Drink Away the Sorrows, open!

July 15th, 1869
Late Afternoon

Eli had spent all day working the still, either taking the whiskey from the barrel it was collected in and bottling it or just stoking the fire and checking that there were enough ingredients in the big copper pot. When he had been in Knoxville, his whiskey had been rather successful, even with the other distilleries around. He managed to keep the spirits from tasting strange. He had yet to see or hear of distilleries like his here in Colorado. He supposed people got around here got their whiskey from bigger, more established businesses. Perhaps that was a good thing. ‘Authentic Mountain Whiskey’ was what he’d been considering calling his little business when he first came to town. There seemed to be plenty of people around town who came from the East, so he’ figured he could sell his wares by reminding folks of their ‘homes’.

Home was really the last thing Eli wanted to be thinking about, though, and when he noticed the sun starting to sink. It was time to call it quits for the day. He started gathering up the jugs of whiskey he had collected over the course of the day and taking them to one of their many hiding spots. This one was located under his little house on the side farthest away from the still, behind a loose board. The last thing he need was for some lowlife to come through and steal his hard work. If he lost his whiskey, he lost money. He had several hidden sites throughout his property and never used the same one more than once every few days.

After his day’s work was sufficiently stashed away, he went to retrieve Jack from his ramshackle stable, deciding he’d spend a few hours in town. Even he couldn’t go long without some sort of human interaction, limited as it may be. He’d end up where he always did, though. In the saloon, drinking. Sure, he could have drunk his own whiskey for free, but then he ran the risk of drinking himself out of business. He made short time getting into town and headed straight to the saloon.

Leaving Jack tied outside the door, Eli entered the building and asked for a simple beer, keeping his head down a little but not looking at the ground. He sat down at his usual seat, a place where only people who knew him would notice him, and watched idly as people moved about.

Tom’s nap was interrupted by the sound of hooves cantering up to the saloon. He woke up damning the person who was getting off his horse in front of him. He noticed it was Eli Mitchell. He didn’t know the man, but had heard of him. Tom watched Eli go into the saloon.

Well, Eli, for disturbing my nap, I guess I’m gonna get a drink, Tom thought.

He put his hand into a pocket and felt a piece of paper. What was that? He took it out and he was shocked to see a dollar bill in front of him. Where did that come from? Oh, right. He found a few dollars on the ground the night before and he had some drinks. Well, well, he had money now!

He got up, smoothed out his dark pants and shirt. He put his hands through his hair trying to smooth it out a little. And he entered the saloon, checking to see he still had his gun on him. He did. Good, he thought, just in case. There were people at the bar, the first place Tom looked. No Eli. He scanned the tables and saw Eli at one in the back. He walked toward Eli in a fast pace. He got to the table where Eli was sitting and bumped into it with enough energy to knock over Eli’s beer. Before it fell over though, Tom grabbed it. He sat in the seat in front of Eli while drinking from the mug. He spat what he drank onto the floor and put the mug back on the table.

"What the hell do you call that swill?" Tom asked.

Eli had noticed Tom sleeping outside the saloon, but didn’t bother him. He knew of Tom, like a lot of people did. It was hard to miss a man who spent a lot of time sleeping in front of an inn. Eli wasn’t fond of the man for a few reasons. For one thing, he was quiet the cheerful individual. From what Eli had seen, the man always seemed to be drunk, stinking and drunk. Though Eli could hardly talk. He spent his own fair share of time drunk, though rarely in public like Tom seemed to. Then again, Eli had never really spoken with Tom. Positivity was just something that Eli didn’t interact well with. He had so little of it he couldn’t understand how anyone else could stay optimistic.

He strode into the saloon quickly, hoping not to wake Tom. Perhaps he had drunk himself to sleep. Eli knew from experience that it often took the movement of heaven and hell to wake a drunk. His own father had been easy proof of that, the drunken bastard. It always took a lot of brain power for Eli to forget that he seemed to be turning into his father whenever the man invaded his thoughts. As he got his drink and sat down, he pushed the thoughts of his father out of his mind.

He was barely halfway through his drink when Tom burst in, looking around. Eli sank down in his chair a little and pulled the brim of his hat down a bit. His efforts were in vain, though, and he sighed quietly as the other man made straight for him. He was quiet content to just sit and skulk quietly while Tom badgered on until he bumped into the table, knocking over Eli’s drink in the process. The distiller’s head shot up, fighting the urge to stand up and punch the man square in the jaw. ”I paid money for that,” Eli growled quietly, grimacing when Tom took a big swig from it before spitting it out onto the floor. Anyone who knew Eli even remotely knew of his dislike of spending money. It was something he never wasted, though it seemed that the money he had just spent to buy his drink was now exactly that, wasted.

”It’s beer,” Eli said, clearly not amused. ”Figured you of all people would know that, Tom.” It was unclear to Eli whether or not Tom was joking, though it hardly mattered. Eli had little patience for jokes and was probably more critical and unaccepting of them then he should have been. It was just his nature. "Can I help you with somethin'?"

Tom knew Eli had the reputation for being ornery. That was why he checked to see he had his gun before he tangled with the boy. Tom was ready for Eli to start a fight or for Eli to pull his gun on him. He wasn’t ready for Eli to make such a calm retort and he laughed, mostly at himself. He was beginning to like the young man.

“I’m not criticizing you boy, I’m criticizing this establishment. That there is piss.” He smiled as he continued. “I don’t know if it’s your own or if Sammy went out back and produced it himself,” Tom couldn’t help but laugh at this,“but that is one hundred percent, pure grade, genuine American piss. And no one is so thirsty that they would want to drink piss. And believe me boy, I know something about thirst.” Tom smiled. “I just thought that you’d be drinking something better in quality, is all.”

Eli would have liked nothing more than to launch himself over the table and give Tom a good beating, but he remained calm. As best he could, anyway. He didn’t like to draw attention to himself, so staying out of fights was crucial. That didn’t mean he always did, though. His temper was just too much for him to handle on occasion and his manners just happened to ‘slip’ from time to time. He stayed seated, though he couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing up.

Then man’s frown only deepened as Tom rambled on. Boy? He wasn’t a boy! He was twenty-six for God’s sake. He hadn’t been a boy since his mother died. He couldn’t help but smirk when Tom mentioned the saloon owner. Eli’s glance moved around the room quickly, hoping that Sam would be around. He wasn’t, though, much to Eli’s disappointment. ”Better be careful how loud you talk there, Tom,” he said. ”It’s hard to tell what Sam would do if he heard you puttin’ down his establishment.”

He leaned his chair back with a sigh, shaking his head slightly. ”If I bought the good stuff all the time, I’d be broke. Don’t think there’s room enough for two of us out there on that bench.” He cocked an eyebrow as he spoke, watching Tom carefully. He really didn’t know how sensitive Tom was, though Eli imagined he was fairly good about keeping his temper under control. He had never personally seen Tom angry. He wasn't intentionally trying to make him mad, surprisingly. If Tom insisted on poking fun, then Eli would poke fun right back.

Tom looked at Eli for quite a while.

“There are two benches outside,” Tom said. “You could sleep on one and I could sleep on the other. I don’t really care which one, I’ve slept on both.”

Tom was going to go on a tangent about sleeping on benches, but decided against it. He looked at Eli for a moment. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand what this was all about. He looked intelligent. He seemed smart. Was Tom giving Eli too much credit? He was almost going to go off on a tangent about intelligence but he put his hand in his pocket and felt the dollar bill. That’s what this whole thing was about! He pulled it out and slammed it down on the table as if it wasn’t only one dollar, but a thousand dollars.

“I have money.” Tom said loudly. “And I wish to enjoy myself tonight with a drink,” As he spoke, he made flourishing gestures with his hands. “And I’ve chosen you out of everyone in this place to join me. Now what real drink – and if you mention a form of piss, I’ll shoot you – will you have? I warn you I expect this to be the first round, and you’re buying the second. I also wish to get a small bite to eat, just a consideration.”

He smiled at Eli in anticipation for the great night to come.

---

July 15th, 1869
Late Afternoon

Every window in the place was open and yet the oppressive July heat still heated the thermometer inside into the nineties and what with everyone sweating, belching, drinking and smoking, well it was time for some relief. This time of day provided a bit of cool shade in the back of the place facing the split off from the Denver Pacific where an engine was due shortly. The one after that would bring his “boys” home, Henry Scarborough from the Wells Fargo, Cyrus the Savage from the Denver County Courthouse and Davion Murphy from the Marshals Service station. Ironically one of the strong arms of the law, US Marshal Davion Murphy had been banned from the saloon by Samuel Felix himself after roughing up a whore on the porch out front. That was in September of sixty-seven and Sam had yet to allow the steely lawman back into his place. He was one of a few on the older gent’s shit list since taking up the saloon almost seven years ago, a few drunks, violent types and murderers included. Any man could get in here it just depended on how they behaved once they passed through those iconic swinging doors. He never had an issue with Mason Radley, the local degenerate but after nearly killing the Hellfire rancher everyone in town was so fond of, that blood stain on the floor was a stark reminder of how they could have lost Daniel Helm that evening. Also that Mister Radley was still on the run and better not show his sorry ass in here unless he wanted Sam to eviscerate him with his Bowie knife.

Mary Murphy was working the bar as usual, coming in for her shift at noon she would hand out drinks and food orders for nine hours before heading home to her husband and daughter. The blonde barmaid was five months along with she and the marshal’s second child. However she witnessed a blatant disregard for one of Sam’s meager and very reasonable two rules. Hands off his female help and no spitting on his floors, that was why the copper buckets were in the corners. Murphy said nothing to the inconsiderate bastard sitting with the one eyed patron already at the bar. She had seen them both around, especially Pig Pen as Sam called him, “Smells like he sleeps with Mister Oldham’s sows.” so the saloon owner adopted the moniker and it was not an affectionate one but one of many he was sure.

Shortly after the incident, the stoic barmaid just freezing in her motion of wiping down the counter to glower at the man, she stepped out for a smoke and found her boss back there as well standing in the only dry spot at the rear of the building, “Howdy Sam.” she greeted the man she saw more as a father than a boss, “Mary, everything alright in there?” he admitted he had lost track of time, no telling what could be going down inside,
“Nothin, that Pig Pen done spit on yer floor, said the beer was bad.” she scoffed.
“Well . . . he is entitled t’his own goddamn opinion, but apparently he can’t read.” he seemed pretty at ease with the situation but immediately turned on his heel and Mary, nosey as always, followed her boss in through the back door and through the stifling heat of the kitchen. Felix took up a bucket of soapy water and a rag, not bothering with the mop and rounded the counter, dropping the bucket at Tom’s feet. Water sloshed from the wooden bucket and lighted upon Tom’s dusty boots, probably the most soap he had seen in a long while. The saloon grew noticeably quieter, “You’re gonna clean my f*ckin floor.” he informed in a voice between normal and shouting, “The signs say no f*ckin spittin . . . I pay t’put buckets in the goddamn corners for you pieces o’shit an’ you’re still too f*ckin stupid t’use ‘em. I ignore your noxious presence outside my place at night, sleepin on my benches . . . out of the goodness of my heart. If this is how you’re gonna repay me I suggest you find somewhere’s else t’park you’re filthy ass, ya got me?” the barmaid noticeably smirked, tucking her chin in a vain effort to hide the humor she found in the situation.

Eli shook his head as Tom explained that there were two benches. ”My little shack suits me just fine,” he said, ”and I don’t reckon Sam would take too kindly to two bums sleeping outside his door. I wouldn’t.” If it had been Eli in the saloon owner’s place, he would have run Tom off and told him to go get a job long ago. Eli had always tended to be very impatient with people, though. If they couldn’t help themselves, what chance did he have of helping them? He could barely help himself half the time.

Eli raised an eyebrow in surprise when Tom proudly presented his dollar. He was tempted to ask where, exactly, the money had come from. It seemed like a hefty sum in the hands of someone like Tom. Eli didn’t ask, though. The bum had probably either found it lying in the street or managed to nice-talk it away from some poor gent. Eli was quiet sure it wasn’t stolen. Tom would make a poor thief if he only ever stole one dollar at a time. It would take him weeks to get anywhere with it. The young man rather liked the sound of Tom buying him a drink. It was the least the other man could do after ruining Eli’s first. He could stand Tom long enough to get through a replacement. Then he mentioned a second round as well as a meal. Eli was hesitant about buying the man a meal. He feared he’d be like a stray dog, once he was fed he’d just keep coming back, asking for more. It was hard to tell when Tom had last had a decent meal, though. ”Why not?” The words were half-hearted, but Tom should have been grateful he was getting anything out of Eli at all.

No sooner had he spoke then he saw Sam coming toward them with a bucket and a rag. Eli wasn’t surprised that the owner had shown up rather suddenly. One of his barmaids had probably informed him of what had gone on in the last few minutes. Mary, perhaps? A brief grin passed over Eli’s face before his features returned to their usual, indifferent state. As the owner approached, Eli tilted his head down slightly out of habit. ”Evenin’ Sam,” the young man said coolly before Sam started on his rant. The saloon really was admirable for not throwing Tom out. He could be particular about things in the saloon, so Eli was rather surprised with his initial reaction. He was just curious to see how Tom would take to this somewhat amusing turn of events.

Tom had thoughts of taking the bucket and dumping it over Sam’s head, or spilling the bucket with his foot so it got Felix wet, but he quickly put them out of his head. It wasn’t because he was afraid of Sam or Felix. This was his home away from home and he shouldn’t burn that bridge. He just didn’t realize Sam was such a mean bastard. He kind of expected Eli to come to his aid, but realized he had his reasons for not doing it and understood.

“Whoa Sam, I’m sorry.” Tom said, very apologetic. “I’ve been coming in here a lot and you’re right, I should know better. Of course I’ll clean it up.”

He didn’t appreciate Felix getting his shoes wet, he could already feel the warm water on his feet. He took a rag out of the bucket and wiped the spit off the floor.

He looked at Sam again and was about to ask if it was okay, but something struck his eye. Past Sam, there was standing, as innocent as could be, a piano. Why Tom hadn’t seen it there before, he couldn’t tell you. Maybe he was too tired. Or too drunk. But he wanted to play the piano. It had been a very long time since he played a piano and he would be very rusty, but he had to play the piano.

“Again, I’m sorry Sam,” he said, pointing at the clean spot, “Is that okay?”

---

July 15th, 1869
Late Afternoon

A glance at Eli was the only greeting the man received but it was friendly enough for the notoriously foul-mouthed, perpetually grouchy saloon owner. Sometimes people wondered if the man ever even smiled as those frown lines on his face were quite clearly, aptly named. He remembered when Scarborough rode his damn horse into the bar and Sam had shoved him back out those double doors onto his ass in the mud so fast he had no time to react. That dark smear in the far corner was a curious thing to some, everyone in the joint that night Sam shot and killed that reckless greenhorn trying to rile Daniel Helm into a fight, knew what that stain was. He hadn’t even waited for the kid to die, dragging him out by the ankle and leaving him in the street for the pick pockets and dogs. It was well known, his reputation in town, “Sam will f*ck you up.” was a common statement for anyone about to venture into the man’s establishment, fair warning. So a smoldering glance from those Irish green eyes was all Eli got as far as reciprocation to his amiable greeting.

Thankfully the unclean one was quick to apologize, no groveling required but the saloon owner was feeling generous for the moment. He said nothing, watching the man stoop to wipe up the tainted beer from the floor. Mary had mentioned the fella having not taken to the beer too kindly and as Sam had stated prior, a man was free to judge what he pleased. But to spit it into the floor was just no way to behave, not unless it was Nasty Tom’s floor of course then by all means. Crossing his arms over his wide chest the second generation Irishman looked around the room, settling the patrons with a cooler expression and they went on about their business with card games, chatting up the visiting whores from the brothel or simply having a late lunch, early dinner call it whatever you like.

The vagrant clamored back up out of the floor and Sam’s eyes never left him, standing there the whole time as if not trusting him to do what he wanted, “That’ll do.” he spoke clearly, leaning around the man to look at the stains on the floor, “Better than I could’ve done . . . I don’t get down on my knees, that’s women’s work.” was it a jab at the man? He hadn’t meant it to be, wasn’t even in his tone and a sideways glance at Mary’s disapproving look may have given the impression that the subtly vulgar comment was meant for her. The barmaid slapped a wet rag down onto the counter and reassumed wiping it down after topping off someone’s drink. If Tom didn’t care for cheap beer then he was more than welcome to have himself some expensive whisky. A shot of good whisky was one bit, the same price for two mugs of beer. She had also heard mention of a meal and hoped Eli wasn’t about to get screwed and took note of the sign overhead reading out prices, and the rule that Tom seemed to have overlooked.

---

July 15th, 1869
First Chance Saloon
Late Afternoon

It was late in the day, that morning’s sweltering heat had long passed and was now slowly dithering away to what would soon become Colorado’s fine night air. It was a lazy day, something accounted for not only by the heat but because Hellfire had recently sold a good part of their western herd to slaughter and they wouldn’t have a full herd back in the pasture for at least another few weeks, maybe even a month. Since the loss of his unborn child Daniel had worked continuously, more so than he did before. From the moment he stood up in the morning to the time he’d collapse in bed at night he did not stop working. It was constant, ever lasting busy word that left him exhausted and half immobile by the time he was gone. Even with his west herd half gone he had intended on continuing his rather rigorous work schedule until his foreman had kicked him off his own ranch. Rusty was damn tired of watching his boss near work himself to death every day and demanded that Helm at least go into town and visit some friends, at least get a drink at the saloon before coming back.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be winning any argument against Rusty when he was so adamant about Danny working his hands to the bones he mounted up his buckskin and took the gelding into town. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be in town, not even after a month of losing his child. He was afraid to see that new blood stain that accompanied his own along the saloon floorboards. Honestly if he had say he’d taint the entire floor with his own blood before having to lose another child of his.

Hitching Buck up to the post outside the saloon he strode up into the room, and contrary to his own feelings for the place he couldn’t help but grin at Sam Felix. The old goat seemed quite pissed but he was sure he had every right to be, especially if it concerned the man on his hands and knees on the floor. His nose curled at Tom’s stench, near gagging as he side stepped the vagrant before taking a seat at the bar. “Afternoon Sam,” He greeted genially, turning and giving Mary a little kiss on the cheek, “Mind if I get a scotch?” As the woman went to retrieve his request he leaned back and asked Sam how he was, stopping shortly to look down at Nasty Tom. He never really took to that man much, maybe if he didn’t stink to high heaven it’d be different but the man smelled something awful. Danny couldn’t help but glower at Tom, grunting at the pure, unrefined stink that just rolled off of him. “You smell like a bloating skunk that’s been left out in the desert for five days and rolled around in fresh horse shit. Don’t you think you could at least do the town a favor and meander out to the river and wash that filth off a you once an’ a while? Jesus.” Daniel turned his attention away from Tom and back to Sam with a gruff snort, “I’m surprised you even let ‘im in this place smelling like that.”

July 15th, 1869
First Chance Saloon
Late Afternoon


Tom had a small degree of dignity left, but it had mostly disintegrated a long time ago. There were things that still insulted him, sure. But he learned that a lot of things didn’t matter. Some words hurt, but not so much. So Tom wasn’t bothered by anything Sam said. He apologized for spitting on the floor of the saloon and cleaned it up. He didn’t care that he had gotten on his knees to do it. He still envisioned Sam with a bucket of dirty water on his head and smiled.

“I came in here for a nice time,” Tom said, as if he was a regular customer who for some reason was getting treated badly. “So, I’d like a shot of whiskey. I don’t know what he’ll have,” Tom said, pointing to Eli, “but it won’t be beer. By the way, Sam. I can’t stand the taste of beer myself, so I don’t know if that was good or not. It’s the truth, so I’m sorry for insulting your product. And I’ll have a nice steak sandwich, if it’s okay.”

As soon as he finished giving his order, some other guy came over and greeted Sam and ordered a drink. He seemed a good looking kid, but then he got all over Tom’s business. While ordinarily, the “bloating skunk” comment might not have bothered Tom, he was in a good mood when he got into the saloon. He expected Eli to break his nose again, but he didn’t. Eli deserved a drink for that for sure and Tom was gonna pay for it. Then Sam came over and made Tom feel terrible for breaking one of the rules of the saloon. Now some kid was calling him names. Tom sighed. The good mood was fading fast. He looked the kid up and down, and knew that if he punched him like he really wanted to, the kid would probably bang him up real good. He was powerfully built and Tom didn’t stand a chance. Then he heard the kid say:

“….meander out to the river and wash that filth off a you once an’ a while? Jesus. I’m surprised you even let ‘im in this place smelling like that.”

“Excuse me,” Tom said, smiling. “There’s not a river around here for at least a hundred miles. I think you’re referring to the creek? Or maybe the lake? I know my geography boy, I wish you did. And I have gone down to the creek and washed in it. It feels great, you should try it sometime." Then he looked at Sam and said: "Look Sam, I have some money. If you know me, you know how really rare that is. I'm a paying customer like anyone else and I was in the mood to have a really nice time.”

Tom was really sorry he let the bastard ruin his good mood, but even more sorry that it was obvious to all who watched the scene that he let the bastard ruin his good mood.

For a moment, Eli admired Tom for his calm reaction to Sam’s appearance. He wondered if he would have reacted the same if he’d been drunk. It’d be an interesting experiment to carry out at a later time. Drunks and guns always proved to be a stimulating combination. It kept one on one’s toes, at the very least. Eli was even more surprised when Tom actually accepted the rag and got down on his knees to scrub the floor. Did this man have no sense of pride? When Sam made the comment on women’s work, the distiller couldn’t help but snicker inwardly, though his expression remained calm and indifferent. Tom wasn’t much more than a woman if he got on his knees without a word. He certainly wasn’t a man. What a pitiful bastard.

Daniel Helm came in as Tom finished his chore, complaining about the man’s smell. He’d hit the nail on the head, though. Tom most definitely could have used a bath. There really was nothing keeping from one other than sheer laziness. Tom’s already low ranking in Eli’s book was sinking. Quickly. He then mentioned a drink and Eli figured he couldn’t get any worse. ”I’ll have gin,” he said, ”since it’s on him. Least he can do for wasting my money.” Even drunk, homeless men were bound to possess something similar to manners.

Then Tom reacted to Danny’s comment. Like hell he couldn’t get any worse! He should have decked Helm for the comment, but he simply blabbered on some more about how nice the creek was. He really had nothing. Being homeless and all, Eli figured that he would have had his pride at the very least or something resembling pride. Best to put the poor man out of his misery. When Tom was facing him, Eli drew his gun and fired once. He never fired on a man who had his back turned to him. ”Sorry excuse for a human,” he grumbled, getting up and turning to walk out the door.