Calgary, Alberta, Canada, May 1914

Herbert Mackenzie Fraser, the elderly manager of the First Mercantile Bank, was a deeply troubled man. He fiddled nervously with his wing collar and bowtie, staring at the ledgers in front of him and silently wishing for a miracle this afternoon. Five of his six biggest clients had defaulted on their loans, yet he could not risk a foreclosure with any of them. To do so would send a rumour that the Bank was in trouble and that would force a run from other clients to withdraw their deposits. He couldn't allow that to happen. The Bank didn't have the cash to repay them and he desperately needed something to avoid a collapse.

A knock on his office door interrupted him and he looked over heavy spectacles at his Counter Clerk. "Sorry, Mr Fraser. Just about to close up, but there's a man been waiting to see you for the last two hours. I think he wants a loan, but he look's…er, impaired." In banking terms, that word meant unsuitable for lending purposes, but Mr Fraser wanted a distraction from his worries. So the man was ushered into his office and made to sit alongside the far wall, well away from the desk.

"How can I help you, Mr…?" asked Fraser.

"Josef Jowalski," replied the man. "I'm from Poland, sir. I've spent my life savings of $500 to buy farmland. Now I need another $250 to build a small shack and buy equipment to grow potatoes, like my father did in the old country."

"And whereabouts is your farm?"

"Turner Valley," he answered, lifting some documents and a map from his knapsack. "I have bought over five hundred acres from a cattleman near there. My land is bordered by the river and the rancher says it floods each spring and his beasts get stuck in the mud. But it's ideal for potatoes. They need lots of water and light soil."

Mr Fraser looked unimpressed. "That's eighty miles south of here. No railway, no roads, no settlements… just ranching country, nothing else."

"Yes, it's taken me two days to ride here over the prairie in my wagon."

"And how many banks have you approached in town?" asked Fraser.

"Four so far, you are the fifth. I'm hoping you are the one to say yes to me."

Mr Fraser sighed, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. "Mr Jowalski, there is good reason why four banks have already said no. You have paid just a dollar per acre for land because it's worthless and hence offers no security for a loan. Even if you could grow, er, potatoes, how would you get them to market? In your wagon? They would have rotted by then. Ranching is the only activity in that part of the country that has any chance of working. That's because the grass needed to feed the cattle grows freely each year and the cows have legs, meaning they can be herded to their eventual destination. You have nothing to offer the Bank, so I will also be saying no to you, sir."

Mr Jowalski left the office and Fraser closed the ledgers, turning to the other documents on his desk. One concerned the new Calgary Stock Exchange, due to open the following week. Tonight, the Chamber of Commerce President would be unveiling details at a dinner at the Palliser Hotel. If only Fraser had some clients of value, he could raise new stock capital at the Exchange. Instead, he would have to keep a dignified silence to avoid any adverse rumours arising over the brandy and cigars.

At the dinner Mr Fraser listened patiently to the exciting news, despite having a headache and wanting to sleep. Suddenly, the President's speech was interrupted by the hotel manager whispering something at his side, whilst waiters carrying bundles of newspapers appeared in the room.

The President banged the top table with his gavel. "Gentlemen, I've just been told that the Herald has brought its print run forward by three hours to rush out the first editions of tomorrow's paper to you. They've got some interesting news to share," he said, as copies were distributed to every table and animated mutterings scurried around the room.

Mr Fraser glanced at the headline. "Oil strike!" it screamed. Oil! That invisible, mystical substance hidden deep in the Earth was the revolutionary fuel of the Century, providing heat, light and above all, petroleum for the new automobiles. He had seen the impact of similar discoveries in Pennsylvania, Texas and California. Oil meant one thing - boomtime and whoever had oil-bearing land was sitting on massive wealth.

"Where the hell is Turner Valley?" drawled a man to Mr Fraser's left.

"It's miles away, south of here…" answered Fraser, but cut himself short as the image of Mr Jowalski, haggard and unwashed, reappeared in his mind. Oh Lord, that man could be worth millions without even knowing it. If the Bank had security over his land, Fraser could raise all the capital he needed on the stock exchange.

Oil fever was sweeping across the room as urgent conversations began. Any attorneys present were corralled into corner tables by the industrialists and robber barons intent on creating new exploration and drilling companies. Others mentioned selling shares to the public to raise funds. But Fraser knew that this was mere speculation. The real money was in the land - that's where fortunes would be made. He had to get to Jowalski and sign him up. But where the hell was he?

Mr Fraser reasoned that Jowalski couldn't afford a hotel, so if he was still in town he'd likely be drunk or sleeping in his wagon. So, whilst the Palliser businessmen plotted and schemed throughout the night, Mr Fraser collected some documents from the Bank before tearing around the darkened lawless streets, searching the saloons, whorehouses, opium dens and back alleys for a dejected farmer and his wagon. But he searched in vain: Mr Jowalski had already left town using only the light of the moon to slowly head south.

News of the oil spread quickly amongst the townsfolk and by morning a steady stream of sightseers, labourers, bootleggers, prostitutes and conmen were clogging the streets, trying to fight their way over the toll bridge out of the city. Fraser decided to join them but horses from the liveries had already gone, their prices quadrupling in a matter of hours. Eventually he paid $100 to a driver to hitch a ride even though there were six men already in the wagon.

The trail south was mayhem as horses and wagons jostled and drivers lashed at each other with their whips, trying to get ahead of the pack. Fraser had to reach Jowalski before any of the other bankers did so and his heart raced at the thought of the immense riches that were almost in his grasp as they would save the Bank and his reputation.

"Faster, driver," shouted Fraser, until the inevitable happened: the crowded wagon broke an axle and overturned, hurling the bank manager and his companions to the ground.

As he fumbled for his spectacles in the dirt, Fraser felt the money and the oil slipping away through his bloodied fingers. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he was unable to avoid the oncoming wagon and horses bearing down on him at an alarming speed. Oil fever had taken hold and human life counted for little when impoverished men, hungry and desperate for work, were caught in its grip. Such men wouldn't let anything get in their way and Mr Fraser was trampled to death on the Turner Valley trail, becoming the first fatality of the oil boom that gripped dusty Alberta that summer. He would not be the last.