
Caleb smiled and raised his glass.