GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter

Let’s do these two cases together on a trial basis. If we’re both satisfied with the arrangement then we can tackle new ventures together. My wife runs a French food business on the long wharf where our brig, “The Eliza,” is docked. Why don’t you join us for dinner one evening this week. You’ll be able to meet both your new clients and enjoy a meal with us.”

      The prospect of a home cooked meal and a chance to socialize with two new single women clients brought a smile to his previously dour visage. We shook hands on our agreement and made a date for dinner.

      California Gold Rush Journal

      

PART 2

      CHAPTER FOUR

       San Francisco — July 1851

      I made my way up Commercial Street to check my bank balance with Adams Express Co. and then moseyed up to Dupont Street to take a coffee and hear the latest gossip from Pierre-Louis at his restaurant before checking on my partnership to fabricate and sell Bear’s Grease Pomade. All the morning newspapers screamed headlines about the James Stuart affair. As usual, Pierre-Louis waited for a lull in business so he could join me for coffee and shoot the breeze.

      “So my friend, any success in partnering with a local lawyer?” Pierre-Louis said as he served me a dark coffee and poured water into his glass of anise-flavored drink.

      I chuckled. “I think I hooked one despite his grumbling at working for my hourly rate and condescending to share fees with a lowly clerc de notaire. I hope he he’s not like my former boss who let me do all the work and paid me a pittance.”

      “How did you get him?”

      “He dropped his fee for a small job he did for the French Consulate, so I knew he’s desperate for paying work. He’ll change his tune quick enough when he meets his two beautiful clients. Let’s hope Teri doesn’t eat him alive and scare him off with her glaring stare. She’s still mad as a hatter at men the way Raoul treated her.”

      Pierre-Louis struggled not to choke on his drink. “So you’re gonna snare him with your two vixens. What if he falls for one?”

      My turn to guffaw. “If he does, he’ll have the hardest case of his life. A once spurned woman will put a ring in this one’s nose and lead him to the trough. What’s the latest on the James Stuart affair? The papers are screaming about a new arrest.”

      “A member of the Committee recognized a man calling himself “Stephens” as the real James Stuart and they took him into custody to interrogate him. The Committee sent a relay of fast riders to Marysville to try to stop the execution of the man named Berdue that they sent to be hanged.”

      “They’re sure they got the right man this time?”

      “They’re sure, but all hell’s gonna break out if the Sheriff in Marysville hangs an innocent man railroaded by the Committee to the gallows. It plays into the hands of the Governor and his cronies who’ve been dragging their heels at reigning them in. According to what I heard this morning, the Committee has decided to try “Stephens” here for murder and a whole series of other crimes so they can hang him straight away. They even let him choose his own lawyer to defend him.”

      “Who would risk the wrath of the Committee to defend a sheriff killer?” I asked incredulous thinking of my recent interview with Thomas Hawthorne.

      “Well in light of the recent hanging of the Mexican woman, Juanita, by the crazed mob in Downieville, the Committee has decided to grant the accused the same rights he would have in a criminal court. Stuart asked to be defended by an attorney named Frank Pixley who defended him at his first trial. Pixley applied to a judge he knows for a writ of habeas corpus to compel the Committee to release Stuart to the corrupt civil authorities where he could get him off on a technicality by bribery. The Committee member I spoke to said Pixley was rotten to the core. They have heard testimony that Stuart paid Pixley $730.00 to arrange his escape from the hangman’s noose.”

      “Oh La La,” I chimed in. “The plot thickens like a 5 Cent novel the street hawkers sell. No wonder the town’s atwitter.”

      “The plot gets even more sleazy. Stuart arranged with his mistress, a “Mrs. Hogan,” to store goods stolen by the Sydney Ducks at her crib for stolen property. They were planning to escape together to Los Angeles and take a boat with the loot to Mexico before he was caught. When they arrested her, she was wearing a tintype photo of Stuart on a chain around her neck. The Committee thinks he’ll confess his crimes if they agree to let her go.”

      Pierre-Louis had to attend to newly arrived clients, so I decided to continue my stroll along Dupont Street to visit the French Pharmacy on Broadway owned by Bernard and Françoise Lefèbvre. I had supplied them with bear’s fat and oil and they’d agreed to prepare and market a bear’s grease pomade for slicking the hair of the local dandies and card sharks and a scented bear’s oil sold as both a hair product and a cure-all remedy for hair. Mme. Lefèbvre threw me a friendly smile with her milky-blue eyes, then nodded in the direction of her husband at his rear counter where he was mixing remedies.

      “I think you will be very pleased with Bernard’s results.” She proudly handed me a medium sized porcelain pot with paper labeled top that read “LEFÈBVRE’S CALIFORNIA BEAR’S GREASE/ Made With The Fat of California Bears According To A New, Secret Formula/ Guaranteed Superior To Any Imported Competitor.” The text formed an oval around the lithographed image of a California Black Bear sitting on his haunches and growling to show his ferocious teeth and massive front claws.

      “Go ahead, open the top and smell it,” she prompted as her husband joined us at the sales counter.

      The thick, greasy concoction smelled of lavender and rosemary. “What do you think?” Bernard Lefèbvre said with a twinkle in his eyes while tugging on his superbly waxed mustache.

      “I like the label and the price of $3.25 a pot. I trust your judgment as to the product. I’ve never used it myself.”

      He laughed and put his arm around his pleasantly plump wife who beamed with pride at her husband’s accomplishment. “I had to play with it quite awhile to get the right mix of scent and viscosity. It’s lighter and easier to apply than most of the imported bear’s grease and our price will undercut the imports by 30%, but we’ll need to advertise to attract clients for our new product.”

      “I agree. If you give me the stencil for the paper label, I’ll order a small classified advertisement in all the local newspapers and have my assistant distribute small flyers and broadsheets to all the gambling establishments and saloons. I’ll have the printing bills sent to your store and you can pay them out our profits. I expect our margin of profit will be substantial, right?”

      Mme. Lefèbvre gave the game away in her anxious glance to her husband. We hadn’t discussed the selling price of the product or what it would cost to make it when we agreed to fabricate and sell it on a 50/50 basis. As I supplied the bear’s grease, there had to be a substantial profit as porcelain pots, paper labels, scents and advertising in this expensive town could not be more than $1.00 a pot, if that. I had seen ads in the Eastern newspapers for highly scented bear’s grease at 75 cents for a large pot.

      Bernard Lefèbvre hesitated just a second too long before replying, “Yes, we’ll have a nice profit eventually. But the start up costs are substantial.” He began ticking off the elements before I interrupted him.

      “My research indicates our finished product shouldn’t cost more than 50 cents a pot as I provide the bear’s grease and you developed the formula. Right?”

      Lefèbvre’s normally confident demeanor cracked. Still dressed as dapper as ever, he now looked stooped and his voice had become more shrill. “Well, we might get