I won’t recount the full tedium of the conversation with Henry Leavenworth and his lapdog co-conspirator Lieutenant Douglas. It was a boring dance that revolved around the exchange of hard currency for soft to get the value I wanted.

It was important to Leavenworth that he have a solid and viable plan for the new encampment down in Kansas to ensure that it was his project and not awarded to one of his adversaries. Needless to say, the idea that I could provide lumber, beef and beer for his upcoming project was enough motivation to earn me a few dollars more on the exchange rate. And in a time where even a penny or two could buy you a simple meal, every dollar was worth pursuing.

The fact that I was travelling to the Capitol motivated him even more; the only stumbling point came when I mentioned Archibald Henderson.

Up until then, Henry was pointing out people I should meet with and concepts I should push; I went along with all of that. However, when I mentioned Henderson, he began to stammer a little and his glib speech disappeared into silence. Even in 1822, the old man’s name carried more than a little weight in military circles; the fact that I even knew who Archibald was appeared to come as a surprise to Henry. Henry’s sudden attitude change was a boon I hadn’t hoped for, though my new problem was that I had to make the influential connection become true before Henry could find it false. My trip back east had a sudden timeline shift, and Mouse would not be amused to hear about it.

Henry was also very willing to do some wheeling and dealing around payment, so I was able to pick up additional rifles and ammunition (powder & shot) at a steep discount. It didn’t hurt that Leavenworth was susceptible to good bourbon and stories; I was able to ply him with good bourbon and tales of buffalo hunting as we spent the hot afternoon relaxing and conversing.

By the time all the news-swapping, booze-gifting and bartering was done, I had managed to wrangle another five dollars an ounce out of him – half in cash, and the other half in a U.S. bearer bond that I’d deposit in our new Rulo bank. It was a strange time in U.S. history when individual regional commanders could write out debt notes for the entire nation, yet at the same time it was simply a fact.

It even made sense, once you got used to the idea: even dollar bills and British pound notes were simply a representation of a promise made by the government to present that specific amount of gold or silver to the holder of that paper note. In fact, that remained true even down into modern times, with dollar bills still marked as ‘Promissory Notes’ on their face long after the nation had abandoned the gold standard to free float the currency. Monetary policies of the future aside, my investment in greenbacks was a sure bet in a world very short of them.

And so the afternoon passed with a kind of annoying leisure as we relaxed and conversed as much as one could. The sweltering August heat had air full of gnats, flies and skeeters. There was no getting rid of the insects and the flies were everywhere; they came as part of the atmosphere when the landscape was covered in livestock shit. Pollution had always been one of the downsides to transportation by horse and the beef herds to feed the troops didn’t much help. Mosquito nets weren’t in wide usage yet and were still difficult to manufacture.

Leavenworth had already heard tales of my battle during the return trip from St. Louis and I had to recount the full story. Normally I tried to avoid such things, but I needed to keep him on my side for a while longer as a source of hard currency and weapons. His new fort down in Kansas would provide me a ready market for my food, hardwood and booze; it was my intention to take advantage of this relationship in any way that I could.

I managed to avoid getting plastered by running a little shell game: I had two similar bottles in my shoulder bag, one with bourbon and one with tea that looked a lot like bourbon. I only drank half of what Henry did that afternoon - I definitely had my share of dark tea. I managed to accomplish most of my goals and solidify them with a handshake agreement. We would be supplying food, transport and construction materials to his current fort and, more importantly, to the upcoming Fort Leavenworth. Not detailed contracts mind you, but so long as we delivered, we’d be ‘preferred vendors’ of a sort.

Booze in the belly and a gentlemen’s agreement in the bag, I took my leave of his office and staggered my way to the door, leaving the remainder of the bottle of Byrne’s bourbon with him. It was still only late afternoon but I had accomplished my mission of ensuring we were on the vendors list and had a source of steady income. The next step was to develop and maintain it without spoiling the land for our future generations. I had a buzz on after drinking at least six shots, and my mind wandered back to something I’d seen long ago on the future internet, a tree growing technique called Daisugi.

Already an ancient art even in 1822, Daisugi was a method of cultivating valuable cedar lumber through careful pruning of so-called “mother trees”, harvesting saplings that sprang from the top of the heavily-pruned crown of the mother. The ancient Britons and Romans were known to have similar forest management practices, respectively known as “coppicing” and “pollarding, depending on whether the tree were cut at ground level or, to deny browsing deer and other marauders access to tasty young shoots, at the eight foot level and above. America was about to get its own ultra-bonsai practice; the Sierra Club could thank me later.