Eric Slaughter, accompanied by three of his burly ranch hands, pushed his horse hard. They had to make it to the Humburg spread before it was too late. His men were dressed appropriately for their work and so was he; expensive three-piece suit, bowler hat and highly polished ankle-length boots. Normally the banker would be in his carriage, but when he heard that his rival, Thomas Teasdale, was about to undercut his plans to take over the Humburg land he threw one of his men off his mount and set off. Rounding the bend of the cart path to Humburg's, his anger rose when he saw Teasdale's buggy parked in front of the farm house.

Reining in his mount, he yelled at Humburg who stood on the porch alongside his wife and Thomas Teasdale, "Your time is up. You're three months behind and by your mortgage this land is now mine!"

"Not so fast, Eric," returned Thomas, who knew Slaughter disliked being called by his first name.

"You stay out of this, you claim jumper," Eric snapped. "You won't ace me out this time." Teasdale had bested him in several land deals in the past and with each one the banker's ire grew deeper and deeper.

"Mr. Humburg has 'til midnight to pay up and you might have noticed that the sun is still up." Turning to Humburg, Thomas indicated he should give Slaughter the folded piece of paper he held.

Taking the document, Eric looked at it and bellowed. "What's this?"

"It's full payment for Mr. Humburg's mortgage," Teasdale announced with great glee. "You're out of this deal. The Ranch and Farm Bank now holds the paper on this property."

"Damn your hide, Teasdale. I'll destroy you for this!"

Though in the same business, the two men could not have been more different. Slaughter was a big man, well over six feet with a pronounced belly and a full salt-and-pepper beard. His voice was deep and loud. A feature he used to intimidate and belittle.

Teasdale was an average man, spectacled with thinning hair. He favored grey suits, though often shed his coat and vest, looking less distinguished than his tellers. Quiet in manner, he was all business with an ear for his customers.

The bad blood between them ran deep. The Slaughter Bank had been the only bank in Calliope for several years giving him a lock on major financial dealings in the area. However, as time went on larger ranches, mining interests and settlers moving into the area saw the need for a second bank was obvious, that and Slaughter's ego rubbed some of the equally proud businessmen in town the wrong way.

Forming a board of directors, the business men cast about for a man to run their new bank. They found him in Thomas Teasdale who was Slaughter's head teller at the time. Young, smart and ambitious, Teasdale was quick to take the reins of the new Ranch and Farm Bank.

As it played out, the townsfolk rallied around one bank or the other. It split the town and then came the saga of the safes. Slaughter's Bank had a Herring & Co. Salamander safe made in 1855, serviceable but not grandiose. The Ranch bank needed a safe and ordered a Stiffel & Freeman Safe from Philadelphia built on the 1869 model. It was a safe within a safe with a combination lock on the outer door and a key locked inner safe.

Slaughter was incensed that his safe was now inferior and he installed a modern Diebold vault. He had the vault built within the bank with foot-and-a-half-thick brick and iron ceiling and walls, fronted by a modern 1885 Diebold Safe & Lock Co. door with time lock.

It was an ornate piece with Greek revival capitals and columns. It took up a full third of the bank with its outer walls plastered and painted gleaming white. Inside, the vault was fully outfitted with shelves on three sides and an inner cage for customers who wanted greater security. As a finishing flourish, a deep-pile oriental carpet covered the floor.

The vault nearly bankrupted him and he had to mortgage many of his holdings to keep is head above water. A practice he continued anytime his desires overreached his funds, like having to keep his wife in the manner she favored. She spent half the year in Europe or Newport as a rule.

The town expected Teasdale to get a better safe, but being frugal and practical he invested the bank's assets in more productive efforts like lending to farmers for seed or ranches for breed stock.

Still steaming at Teasdale's besting, Slaughter arrived back at his bank, dropped into his great swivel chair and called for his head teller, "Hobart!"

A thin wiry soul hurried through the doorway. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses and straitening his vest, he stood erect before the banker, "Mr. Slaughter?"

"I've had it with that damned Teasdale. I've had it, I tell you." Slaughter fumed and pounded his fist.

"Yes sir, but what can you do?" dutifully responded the teller.

"You don't worry about that. I thought of a plan riding back from Humburg's. He'll rue the day he went up against me. Enough on this, what about Prichard's effects?"

Claiborne Prichard had been an old man who lived alone in a tiny house on the edge of the town. A refugee from the old South after the war, he worked as a notary, tutor and accountant for several stores and ranches in the area. Slaughter held the mortgage on his place and when Claiborne died suddenly the previous week, Slaughter claimed all his possessions to settle his debts.

Hobart continued. "We cleaned out the place and put it all in your warehouse. There wasn't much, mostly chairs and a nice gate-leg table, but there was something very strange."

Slaughter leaned forward, "What?"

"There were two steamer trunks. We busted the lock off and they were chockfull of Confederate currency: all new bills, maybe $200,000 worth."

The banker leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful look, "Guess the rumors were true."

"Rumors sir?"

"During the war a fella' named Thayer tried to smuggle a large number of notes across the Mississippi to Texas to support the war in the west, but he was caught in '63. There were all kinds of rumors that there were several other smugglers involved. Some thought Prichard may have been one of them as he had worked in the Southern treasury at the time. So, I guess he was."

A few weeks later, four men, Italian emigrants, stepped off the train. Tough-looking, dressed in a distinctly Eastern style, mustachioed and swarthy, they made straight for the Ranch bank. There they rented the vacant general store owned by the bank and situated next to Slaughters bank. The two buildings even shared a wall. As soon as they secured the property they began taking shipments of dry goods and opened for business.

Townspeople were not hostile to the newcomers, but were suspicious. It took a few days before some brave souls entered the store. The first thing they noticed was the men could barely speak English, communicating mostly with hand gestures, grunts and a few words sprinkled here and there.

The next surprise was the store prices. It seemed they had no idea what items should cost, selling a $2 bolt of cloth for 50 cents or a quarter for a sack of flour worth at least a dollar at any other store in town.

These heavy discounts hurt the other shops, but they figured it was just a stunt to get new business and eventually the prices would come into line. They did not and the men continued undercutting prices which brought lines of patrons through their doors. At least two smaller stores went under, being snatched up by Slaughter.

One more curiosity about the Italians was their habit of calling each other Goombah, meaning friend. Hardly ever did they use names. It was Goombah this and Goombah that, Goombah come here, Goombah, Goombah, Goombah. So, the townsfolk got to calling them collectively, the Goombahs.

A few weeks after the Goombahs set up shop, Slaughter stepped out of his bank's rear door to enjoy the day and a fine cigar. Not surprisingly, he found Larry, the leader of the men, raking the ground around his garden. His name was Lorenzo, but he had lived long enough in the states to know his name was Larry. He was the only one with a full command of English.

Even before they had their store ready the Goombahs broke ground for a garden behind the store growing tomatoes, kale, kohlrabi and an assortment of herbs. No matter what was happening in the store there was always at least one of them tending their vegetables, moving dirt around from here to there.

Stepping up close to the gardener, the banker blew out a cloud of smoke and asked, "How is our plan going?"

Larry nodded. "Okay."

"It won't be long before the money comes in," Slaughter continued. He was sure to stress his concern with the tone of his voice.

"Don't worry. We know our job." Larry did not bother to raise his head, just kept raking.

"Look," Slaughter pointed his cigar at the Goombah. "I've got one more thing I want you to do," he said handing Larry a key. "There are strongboxes in my warehouse you can use. Also, there are chests down there full of Confederate money. Replace Teasdale's money with that Confederate junk."

Larry looked up with a broad smile. "That's a good joke."

South of town proper was Cutler Lake, named for a surveyor who passed through in the 1850s. A mountain lake, it swelled in the Spring but by Fall it drained down leaving a wide meadow on its western bank that served as the grounds for the Fall festival. Each year it was a contest between the Bar B's secret basting sauce and the K&N's special seasoning. Most of the town saloons sent out beer wagons. There was a pie making contest, horseshoe pitching, shooting competitions and all manner of western activities. It was common for folks to come by train from as far away as Carson City and Ely for the event.

The festivities were timed to conform with the annual cattle sale and harvest from the farms. Cattle buyers deposited large sums in the two banks as did the farmers after selling their crops.

A few days before the party, Larry stood on the train platform as the westbound screeched to a stop. A man in stylish eastern dress stepped off. They shook hands and with little conversation they walked directly to the Ranch bank. Larry conducted a minor transaction at the teller's window while the man stood to the side observing everything in the bank, especially the safe.

The preparations for the festival were well under way on the Friday when Slaughter stood before his staff and announced, "Gentlemen, a bank holiday; you've been loyal to the bank and it's time to show my thanks. I'll stay here and mind the store. Go home. Enjoy the party and I'll see you all on Monday morning".

The tellers looked at each other in disbelief. None remembered a time when the boss showed any magnanimity at all. None the less, they beat a hasty path out the door, leaving Slaughter standing in front of the Diebold wearing a broad smile, lightly clapping his hands.

At about ten o'clock that evening there came a soft tapping on the bank's back door. The banker hurried to open it. There the Goombahs and the well-dressed safe cracker stood, loaded down with strongboxes and stuffed bank bags.

In a few moments the loot was secured in the safe which Slaughter had kept open instead of setting it at the end of the business day. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Easy, "reported Larry. "You have easy locks around here." Putting his arm around the safe cracker, he continued, "Bobby cracked it in ten minutes." The thief then opened one of the strongboxes exhibiting Teasdale's money.

"When do you leave?" asked Slaughter, running his hands through the cash that he knew would destroy his banking rival and make himself the richest banker outside of the state capital.

"We are on the eastbound midnight train."

The newly wealthy man counted out $10,000 from the strongbox and handed it to the thief, "A job well done. Great, you earned every cent of this."

After handing off the money Slaughter closed the strongbox and took a padlock off a nearby shelf. "What's that for?" asked Larry.

"For the strongbox," Slaughter said.

Larry laughed and slapped him on the back. "What, you don't trust that big door of yours?"

The banker thought for a moment, smiled then laughed. "You are so right." He returned the padlock to its place then had a thought. "Oh, did you leave the Confederate bills?"

"Sure, sure, that was a good joke."

As Slaughter set the time lock for ten o'clock Monday morning, the Goombahs went back to their store and prepared to depart. "Just like thieves in the night," thought Slaughter.

At the party on Saturday, Slaughter was jovial, glad-handing everyone he met. Several people marveled at his high spirits, not at all like the gruff blusterer they knew. He came early and stayed late and even judged the pie eating contest.

Teasdale was his usual self, chatting with farmers and small land owners who always wanted to talk business.

Sunday was the recovery day for the ones who enjoyed Saturday too much and the town slept late as the participants wended their way home.

Monday morning found Slaughter sitting at his desk long before Hobart and the tellers arrived while Teasdale had his breakfast of toast and an apple while sharing a cup of coffee with his wife.

Hobart arrived to find his boss rocked back in his grand chair with his feet uncharacteristically propped up on his desk. The tellers busied themselves with preparing to open the bank at ten AM when the safe's time lock tripped.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the street and a fellow came banging on the front door. "Robbed, robbed," he cried. "They robbed the Ranch bank."

Hobart rushed in to tell Slaughter the news. "Ranch's been robbed. What will we do?"

The banker, never moving from his recline, waved the teller off, "Nothing! They didn't rob us. You all go and see what's up. I'll be along soon."

At the Ranch bank the lobby was full of curious townsfolk, some gawking and some fretting about their money. Teasdale stood in front of his open safe with a bundle of Confederate bills in each hand.

Teasdale was numb, being barraged with questions from the sheriff and the townsfolk. "How much did they get? How'd they get in? How could you let this happen? My life's savings was in this bank!"

In the midst of the tumult Slaughter strode into the crowd. "People, people, don't worry. Any of you who had funds in this unfortunate institution, just bring your bank book to me and I'll refund your money at my own expense." With that the banker led a procession of patrons across the street to his bank. Being well past ten AM, his safe was ready to open.

Taking a position behind the teller's window, Slaughter ordered Hobart to open the Diebold and bring him the large strongbox he found there. "Put it right here beside me."

The tellers went to the safe and in a moment the head teller was back, but without the box. "Sir," he whispered. "We need to talk."

"Not now, man," blustered the big man. "These people are waiting. Bring me the strongbox."

"But Sir."

"Hobart, now!"

In short order the tellers thumped the heavy chest down on the table next to Slaughter and opened it. Without looking, he reached in and grabbed a fist-full of bills.

"I had thirty-four dollars and fourteen cents," said the farmer across from the banker.

"Well, let's not worry about the change. Make it thirty-five dollars even," responded the savior banker as he counted out the money.

It was then he realized he held Confederate money. He looked in the box to find nothing but worthless southern currency. He rushed to the safe only to find that the shelves, boxes and bags were all filled with the same paper. Besides that, in the middle of the oriental carpet was the gaping mouth of a shaft that descended into the floor.

When a teller slipped down into the hole he came out in the back room of the Goombah's store. Of course the storekeepers were nowhere to be found. The town went mad.

Eventually Sheriff Billy got the story. The station master said the men had tickets for Saturday's late train. A witness saw them loaded down with carpet bags and boxes as they boarded the train. The tunnel into the bank must have taken weeks to dig, so they had to have started it when they arrived, about the time they started their garden.

The sheriff sent telegrams alerting all stations along the line to watch for the robbers, but no one knew where they had gotten off the train. He tried to get out a wanted poster, but no one in the town remembered the Goombahs well enough to make four distinct sketches. Besides that, no one had ever bothered to learn their names. So the poster went out with a vague description of four Italians, all going by the name Goombah.

Slaughter played the victim to the hilt and never mentioned any involvement in the plot. He even blamed Teasdale for renting the store to the Goombahs. However, once word reached the banks in Carson City and Denver with whom he had mortgaged everything he and his bank owned, they came looking for their money. This left him no choice but to "flee like a thief in the night," even stranding his wife in Paris with no money.

Teasdale survived and prospered. Unlike Slaughter, he had not mortgaged his assets. His friends, the farmers and small ranchers, stayed with him and being the only bank in town served him well. Of course he did get a new Diebold safe with a time lock, thicker door, and walls of concrete and iron all around.