Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen: True Tales of the Old West's Sleaziest Swindlers

Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen: True Tales of the Old West's Sleaziest Swindlers

Matthew P. Mayo

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 0762789654

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Everyone loves a heel, especially one to whom nothing was sacred and who charmed his or her way into the hearts, minds, and wallets of bumpkins and belles alike. Hornswogglers, Fourflushers, and Snake-Oil Salesmen offers dozens of tales of petty bandits, sleazy bunko artists, and conniving conmen (and conwomen!) who traveled West to seek their fortunes by preying on those who went before them to settle and explore. 
Hornswogglers, Fourflushers, and Snake-Oil Salesmen tells who these nefarious ne'er-do-wells were, what they did, and why they are remembered, and each chapter is illustrated with engaging historic photos and illustrations of the shady characters at work and play. 
Caution: Lock up your wallet before reading!

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Newton, they outlawed booze two years ago, and me owning the only saloon in town. Imagine that. How can a man be a man without a bar to lean on and a fine friend to share a few swallows with?” He raised the bottle and saluted Simmonds, passed it to the younger man. Nelson dragged his coat cuff across his mustachioed mouth and belched softly. “I’m selling up and heading on out of here. It’s no fun anymore.” He stood and stretched his husky, five-foot-six frame, squared his hat on his head, and

fortune in uncut diamonds, large ones, small ones, all of them glinting in the yellow lamplight. He tried to speak, found his throat dry, swallowed, and tried again. “What is it you men would like from me?” What he really wanted to know was if they might tell him where they found them. Diamonds? In North America? Too good to be true, but yet here they were, proof beyond proof. “We’re looking for help, Mr. Ralston. And that’s the truth of it. We need sleep, we need rest. And we can’t get that so

it all a secret, you know, that business about not telling another living soul!” Slack raised his hands and let them flop to his sides. Finally, Arnold looked at him. “You don’t see it, do you?” Then he smiled and shook his head slowly. “John, we have been cousins for quite some time now. Is that not correct?” Slack scrunched his eyes. “Philip, you know the answer to that as well as I do—we’ve been cousins as long as we’ve both been alive, for Pete’s sake.” “Yes, yes, but that’s not what I’m

Peak. To date no one has found a native rare gem, or anything resembling one, on or around its slopes. CHAPTER 4 DOC BAGGS DENVER’S HIGH-END HUCKSTER If someone walked up to you on a shaded sidewalk outside a bank, held out what looked to be a genuine brick of solid gold, and said, “Just a moment, my good man. . . .” Wouldn’t you halt, even for a moment, your curiosity piqued? Yep. And apparently so did a whole lot of folks in Denver back in the early 1880s. And to a person, they ended up

both barrels, but before he could pull the triggers he heard a whooshing sound and the cabin shook as if it was blasted with nitro. Pizanthia came around as four of the Vigilantes dragged him down the muddy path toward the rank old tree that had been in his way since he started digging a year before. He knew he should have cut it down for firewood. He also knew what they were going to do with him. Dutch John had been right. Joe lashed out with a leg, caught one man on the side of the head and

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