The Drunkest Man in Arizona

Lou wasn’t at the bar when they came in. I was the only customer in the place. The two men were obviously kin, brothers or close cousins. One was taller and heavier, but both had the same sandy hair and stocky build. They walked down the bar and stopped at the only stool in the saloon, which had an old black medical bag sitting on it. An empty whiskey glass sat on the bar in front of the stool. The taller one turned to his companion, his face asking a question. The shorter one shook his head, and they took a place at the far end of the bar. I put down my pencil and started to get up but Lou walked back in from the storeroom.
“Whiskey,” the taller one said.
Lou grabbed a bottle and set two glasses out, but didn’t pour until he saw coins hit the bar. The men picked up their drinks and nodded at each other. “Here’s to,” one of them said.
Jim Bridger trotted in, walked down the bar, and stopped to sniff the strangers. He shook his head vigorously and smelled the men again, as if re-checking his evidence. Then he walked over to me, turned several times in a circle, and went to sleep under my table.
More coins hit the counter, and Lou poured two more drinks.
“You let dogs in here?” the taller one asked.
“I let that dog in here,” Lou said.
“Does this saloon have a free lunch?”
“No,” Lou said.
“Some of these places, they have a free lunch. Gets the customers in.”
“We tried that,” Lou said. “Didn’t work.” The man nodded and looked around at the empty saloon. I went back to my writing.
When I looked up again it was because Lou was saying, “you should probably slow down a little, mister. Maybe you should slow down a lot.” He was talking to the man who’d so far been silent. Jim Bridger lifted his head.
“You’ve been paid for his drinks,” the other one said.
“I don’t care. We don’t let men get drunk in here.”
“But the drink doesn’t affect him.”
“How’s that?”
“It doesn’t affect him. He can drink and drink. Me, I would be drunk already, that much whiskey. But not my brother here.”
“Drink affects every man, mister. I see it every day. Else why would a man drink?”
“It’s a condition he’s got. A medical condition.”
“A medical condition. I see. Does your brother talk for himself? Or is that part of his medical condition?”
“He talks when he has something to say.”
“You and your brother have names?” Lou asked.
“I’m Billy Anderson. This here’s Tommy. We’re from Abilene.” Lou’s eyes narrowed.
“I know some Andersons out of Abilene, Texas. But I never heard of you.”
“We’re from the Abilene in Kansas.”
Lou kept staring at the man.
“We’ll pay for a whole bottle right now,” Billy said. He dropped more coins onto the bar. Lou looked at the money.
“It’s on you then,” he said.
“It’s on me.”
Lou reached behind him for a new bottle, opened it, and placed it on the bar.
Tommy picked it up, poured a shot, and drank.
He did it again. Then he did it again. Slowly and carefully, a serious drinker. But not like a man putting down whiskey. He didn’t get the sour face that comes after a hard pull. He looked like a man drinking water.
Lou nodded at me at my table in the back. I stood, took my glass, and walked to the front of the saloon. Lou was going out the alley door while I stepped behind the bar.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “The proprietor will be away for a few minutes. I will see to your needs in his absence.” I took a bottle from the shelf and poured myself a drink.
Billy Anderson gave me a hard look. “I didn’t know you were back there, mister,” he said.
I nodded. “I didn’t think you did,” I said.
“You heard my talk with the barkeep.”
“I did. Does anyone else in your family have this condition?” I asked.
“My other brother had it. He died in the war.”
“And what brings you and your brother to Arizona from Kansas?”
“Prospecting. Purchased a claim from my uncle.”
Lou came back in. “You should know that Lou here was once a prospector,” I said to Billy. “Then he worked out that prospectors buy drinks whether they find gold or not.” Lou ignored us and walked past me to the cash register. I filled my glass again. Lou frowned at me but said nothing. I grabbed the bottle and walked back to my table. Jim Bridger was watching the strangers carefully.
Sheriff Dupree strolled in. Chester, his deputy, followed, but stopped at the doorway. Dupree nodded at Lou as if seeing him for the first time that day. Then he walked over to the Andersons.
“I’m told you’re Billy Anderson of Abilene, Kansas,” he said.
Billy nodded. “Sheriff.”
“And this man is your brother, Tommy.”
“That’s right,” Billy said. Tommy nodded at the sheriff but said nothing.
“Tommy, you’re putting away drinks at a very rapid rate. You should know we don’t tolerate drunks in this town.”
“He’s not drunk,” Billy said.
“I will tell you why we don’t tolerate drunks,” the sheriff said to Tommy. “Last month a bunch of miners started a fight at this very bar. A good man got killed.” The sheriff pointed down the bar. “That’s his doctoring bag. His mangy dog is usually here somewhere.”
“That fight also destroyed my mirror, and just about every stick of furniture in the place,” Lou put in.
“We won’t be fighting anyone, sheriff,” Billy replied.
Paul Henry, the blacksmith, walked in and stood at the end of the bar near the door. Lou poured him a drink and then made a show of taking the pencil from behind his ear and putting a mark on Paul’s tab.
Dupree turned back to Chester. “Deputy, did these men leave weapons with you when they arrived?”
Chester nodded. “Yes, sir. I took a big Colt from the drunk one. Like the one you got, Sheriff. The one who talks wasn’t heeled.” Dupree looked at Billy, who shrugged.
“I never carry one,” he said. Tommy took another drink. The sheriff turned back to Lou, who was glaring at the brothers.
“You want they should leave, Lou?” Dupree asked.
“Perhaps they could move on after that bottle,” Lou said.
“That’s a good idea,” the sheriff agreed. But he wasn’t done with the Anderson brothers. He turned to Paul Henry. “You ever see anyone drink like that and not get drunk?”
“No, sheriff,” the blacksmith said. “And I’ve been in a lot of saloons.”
“That’s what everyone tells me,” Dupree said. He looked at his deputy. “How about you, Chester? You ever see anyone put it away like that and not feel it?”
“No, sir.”
Tommy Anderson turned his head and spoke for the first time. “Can you shoot, Deputy?”
“What’s that?” Chester stood up straight and took a few steps towards the man.
“I asked if you can shoot. You and the sheriff are the only heeled men in town. I want to know if you can shoot.”
“I can shoot, mister. Of course I can shoot.”
“Even after a few drinks?”
“I hold my liquor. And I do my job. Not that I drink when I’m working,” he added quickly, looking at the sheriff.
“You don’t work when you’re working, either,” Dupree told him.
“Sure, you can shoot,” Tommy scoffed. He didn’t sound convinced. And he didn’t sound drunk.
“Since you raised the question, Tommy Anderson,” the sheriff said, “Can you shoot?”
“I sure can.”
“Even after all that whiskey?”
“Even after. Better than any man around here.”
“Well, what about it, Chester?” Dupree asked. “You think you can shoot better than this not-drunk Kansan?”
“I know I can, Sheriff.”
“My deputy is a fierce bottle killer,” Dupree told the brothers. “He won the town shooting competition last year. Or maybe he just entered it, I don’t remember.”
“That settles it then. The deputy can shoot like the devil,” Billy said.
“No question,” Tommy agreed.
“You sure talk a lot,” Chester said. “Both of you.”
“No offense intended, Deputy,” Billy said. “I’m just wondering if it’s true, what I heard.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That the men in this town like to gamble.”
The sheriff grinned. Chester’s face turned bright red. Paul Henry ran out of the saloon.
It took ten minutes for the saloon to fill up once Paul Henry gave the alarm. The men of the town jammed in to buy drinks, wave their cash around, and shout at each other. Phillips, the banker, clinched the bills in his money-loving fists while Old Clemons scribbled the bets on receipt blanks from his general store. Paul Henry went out again, this time to fetch Lonnie Doyle, who usually officiated in the town’s contests. Lonnie was a retired master sergeant who seemed to think he was still in the Army.
I walked over to Chester, who stood by himself at the other end of the bar. “You look like a man needs a drink,” I said.
“Haven’t eaten today,” he said in a low voice. “Affects me when I drink.”
“I’ve seen you drink,” I reminded him. “You’re not a drinker. You can still call this off.” He shook his head.
“I got a reputation to keep in this town,” he said.
Lou set a tray with five glasses down on the bar in front of Chester, and the crowd moved towards us. “Drink up, laddie!” Lonnie Doyle shouted.
Chester took the first two drinks in stride, but the other three went down with some hesitation. Each delay set off a new flurry of betting in the crowd, but he eventually got the fifth one down. Everyone cheered.
“Fall out!” Lonnie Doyle screamed. He was standing at attention in the doorway. As a group, with the sheriff leading, we walked out of the saloon and into the street. Jim Bridger trotted next to me. After a bit, Dupree stopped and held up a hand for silence.
“Now, Tommy Anderson,” he said loudly. “I believe you’re going to need a weapon, aren’t you?” A few in the crowd laughed. Dupree turned to the blacksmith. “Paul, run to my office and get this man’s gun out of Chester’s desk.” But Tommy shook his head.
“I’d be obliged if I could use your Colt, Sheriff,” Tommy said. “That’s a mighty fine gun.” The crowd was stunned.
“Brave man!” someone shouted.
“You want to use my gun, is that right?” the sheriff demanded. Tommy nodded. Dupree thought for a moment, then drew his Colt and handed it butt-first to Anderson. “Don’t hurt anyone with that,” he growled. “Especially me.” Tommy nodded.
“You ready, deputy?” Dupree asked.
“Yes sir. I’m ready to make Anderson shut his mouth,” Chester said.
“No, are you ready for another drink?” the sheriff asked. Chester shook his head. This brought a few laughs. Paul Henry walked out of the saloon with a box of empty bottles.
“Let the contest begin!” Lonnie Doyle shouted.
Paul Henry threw five bottles into the air and Chester shot each of them down. The deputy took off his hat and rubbed the sweat from his face, looking pleased with himself. “Let’s see you do that, Abilene, Kansas,” he said to Tommy.
And Tommy did it. Without seeming to aim or try very hard, he knocked all five bottles out of the air, each of them exploding with a sharp crack. The last shot whizzed passed Paul Henry’s ear and the blacksmith dropped to the ground.
“You almost hit me!” Paul Henry shouted.
“Mind how you throw, then,” Tommy told him. Paul Henry shook his head. Tommy turned to talk to his brother. I looked at Chester, who was surrounded by the sheriff, the banker, and the other important men in town. Everyone was talking to him at once and he looked ill.
“Second round, with the shooters mounted. Bring the horses!” Lonnie Doyle shouted.
Carl Schrader ran to his stable and led out two of the horses he rented by the day. He handed the reins of one to Billy Anderson, who held the sheriff’s gun while his brother climbed up in the stirrups. Carl held the other horse for Chester, who looked unsteady as he got mounted. Watching all this, the sheriff had a thought.
“Where are your horses, Anderson?” He asked Billy. Billy looked surprised, then pretended not to understand.
“What do you mean, Sheriff?”
“Your horses. How did you and your brother get here?”
Billy opened his mouth a few times but nothing came out. He looked at his brother, who was sitting in the saddle examining the sheriff’s gun. Then several things happened at once. Chester leaned over the side of his horse and vomited violently, a man down the street started shouting something I couldn’t understand, and Jim Bridger began barking ferociously at the horse with Tommy on its back. The frightened animal bucked wildly, Tommy struggling to stay on while Jim Bridger snarled and snapped at the horse. Billy stepped forward to help his brother, but Jim Bridger saw him coming and lunged at him, barking ferociously and gnashing his teeth. Billy staggered to his right and just missed getting kicked by the bucking horse, which sent him stumbling the other direction. Then he stood up straight and stared down the street. We all turned because we heard it too.
A man was galloping towards us as fast as he could, kicking up hot dust behind him. Another man was still shouting in our direction. I realized who he was at the same time I understood what he was saying.
It was Johnny Mains, the bank teller, yelling “The bank’s been robbed! Stop that man!”
Sheriff Dupree was fumbling with his holster, his face changing color several times as he realized exactly where his big Colt was. Chester leaned over his saddle and vomited again. Tommy managed to calm his horse just enough to raise the sheriff’s gun. Chester was trying to sit upright in the saddle and Tommy’s bullet caught him in the shoulder. Chester screamed and fell off, his gun landing in the dirt beside him. Tommy turned the giant Colt on Dupree. But in that same instant Jim Bridger lunged at the horse again and the animal reared back mightily. Tommy flew through the air, hit the ground very hard, and lay very still.
Jim Bridger stopped barking. The horse stopped bucking.
Billy Anderson watched as the man rode past us and out of town. He waved his arms.
“Davey, come back for us! Davey!” he shouted.
Dupree cursed loudly. He straightened his hat and walked over to pick up both guns from the ground. Billy Anderson started to run. Dupree raised the Colt, aimed carefully, and shot Billy in the leg. The Kansan screamed and crumpled to the ground.
Dupree re-holstered his gun and walked over to Chester. He looked at the blood that was beginning to spread across the deputy’s shirt. “You’ll live,” he said. “You hurled at just the right time.”
“I’ll live,” Chester said. His teeth were clenched in pain.
“They had a good plan, I’ll give them that,” Dupree said.
“I think that dog saved your life, Sheriff.”
Dupree grunted. Then he turned to Paul Henry and handed him Chester’s revolver. “I am deputizing you. Get a posse. Go after that man.”
“Yes, sir!” Paul said. He turned to the crowd. “All of you mount up!”
The sheriff walked to where Jim Bridger was lapping water from a horse trough. He reached down and touched the dog on the head.
“Well done, you,” he muttered. Then he walked off towards his office.
I ran back to my table in the saloon and wrote it all down as quickly as I could.
