Part 1: Old Saloon in a Street of Mud
Drops of rain bounced fiercely off the brim of my knackered old hat, dampening out any chances I had of hearing the crisp steady sounds of Johnny Stud, a young traveling fiddler from Arkansas who happened to be skipping to his upbeat tune inside the saloon I had now stood in front of. After two days of travel, my mouth was dryer than the Texas summers I had experienced as a boy, and tonight I fully intended on drowning myself in the warm clutches of the cheapest Tennessee Hooch they offered, either until I lost consciousness or when the bar keep, Mr. Silverstein, closed the bar doors locking me out for good.
The Gatlinburg mud stained the lower third of my elongated coat splashing against me in a fanfare of thickening muck, and I preferred it that way. I finished hitching my horse and was sure to double wrap the lead, then turned toward the yellow hue illuminating from the windows of the Black Forest Cantina. The end of my night hastily invited me in, however with much control, and no reason to rush, I realigned my lower back. I made sure to adjust my six-shooter while I snapped my waistband back into place and tightened down the straps.
Navigating up the stairs to the saloon I dipped my head underneath the sheet of water converging off the edge of the roof. Each droplet drilled a shallow ditch further into the ground forming along the perimeter of the porch. A wife and her leather-faced husband exited the bar tripping over one another. The man barely kept his legs under himself as most of his weight lay over her shoulders. She struggled to drag him toward his horse, yet somehow remained composed and ladylike in their oddly choreographed shuffle. I nodded to her.
“Ma’am.”
The responding scowl on her face carried the weight of years of embarrassment he must have burdened upon her. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence, and would be willing to bet he will be sleeping in the barn tonight with the cows, provided she managed to get him home. I sparked up a match, then flicked the remaining ashes off my previously half-smoked cigar, and forced the embers into an orange glow. A strong draw eventually illuminated my tangled beard, and thick musky smoke filled my mouth. I held it in for a moment dropping a shoulder into the porch post. My gaze followed the disorderly couple on their way home, and arguably well on their way to a divorce. I exhaled a cloud of relaxation into the air above me, watching it dissipate similarly to the way their silhouettes faded into the darkness, as they dipped into the shadows behind the general store.
Occasional hoots and yips from the patrons jarred my attention as the drunkards danced and sang to the ditties that Stud played inside. His fiddle stick kissed the strings quickly and witty, but not too complicated to follow and carried a somewhat repetitive locomotive sound that chugged along and was accompanied by the clashing of the emptied glasses filling the room. It was a lively welcomed contrast to the isolating July monsoon I had just endured, having trampled through the mountains from Hot Springs, sixty miles northeast of here. A good stretch, a warm drink, and maybe a little attention from a widower looking for a few coins, would be all I need to set me up for another few days on my trip to Chattanooga.
With my cigar clenched in my teeth I shook off my coat, kicked any loose mud onto the floorboards, and folded my jacket over my arm. I then pushed my way through the folding doors to enter the Cantina, a regular stop for me when I came through. Somewhere in the corner of the bar, I spotted a stool that was close enough to the alcohol yet offered a view of the room that did not infringe too much on my security. Trust me, when you are in as many bars as I am you appreciate having your back to a corner. I sat down, jamming myself between a balding loud-mouthed fat man, and an unwashed tattered mess of a woman who was passed out in her vomit on the bar. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the worst place I stopped to have myself a brew.
The inside of the place was well-lit, centering around two large Chandeliers equally spaced above a somewhat-impressive main room, and stretching to the top of a lofted ceiling. The remaining light was accented by enough wall sconces you could lose count of. There were five dedicated gambling tables, three filled with poker players, and two occupied by dedicated blackjack players. Each was scattered among a dozen regular patron tables filled with mainly fur trappers, lumberjacks, and soot-laden miners. Everyone was attempting to strike it big, or at least enough to have a free night of partying. The place was dingy at its cleanest. A haze from the burning tobacco mixed with the gas lanterns on the walls filled the room. A hard-working musk punched through the air and lined the inside of my nose. It was the smell of a strong respectful work ethic combined with a lack of regular bathing. It was my kind of place and my type of town.
Johnny Stud romped his feet in the corner of the main room in unison with his infectious tune. The crowd followed suit. Some tapped their toes, a few nodded their heads, and the rest were slapping their hands to their thighs. They all seemed unknowingly hypnotized by his music as they shared conversations from across their tables. Stud was elevated above the crowd on a single-step stage tightly tucked away in front of a small piano. Reaching tall behind the stage was a staircase leading to an open-lounge loft that towered over the establishment, and accessed a series of rooms along the back perimeter of the upstairs. Roughly a half dozen saloon girls were working hard to get free drinks, attempting to acquire any extra cash however they could. They all pretended to be drunk, flirted robustly, and sat across the laps of what appeared to be wealthy businessmen. An experienced stout woman walked into my view leading a man up to her room, the fifth door from the top of the stairs to the left. They disappeared for a short while, then re-emerged. Their clothing was more frazzled and out of order than when they entered. One had become a little richer, and the other, of clearer mind, but both were satisfied when they parted ways. My scanning of the room was interrupted by Mr. Silverstein.
“What’ll you have?”
I pulled my gaze away from the room.
“The cheapest dark you got”
He reached under the shelf and fumbled around for a bit, but finally came up with a full bottle, mainly untouched, of an unknown whiskey. His eyes widened with unsure followed by a shrug of his shoulders.
“Just imported from Kentucky, cheapest I got. Double for a nickel?”
I was reluctant, but when I patted my pockets, I was quickly reminded of the lack of funding I had brought with me, and ultimately caved to the inferior alcohol.
“No Choice I reckon. Keep ’em coming.”