Saddlesore, Arizona

Out in the middle of western Arizona sits a lonesome little town called Saddlesore. Founded in 1864 by a couple of prospectors looking for copper and gold, it eventually grew to a population of one hundred and ten. It consists of a general store that sells just about anything a person could need, as well as a small five-pew Baptist church that hardly anyone attends. There is also Chinese laundry and a schoolhouse. At one end of the street is the Sheriff’s office.  At the other is the most prominent building in town- The Glass Slipper Saloon.

One hot and dusty August day, a man wearing a three-piece suit and a derby rides into town on a burro. His name is Stanley Miles. As he ties his minuscule beast to the hitching post, he spots a sign advertising the need for a bartender. “Looky there, Hercules, I think we found ourselves a job!” He straightens up his five foot four frame, dusts the trail dust from his clothes, and wipes the tip of his shoes on the back of his pants legs before entering the saloon.  Just as he is about to push open the swinging doors, he must step aside for a funeral procession passing through. Out of respect, he places his derby over his heart. The last person in line stops to blow his nose and wipe away tears. 

“ I’m so sorry,” Miles says. “Was he a good friend of yours?”

The man finishes wiping his large red nose, “He was a friend to everybody. He was the bartender.” The man snuffles, and when he sees the procession is far enough away, he races back inside the saloon and starts finishing all the drinks left on the bar. Miles approaches him and asks, “ How did the bartender die?”

“Sa-Same as all the others. Shot by a st-stray(hic) bullet during a gunfight.” He then smacks his lips as he looks up and down the bar for another drink. Miles snaps his head around.

“Gus, you worthless drunk, you’re gonna pay for them drinks!” Shouts the owner of the saloon.

“Don’t got to! Them drinks was already-ready paid for. (hic) Gus then starts going from table to table, looking for more. The owner screws up his face and growls. Turning his attention to Miles, he looks him up and down and barks, “And who are you, stranger?”

Snapping to attention, Miles replies, “I, Sir, am Stanley Miles, and my mighty stead, Hercules and I have presently arrived but a few minutes ago.” The owner squints through the saloon’s stained glass window to see the little burro tied up. Hitching his thumb in that direction, he sneers, “You mean that fat little long-eared dog out there?”                                                                         “ Hercules is a wonderful and reliable friend; we’ve traveled far together.” The owner scratches his head.  “Well, I just can’t imagine what could have lured you to come all the way out here to the hottest, dustiest, most miserable hell-hole on earth. You look more suited for a tellers box or perhaps a preacher’s box back east.”

“Presently, I’m looking for work. That’s when I saw your ad in the window there.” The man stifles a laugh. 

           Miles asks indignantly, “I beg your pardon, but are you the proprietor by any chance?”     “Yeah, I’m Roland James Baker. And quite frankly, I don’t think you’re suited for the job. As you just witnessed, it is somewhat dangerous and demanding.

“Did the Sheriff arrest the man that did it? Miles asked.                                                     Gus snorts, “Twas the Sheriff that done shot him. The man the Sheriff was playing poker with said he-he was cheating! (hic) That’s wh-when the gun fi-fi-fight started. The Sheriff took a p-p-potshot at the guy but missed and(hic) shot the bartender.”

“That’s right,” confirms Baker. “ When those boys come back from Boot Hill and take a look at you, well, let’s just say I see no need to remove the ad from the window.”

“If you feel that way, why not test me?”

“Alright, I will. Go grab Gus over there and throw him out of here by the set of his pants.”

Miles approaches Gus and politely asks him to leave. Gus ignores him. Baker shouts, “I said to throw him out. You’re not a waiter at some tea party!”  Miles nods and rubs his hands together in preparation to grab Gus. But as intoxicated as Gus is, he still manages to artfully dodge every attempt.

“Whatcha doing? Leave me alone! Get away from me!” Gus complains and pushes Miles so hard in the chest as to send him flying across the saloon floor, where he lands at Baker’s feet. Baker looks down at Miles and says only one word, “Pitiful.”

Miles scrambles to his feet, “Let me have one more try.” Turning, he calls to Gus sweetly, “Oh, Gus, would you come here, please?” Gus squints suspiciously at Miles through red and watery eyes. “What you want now?”

“I just what to talk with you for a moment.” Miles crooks his finger repeatedly, “Come.”

Gus staggers over and stops in front of Miles, swaying slightly.

“Would you be so kind as to bend down further?” Gus adopts a foolish grin and bends down to Miles’ level.

Miles hits Gus with a mighty uppercut with no warning whatsoever, knocking the unsuspecting drunk out cold. He then grabs Gus’s collar, drags him into the street, and leaves him in the dirt. Miles returns, dusting his hand together, “Well? Is that more of what you had in mind?”

Satisfied, Baker nobs his head. “You got a place to stay?” Miles shakes his head no. “Alright, then. You can use the room behind the bar. Your job is to serve drinks, keep the money in the cash drawer safe, and wash the dirty glasses. I’ll give you the room and all the pickled eggs and sandwiches you can eat.”

“What about pay?”

What about it?’ 

“Do I get any?”

“No. But you can keep all the tips you’ll be getting from serving drinks.” Baker smiles to himself because he knows that these boys don’t tip. “You’ll be on your own, so, what do say, is it a deal?”

“Deal!” Miles smiles.

                                                             …

Miles fetches Hercules and brings him around back to the stable. He puts him in a small stall in the back and gives him hay and water. Then, untieing his saddlebags and he enters the saloon through the back door. Walking down the hall, he comes to a storage room that would be his living quarters.

After Miles unpacks, he finds a green visor, some arm garters, and a white apron that comes down to his ankles. He returns to the front of the saloon and takes his place behind the bar just as the men return from the funeral. Big Mac Maclaughlin, who stands six foot seven, approaches the bar and, looking this way and that, yells to Baker, “Say, RJ. When I seen the sign was gone, I thought maybe you had hired a new bartender. So, how come I don’t see one?” Standing directly in front of Big Mac, Miles looks up and clears his throat. Big Mac’s eyes grow wide, and his mouth drops open. “RJ! You hiring kids now? Aw, that ain’t right!”

Miles reaches under the bar, grabs a sizeable wooden mallet, crooks his finger, and calls Big Mac closer. When Mac leans down, Miles smashes his head with the mallet, dropping him to the floor. “A little respect, if you please!” Miles shouts. Then looking up, he observes six pistols pointing at him. Miles glares at the men and barks, “What?” Confused, the men start mumbling to one another. “What does he mean “what”? Does he expect us to answer? Answer what? Right! Giving up, the men return their guns to their holsters and order drinks.

Things are going well for Miles until one day toward the end of October when a man comes rushing in, all excited.

“Barkeep! Three shots of whiskey, I’m in a terrible hurry!” Miles pours the three drinks without spilling a drop.

“So, why in such a rush?”

“Don’t cha know? It’s starting to snow in the mountains, and the prospector Mean Moses Malone will be heading down soon. He’s the meanest, nastiest, most horrible man in the world! Mean Moses hates all people or any manner of civilization there is. He has destroyed entire towns in a night! And the thing Mean Moses Malone hates the most is bartenders.”

 Miles’s jaw drops. “Bartenders? Why bartenders of all people?”

“Don’t know,” says the stranger while grabbing the bottle off the bar. “Bye.” Miles watches him run into the street, yelling, “Mean Moses Malone is coming! Run for your lives!”

Immediately the saloon empties. Baker comes up behind Miles and puts his hand on Miles’s shoulder to comfort him.

“Don’t pay no mind to that fella. He’s just trying to scare you.”

“Then why did everyone else leave so suddenly?”

“Can’t say. Maybe there’s a church meeting tonight or something.” Miles stares at Baker dubiously.

“Bye the way, I may have forgotten to tell you, but I’ll be away until the end of the month visiting my sick aunt in Tucson. I expect you to be here when I get back!”

 Baker leaves, and Miles looks out through the swinging doors. The town is empty, with nothing but the wind blowing dust and tumbleweeds down the street.

The next day Miles is alone in the bar when he hears the sound of thundering hooves beating a path toward the saloon. He runs to the front window and looks out and sees a mountain of a man riding a wild buffalo while cracking two rattlesnakes like bullwhips! Instead of tying it up, he reins the buffalo into a skidding stop and punches it in the jaw, knocking it out. Pointing at it, he commands, “Stay!”                                                                                                                             Miles races back to the bar and ducks down. The colossal man kicks in the swinging doors, knocking one off its hinges. Miles feels the floorboards rattle with each step the man takes. Peering over the edge of his apron, Miles sees thick fingers grab the top of the mahogany bar and tip it away. The giant looks down at Miles and roars, “WHISKEY!”

Miles grabs the stepstool and reaches for the best bottle of whiskey in the house. Swallowing hard, Miles hands it to him. Miles watches in awe, for the giant doesn’t pull the cork out with his teeth but bites the glass neck from the bottle and spits it out! The brute drains the entire bottle in one gulp. Then the man turns to leave without paying! Miles grips the bar in an attempt to quell his knocking knees. “Hey!” His voice cracks. “Just a minute! You can’t just come in here and drink up all my whiskey and not pay! That’s stealing!”

 The man turns and slams the bar with his fist so hard you can hear the wood split. “I ain’t got no money.”

“Then you shouldn’t have drunk my whiskey!” Miles squeaks. “You know what I think? I think of how disappointed your poor sainted mother must be seeing you act like this.”

“She was a whore.”

This somewhat stymies Miles, but he pushes on. “Well, despite that, she was still your mother. A mother who loved her little baby boy.  Who scrapped by trying to make a living at any cost and devoted all her efforts to see that you had a better life than she did. You were her hope and dream for a better future, but look what you’ve done to those hopes and dreams.” The whiskey is starting to kick in, and the mammoth of a man is feeling sentimental. As a tear escapes his eye, he whispers in a low and quavering voice, “I miss my Mommy.” Miles sees he has gained the upper hand and strikes home.

“It’s not too late!” his voice rises in a crescendo. “You can change your ways and make your mother proud of you again. She can hold her head up and say, “That’s my Boy! Then in time, people will stop calling you Mean Moses Malone and call you friend instead.”

The man’s head springs up, “What’d you just call me?” He whirls around and looks out the single-hanging swinging door to the street beyond. When he turns back to Miles, Miles can see his eyes are full of terror.

“I almost forgot! I have to get out of here!  Mean Moses Malone will be here any minute!”

Miles’s eyes roll up into his head as he collapses to the floor.