It was late in the afternoon on a hot August day in Shotsville, Yukon. The year was 1854 and the Gold Rush was on. Thousands of people had moved to Shotsville in the past few years with the dream of getting rich from the gold hidden in the nearby mountain streams. In town, horse drawn carts were racing all over the dusty streets as the townsfolk hustled home for dinner or to the corner market or wherever they may have been going.
On the main corner in town was a saloon called Jimmy’s Tavern, and at this time of day every table inside was taken. Many of the men in town came here for a shot of whisky or ten after a long day of panning for gold. Bartender Garth Roberts was busy fixing glasses in a row on the bar. He lined up 16 glasses and dropped three ice cubes in each one before running a bottle of Seagram’s along the whole row, never once tilting the bottle upright.
There was a piano in the corner of the saloon which Billy Thomas was hammering away on, up and down the keys. He was playing a song called Roll the Dice, but the hootin’ and hollering in the room made it nothing but background noise.
Cindy Marshall was the head waitress on staff and she was so busy she had to call in Jenny Davis to help. Cindy, the elder of the two ladies wore a long, pale blue dress with frills so full, they dusted the floor as she walked. Jenny wore a brown dress with less poof and cut so high you could see her dusty, black shoes. Jenny was only 25 so she was very new at the job, but she sure could make her way around the room.
At one table in the middle of the room was a poker game in full flight. Seven men sat with their cowboy hats on, cigarettes burning, whiskey flowing and cards flying. “I’ll see your ten and raise you fifteen,” you could overhear one of them say.
Over in the corner Tony McDonnelly, Al Clapper, Duane Brickman and Marc De Pool played some strange four-hand card game that nobody else knew how to play. “Eight spades you punk!” said Tony glaring at his arch rival, Al. Tony’s partner, Duane, began to sweat as he looked longingly at his hand, separating his cards, frantically looking for even one spade to help his partner. Marc laughed in excitement. Al’s eyes lit up because he knew there were only 10 spades in this game, and he had five of them.
Across the room Johnnie Long tilted back his glass to get at the last possible drip of whiskey and lifted his left hand simultaneously waving at Cindy, calling her over for a refill. While she was there, she took an order from Johnnie’s tablemates Dirk Smith, Doug Simpson, Derek Stillwater and Donny Stoker.
At the table closest to the bar, Jesse Morgan, who was drinking with Willy Reed, shouted across to Bartender Garth, “Had me a great day in the mountains, Garth.”
“What’d you get today,” asked Garth.
“$55 today,” said Jesse. “My best day yet.”
“Where’d you get this good luck?”
“Way upstream, past the old broken-down shanty, where nobody wants to tread.”
Back at the table nearest the piano, Dick Collinson, Frank Waters, George Brothers and Jack Granger stood up from their seats to throw some darts.
“Bullseye!” yelled Dick.
“Damn, you win!” shouted Jack.
Over at the table closest to the door, Sam Struthers and his crew of seven men, sat yuck-yucking and telling jokes as they smoked and drank after a long hard day in the sun.
“Then he walks up to me and he says….” Sam stopped dead in the middle of a punch line because he was facing the swinging saloon doors and he was the first to see Bobby Jackson appear, bursting through the doors and stopping five feet inside. The doors gradually swung themselves to a stop behind him.
“We gotta get outa here!” Bobby shouted. Nobody except Sam heard him.
Sam stood up and shouted over to Billy on the piano, “Cut it Billy.”
Billy stopped playing mid note.
“What’d ya say, Bobby?” said Sam.
“I said we gotta get outa here!” Bobby said again, louder.
Slowly the chatter in the bar trickled to a slow chuckle or two, then went silent.
“I said, we gotta get outa here!” everybody heard Bobby this time.
“Why, Bobby? What’s up?” said Sam.
“Because,” said Bobby. “Because Big Mike’s comin’!”
“Oh, Dang!” Sam turned to face the entire room, and with his back now to Bobby, he reiterated the bad news to all the patrons of the tavern. “Big Mike’s comin’ everybody! We gotta get outa here!”
One by one the patrons of the bar stood up and grabbed their belongings. The sound of chairs sliding across the floor and one or two of them falling over, rang through the room.
“Big Mike’s comin’,” said Duane Brickman with fear in his voice.
Marc De Pool looked Duane square in the eye, “We gotta get outa here!” he said. They gathered their things and ran out the door with Al Clapper and Tony McDonnelly close behind.
“Hurry up!” Tony snapped at Al as he stepped on the back of Al’s heel.
“We gotta get outa here!” said Dirk Smith.
“Big Mike’s comin’,” agreed Donny Stoker.
Jenny Davis, Cindy Marshall and Billy Thomas quickly signed out from work for the day, and hurried out the door.
Even old man Dilbert James who had been drinking alone at the bar, grabbed his cane and hobbled out as quickly as he could. He was the last one to reach the swinging saloon doors. Before he left, he looked back at the only person left in the bar - bartender Garth Roberts.
“You gotta get outa here,” pleaded old man Dilbert. “Big Mike’s coming.”
“Get going, Dilbert! Don’t worry about me. I have to tend the bar,” said Garth.
Dilbert gave Garth a glancing look over his shoulder, turned and faced the saloon doors, parted them, and scampered out. After the doors stopped swinging, Garth could hear nothing but the fading shuffle of Dilbert’s feet and the clicking of his cane on the dusty street, gradually fading as he made his way across the intersection.
Then the saloon went dead silent. Outside the busy streets were empty as the townsfolk had all heard the word that Big Mike was coming and nobody wanted to be caught standing in his way.
Garth could hear nothing but the light breeze blowing in the window. Every so often he’d look up to see if anyone had entered through the swinging doors. He slowly dried some glasses and put them away, one at a time. Outside the saloon, a tumble weed blew by.
After several minutes, Garth heard the thud, thud of heavy feet walking on the dusty road outside the saloon. The pounding created a slight vibration on the bar. With every step of the heavy feet, Garth saw a ripple in a glass of whiskey make its way from the outside edge of the glass, across the surface of the whiskey, into a smaller and tighter circle in the middle of the glass until it disappeared, seemingly consuming itself.
Suddenly, the vibrations came to a stop. Garth slowly looked up from the bar toward the front doorway. Outside the swinging doors, Garth could see a massive man standing there and looking in. The man’s huge chest peeked over the top of the swinging doors. His shoulders appeared to be three feet across. His face was hidden, as he was taller than the doorway. Then the man ducked and entered the tavern. Inside the doorway he now stood, staring at Bartender Garth. Seven feet tall and north of three hundred and fifty pounds. An absolute mountain of a man!
Bartender Garth stood staring in disbelief. He’d never seen such a man as big as this. Sweat built up across Garth’s brow and a drip formed on the tip of his nose. “Can I get you a drink?” Garth said.
The man began walking slowly up to the bar. Again, the bar vibrated with every step.
“Yes,” said the colossal behemoth of a man. “Give me a whiskey. Triple.” The man’s voice was so deep and so hollow, Garth thought he must have had the throat of an elephant.
Garth, of course, did what he was told. He grabbed a clean glass, buffed it a bit, and dropped in three of his most perfect ice cubes. The clanging of the ice cubes echoed in the room. Garth grabbed the best bottle of whiskey in the bar and filled the glass. He paid no attention to the quantity, only that it didn’t overflow. Garth carefully slid the glass toward the man.
The man, in one giant step, straddled a barstool and sat down with a thunderous cracking sound. Garth winced in fear that the man might break the stool and fall to the floor, but he didn’t.
The man grabbed the glass and slammed half the whiskey down in one gulp. The drip of sweat on Garth’s nose liberated itself and plunged to the top of the bar. Garth grabbed a dish towel and wiped his brow. He didn’t care that it was supposed to be for the glasses.
The man pounded the half full glass onto the bar, causing the ice cubes and the remaining whiskey to become airborne for a brief second before it splashed down in the bottom of the glass. Then he picked it back up and gulped down the second half.
Garth winced again as two ice cubes hit the man’s upper lip with the glass fully tilted back. The third ice cube leapfrogged the other two and hit the man in the nose. Garth had never seen whiskey consumed so quickly and completely. Another drip of sweat formed on the bridge of Garth’s nose. The massive man slammed the empty glass down on the bar.
Garth felt some saliva building up in the back of his throat, so he swallowed before he spoke up, “Can I get you another?” The drip of sweat made its way down again to the tip of his nose.
“No.” said the man.
“No?” confirmed Garth.
“That’s what I said, no.” The man adjusted his weight, causing the barstool to make another terrible cracking sound.
The drip of sweat departed from Garth’s nose and began its long descent to the bar.
“Are you sure?” said Garth.
“I’m sure,” said the man.
“Why not?” asked Garth. “It’s on the house.”
“No,” said the man. “I gotta go.”
“You gotta go?”
“Yep, I gotta get outa here.”
“Why?” said Garth. “Why do you gotta get outa here?”
“Because,” said the man. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard? Heard what?” asked Garth.
The man stood up from the bar as the stool cracked loudly. He leaned in, towering over Garth. Garth felt his neck crack as he looked straight up at the man. A drip of sweat now formed on the man’s nose, and all in one flowing motion, released itself downward, landing on Garth’s forehead with a warm, wet, splash. “You haven’t heard?” queried the man. “Everybody in town’s been talkin’ about it. I gotta get outa here - because Big Mike’s comin’!”
BT
