Jack Powers: Race Against Time
5. The Great Race
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5. The Great Race
From “Remembering Jack Powers” by Bill Horace in the Los Angeles Star, 1876.
The San Luis Obispo lawyer's letter to the Bulletin was read by everyone, not only in The City but throughout the state. Its impact was sensational, as it was quickly understood the writer had been Robles' lawyer, paid by Jack himself. However hard to comprehend or justify, the man's participation in the criminal's defense could only validate his information.
Jack felt a chill descend in Santa Barbara. The dons feared being linked with him so publicly. In Los Angeles, where Jack was ostracized, both dons and gringo settlers hardened further. And in San Francisco, the Bulletin rejoiced at having facts instead of rumors to attack Jack Powers, and was pounding on him mercilessly. Jack still had plenty of supporters in The City, as many still refused to face the truth about a man they'd always loved. But he felt tremors in the earth beneath his feet.
* * *
At this moment of grave danger, Jack drew deep upon his instinct for theatricality. He was up in San Francisco, fighting off, as best he could, the wave of bad publicity by keeping in the public eye and acting confident and manly. A friend who owned the local racetrack talked with Jack about some news then circling the globe. An Englishman had ridden for one hundred-fifty miles in an incredibly short interval, on a racetrack using strings of thoroughbreds. His achievement had been deemed impossible and had drawn enormous wagers. It instantly occurred to Jack that he could do the same, or close enough considering he didn't have the thoroughbreds. He'd been breeding California horses for three years now as his passion and not merely to disguise his dark activities. The Californios rode fine mounts because they only picked the best out of their giant herds of mustangs, but they had never made an effort to improve the stock. Jack had built a stable of at least a dozen horses old enough to race, all products of judicious breeding.
He offered the idea to the racetrack owner, whose eyes lit up at once. Jack was the most famous rider in the State of California, as celebrated for his horsemanship in San Francisco as in the cattle ranching counties. If he said that he could do it, then he very likely could. It might attract in excess of ten thousand spectators, at a dollar, maybe two, apiece. Jack already started calling it, with irony known only to himself, a "Race Against Time." For Powers knew that any day his luck might finally run out with further damning revelations before he could refresh his popularity.
The stakes were set with both men putting up one thousand dollars. The racetrack owner knew that he would lose, but this meant nothing when compared to ticket sales. The side bets might run very high, and this was where Jack possibly could make some money, though it was difficult to figure. He had to win for every reason in the world and therefore couldn't throw the race and bet against himself. His only chance was shortening the time to where some bettors might be tempted by the odds. And so he wagered he could gallop almost twenty miles per hour for eight hours straight (reduced from ten) to run the hundred-fifty miles, all on California mustangs.
Jack cared about the money, but much more about the impact on his reputation. With this victory he'd be a hero, a source of pride when, due to gold production drying up, the mood throughout the state was sour. His triumph would be boasted of in all the San Francisco papers. The Lower Country would delight to find its horseflesh making news across the continent. Jack's image as a criminal, a traitor and a renegade would suddenly dissolve in an ebullience of celebration.
* * *
The date was set, the posters printed, and word went out in all the press. Jack understood that rumors of his epic rides escaping from a murder would only boost attendance at the racetrack. These jaunts, replacing mounts as he would flee one hundred miles or more through rugged country, had seemed prosperous, the stuff of legend. Now Powers had a chance to prove this superhuman horsemanship before a cheering crowd of San Franciscans. The fact it would corroborate the stories of his banditry was piquant to Jack’s taste and appealed to his theatricality. Everyone would want to watch.
Jack steamed down to Santa Barbara to collect his mounts. He might have brought up only his own stock, but he allowed the de la Guerras to contribute, and he even took a quick trip to Los Angeles to get horses from Andreas Pico. The greatest California dons must have a share in Powers' victory. Pio and El Huero drove the string up to The City as vaqueros. Great horsemen in their own right, they'd assist Jack at the race.
Every San Francisco paper covered the event, including, to Jack's satisfaction, the Evening Bulletin. The City had been in a state of lethargy, with nothing but bad headlines whining of declining commerce and a general malaise. Real estate was sinking and the population had begun to dwindle as men chased gold strikes elsewhere or returned from whence they came. After a full decade, the bubble of the Gold Rush was deflating. San Francisco, now it seemed, was but a temporary boomtown, not the destined New York City of this coast.
The track was packed by nine o'clock on race day as Jack commenced his ride. He started slowly, carrying weights and using heavy California saddles. Some thought this a proper strategy for long endurance, as he must ride till five o'clock. Others felt he was deliberately building up a deficit to move the odds and tempt some money in against him. But his reputation was too powerful to risk much gold, so at one point, around noon, Jack pretended to be injured and dismounted for some time. Although acknowledged as a fraud almost at once, it set his time back and drew further bets against him.
Jack swapped horses using Pio's judgment, every seven miles. He kept his two hands up and forward in the classic Spanish style to please the Californians in the crowd. Everything about his ride was showmanship because he never feared to lose. This was Jack as everyone remembered from the glory days, when people spoke of El Dorado and the Argonauts. In '48 in Santa Barbara, racing with the younger dons and dancing the fandango. The next year at the Mission San Francisco, called Dolores, dealing monte at a table piled with gold. Then the years down in Los Angeles where Powers lorded over Calle de los Negroes and the wealthiest rancheros gambled in his sala. The war with Den for squatting on Arroyo Burro, and all his far more serious offenses, were vaporized from memory as people watched the beau ideal of California, more mature and slightly stocky, prove that here was still the land of giant redwoods and a vastly grander species of humanity.
Not only did Jack conquer five o'clock, he galloped for an extra mile to wild applause, then leaped out of his saddle, looking fresh and running to embrace Linares and El Huero. The next day in the papers, even the Bulletin conceded how much Powers’ victory relieved the dark, depressive tone in San Francisco. Everybody was excited and Jack was met with shouts of acclamation everywhere he went. He'd even made some money because much more had been wagered on his losing than he'd figured. He'd been toying with a plan to board a ship for Mexico within a day after the race, to escape from California at the apex of his triumph, before some new details about his crimes upset the mood. But he could not resist the warmth of his reception and continued to remain in San Francisco. This turned out to be a terrible mistake.