UNTIL GEORGE W. BUSH SET OUT FOR IOWA and New Hampshire on his first campaign trip in mid-June, his status as the front runner for the Republican presidential nomination was far from secure. Sure, he had the famous name, the long list of endorsements and the credential of being Governor of a large state. And, his advisers thought, he would have plenty of money--perhaps a record $23 million in campaign donations by the end of the first half of the year. But the Bush team knew that many potential supporters were waiting to see whether the candidate would live up to advance billing. "A lot of people were leaning our way," says a top campaign aide, "but they still had reservations."

Within hours after Bush touched down in Iowa on June 12 and proved he could work a rope line, give a speech and kiss babies without falling on his face, those erstwhile doubters started "scrambling for their checkbooks," says the aide. Demand for tickets to a $500-a-head fund-raising lunch scheduled for three days later in Boston started to surge, pushing the total take for the event to $850,000 before the Bush campaign had to start turning people away at the door. The same thing happened at fund raisers across the country, converting what had been a steady stream of donations into a raging river. When Bush announced last week that he had raked in $36.25 million, the news instantly transformed the 2000 campaign. He had not only outraised his nearest g.o.p. rival, John McCain, 9 to 1, but raised double the $18.2 million collected by Al Gore, the sitting Vice President and Democratic heir apparent. And Bush is just getting started. On Friday, a top adviser confidently told Time that the campaign's new fund-raising goal is $70 million by January--meaning that Bush will refuse federal matching funds and thereby be free from the state-by-state spending caps that mere mortal candidates must honor.

Bush's war chest carries staggering implications for those other would-be Presidents who have been begging donors for money just to keep their campaign alive. "This is the political equivalent of bombing the supply lines," says John J. Pitney Jr., a political-science professor at Claremont McKenna College. "There's only so much political money out there, and every dollar that goes to [Bush] is a dollar that doesn't go anywhere else." Bush's money advantage is so great that his campaign advisers believe the only real threat they face comes from Steve Forbes, the self-financed tycoon, who has the resources to launch the kind of airwave assault against Bush that he waged against Bob Dole in 1996. Expect a war. Forbes has already started attacking Bush's record in Texas and last week labeled him a tool of special-interest lobbyists in Washington.

Bush wasn't last week's only winner of the money-expectations game. Bill Bradley, Gore's sole Democratic opponent, reported a surprisingly high $11.5 million in donations, enough to ensure he'll have the resources to challenge the Vice President deep into the primary season. That means the 2000 campaign could turn into a replay of '96, except this time it could be the Democrat who depletes his money fighting a pesky primary opponent and then gasps his way through a long, hot summer. If Bush wins the nomination while hoarding his money, he'll be in a position to do to Gore or Bradley what Clinton did to Dole--pin his cash-poor rival to the ground with a steady barrage of attack ads.

The Gore camp feigns nonchalance over Bush's money advantage ("Blank checks for a blank slate," quips deputy campaign manager Marla Romash), but the trends in places like California are ominous.

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