The unsung saloonkeeper 

The gambler, gunfighter, cowboy and the occasional prostitute endure in the popular imagination as cliched Old West characters, but what about saloonkeepers? We dare to say the Old West would have been settled much later and in a much less entertaining fashion if not for saloons and their keepers. 

The Old West saloonkeeper had to be personable and empathetic but he also had to be a smart businessman. He also had to be tough enough to settle a disagreement or put the finishing touches on a ruckus. A few frontier saloonkeepers, either out of viciousness or necessity, ended up killing one or more of their patrons. Tending bar on the frontier wasn’t for the timid or the meek. It was a business and there was a lot of competition. 

An early visitor to Moteebie in the Panhandle noted “nearly every other house is a saloon.” That was the case in many frontier towns, whether large or small. The savvy proprietor took good care of customers and operated on the assumption that killing customers was bad business, eliminating as it did any return business. Patrons were mostly the barkeep’s friends and neighbors. Repeat business was crucial. 

So was social standing. Saloonkeepers often served on the city council or the local version of a justice league. They hired off-duty cops as bouncers, contributed to police charities and, most devious of all, posted the bond for the man who wanted to be a law officer. The bond was more than most honest men could pay— $1,000 for a city marshal and $500 for a policeman. By paying the potential lawman’s bond, the saloonkeeper had the best friend money could buy. 

The good will of law enforcement and city officials was important in a business that couldn’t avoid flirtations with gambling, prostitution, and other value-added spinoffs. A saloon that attracted famous gamblers of the day, people like Luke Short and Bat Masterson, gained a share of the gambler’s reputation in the bargain. The notable gambling dens— the glamorous casinos of their day— tended to be fancy two-story places with mahogany bars and elegant furnishings. 

On the other end of the spectrum was the “blind pig,” the “dive” bar of that earlier time. Here, the devious publican poured shots of Tanglefoot, Tarantula Juice, Taos Lightning, or Coffin Varnish that generally consisted of raw alcohol mixed with burnt sugar and maybe some chewing tobacco added for color. Cactus Wine consisted of tequila mixed with peyote tea. 

The most popular whiskey in Texas during those days was a concoction called Monarch whiskey. Chris Rintleman, owner of the Local Option Saloon in Fort Worth, touted Monarch’s “beneficial effects” and bragged that a second drink of Monarch “makes you an honest man.” The more respectable places mostly served straight liquor, rye, or bourbon. Beer was the preferred drink, even before ice-making technologies made cold beer even a possibility. 

The pioneer mixologists knew how to take a good thing and make it better, or at least more intoxicating. The Professor, as some patrons respectfully referred to their saloonkeepers, could take Dr Pepper and “improve” it by adding a shot of alcohol and removing some of the carbonation. No fizzy drinks, please. Seven-Up is basically an old concoction called Rocky Mountain Punch, but without the booze. 

The Old West saloons also sold a lot of soda pop, which liquor dealers gladly supplied. Henry Strum of Dodge City produced 14,400 bottles of soda pop a week, increasing his sales at a time when temperance crusaders were working around the clock to put saloons out of business. 

Eventually, the crusaders had their way. A Texan, Morris Sheppard, introduced the 18^th amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which created Prohibition, and Sheppard also helped write the Volstead Act, which enforced it. 

Later, authorities found on Sheppard’s Texas ranch a still capable of producing 130 gallons of moonshine whiskey a day. Sheppard was, of course, shocked and appalled. In all fairness, no one ever showed any evidence that he knew anything about the still.