WHISKEY ROW: PORTRAIT OF A STREET

BY CHARLES C. NIEHUIS [An excerpt from our October 1938 issue]

UNION SALOON UNION SALOON

THEY BUILT THE FIRST ONE OUT OF LOGS, down on Granite Creek, and called it the Quartz Rock Saloon; that was back in 1864. But, as one Old Timer said, "The sight of water made the customers sick," so they built the rest of 'em up on Montezuma Street and called it Whiskey Row. By 1874 there was a full block of saloons and gambling halls, where, they say, the best "gambleers" of the world took postgraduate courses in games of chance. That block became the epitome of the Old West. Taking advantage of poetic license, let's call a halt in the march of time, and retreat to the middle eighties. Here we go down on the Row to live again, one night, with some of the characters who made it famous.

150 PRESCOTT

At the bar, we saw Dan Thorne, proprietor, climb up on the polished mahogany. He is gloriously drunk! "Yip-yip-yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Go to it soldier, give those gamblers hell!"

We slip along the bar and out of the door - just in time! A flying squad of M.P.'s from the post, go roaring into the saloon.

Breathing a sigh of relief, we push our way through the crowd and up the street and turn into the wide door of the Cob-web, the only two-bit saloon in town. Other places are twelve and a half cents a drink, or two for a quarter they don't have nickels and dimes on the Row.

Billy Vanderbilt runs this place and that's he at the end of the bar, the bald headed fellow with the handlebar mus-tache, drinking with a couple of cronies.

He's just finishing a story as we step up. The listeners roar with laughter and Billy slaps the bar, saying, "Belly up, boys, and have a drink on the house! Set 'em up, Baldy."

Baldy Brown takes our order and men get up from tables to get theirs. We shake the clutching hands of a dance hall girl off our elbows, and pick up our drinks.

Billy Mulvenon, sheriff of Yavapai County, walks in as we finish. Vanderbilt greets him, "Hi, Sheriff!" Mulvenon orders straight whiskey, and stands silent.

Vanderbilt continues, "See you got the Grahams in the jail tonight. Are the Tewksburys comin' in?"

"Yep, they rode in late's 'evenin'. It's the only way I can keep 'em separated. The Tewksburys'll be in jail tomorrow, andthe Grahams'll have the run of the streets. Can't let 'em both out at the same time 'cause they'll get to shootin' and wreck the town. Damn this feudin', anyway!"

The sheriff tips his head back and the whiskey slides down his throat.

Well, let's go see the Cabinet before we call it a night.

As we thump down the boardwalk, we pass Dan Thorne's place. It's a wreck! But the boys are lined up three and four deep in front of the bar. We get a glimpse of Dan sitting on the end of the bar and catch a line of a lusty ballad he's singing.

As we enter the Cabinet, Ed Roberts, who is tending bar, greets us heartily and we order drinks from him.

Mike Hickey, usually the most genial of Irishmen, comes in and we have a drink on him. He's the co-partner of Burke, and they have the Burke-Hickey Hotel on the corner of Gurley and Montezuma on the end of Whiskey Row. Tonight Mike seems a trifle on the morose side. He waves his glass before he downs it.

"Boys, I'm lettin' you know; Tom Hallahan's a'gunnin' for me. This may be my last drink!"

We're standing in back of Mike, he's between us and the door. We step out from behind Mike as the swinging doors of the saloon crash against the wall. In strides Tom Hallahan!

Mike, crouching slightly, the fingers of his right hand resting lightly on the edge of the bar, speaks, "Here I am, Tom - and ready!"

Hallahan pushes his hat back slowly with his right hand, and starts stepping sideways, edging around with each step. Mike turns as slowly, facing Hallahan. His fingers slide off the bar, but the hand doesn't drop. Mike is waiting.

Hallahan begins biting off words, "I told you if you messed around with that gal of mine I was going to shoot you!"

Mike answers evenly, "Well, Tom, I'm still a-waiting."

Hallahan explodes - temper and gun! His first shot misses, and goes into the back-bar mirror. Before he can shoot again, Mike has shot and missed.

Tom Hallahan pauses. Mike has his pistol between his knees, working the action like mad. He slaps the cylinder! It's jammed!

The white heat of anger leaves Tom. "Aw, let's call it off, Mike. She ain't worth it!"

"Not if I get this gun working," pants the slow-to-anger Mike.

Hallahan raises his 44! He turns five shots loose into the ceiling. "Now! Forget it, Mike."

Ed Roberts, taking advantage of the lull, breaks in soothingly - "Belly up, boys, it's on the house."