Bottle Fever

Bottle of

A heap of them romantic town-gaited writers would have us believe a cowboy never has nothin' to do but wear his boot soles out on a brass rail while he's gettin' calluses on his elbows leanin' on a bar. Fact is, he does less drinkin' than the city man who has his drinks convenient every day.

The cowhand does his drinkin' periodically-when he gets to town. Because whiskey an' cow work don't mix, a strict rule of the cow country is "no whiskey at the wagon." Consequently when he gets to town he's thirsty as a mudhen on a tin roof an' has developed a bad case of bottle fever.

Drinkin's not particularly the besettin' sin of the cowman, but after long hard months of lonesome work hogtyin' his drinkin', it's kinda natural that when he hits town after the roundup he cuts his wolf loose an' freights his crop with likker. The world's attention has been attracted to his drinkin' because when he gets drunk he wants ever'body to know it, an' they usually do if they're in the same county. Bein' a young, healthy an' reckless cuss, he proceeds to get noiser'n a Mexican revolution until he's a thorn in the town marshal's shortribs. The law never knows whether he's goin' to fight or frolic, sing or shoot. A heap depends on the brand of booze he drinks.

Some of that frontier scamper juice would draw a bloodblister on a rawhide boot. It made y'u wonder how they kept such stuff corked. Three drinks would grow horns on a muley cow. After nosin' yore way to the bottom of a half dozen glasses y'u'd begin gettin' a free snake with ever' drink. No man can gargle that brand of hootch without annexin' a few queer animals that ain't in natural history.

You'd wonder if that snake charmer in the white apron had been spittin' tobacco juice in the barrel to make it pleasant to the taste. If a man had a fightin' disposition he'd soon be givin' the town hell with the hide off an' doin' his best to uphold the cowhand's rep'tation for bein' wild an' woolly.

When a cowhand rides to town to spill a pot of paint an' hear the owl hoot, he usually makes a night of it. He's first of all a good 'nough hossman not to leave his mount fightin' flies at a hitch rack while he's fightin' booze at a bar. He goes to the livery stable to find a place to lean his hoss, an' sees that he gets grain, hay an' water. Then he bowlegs it over to his fav'rite bar to inoculate himself ag'in snake bites.

Bellyin' up to the bar an' plantin' his boot heels on the brass rail like he intends it to take root, he asks the aproned man on the sober side to sort out some bottles. Then he proceeds to lap up likker like a fired cowhand. This puncher don't have an educated thirst that calls for bottles with pretty labels an' silver foiled bonnets on 'em. He mighty seldom wastes his time on wine an' fancy mixtures, an' he don't have much appetite for beer because in the old days he could seldom get it cold. Whiskey's his drink an' he takes it straight. Some call for a chaser, but mostly he don't want to put the fire out. When he calls for a "boiler maker an' his helper" he wants a drink of whiskey with a beer chaser. When a bartender hears him call for a “pair of overalls” he sets out two glasses with the bottle because he knows he wants two fast drinks. Y’u have to drink some of that stuff fast.

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bartender hears him call for a “pair of overalls” he sets out two glasses with the bottle because he knows he wants two fast drinks. Y’u have to drink some of that stuff fast.

Now usin’ his rope arm to hoist a glass, he proceeds to take the first layer off his tonsils an’ let his weakness for booze run wild. The first few burnin’ sensations of this conversation fluid bring out the tongue oil, an’ he starts augurin’ with the barkeep. Most likely this individual’s an old stove-up ex-cowhand, an’ they start talkin’ cow. A few more drinks an’ this cowhand’s the best cowman in the county an’ the barkeep’s gettin’ a little tired of listenin’ an’ starts yawnin’ on the glasses to give ‘em a polish.

A few more an’ he’s the best cowman in the state an’ the bardog gets busy with his bar rag. It’s not long till he’s about the best in the whole West an’ begins to lie about the herd he owns, even if he’s jes’ a common thirty dollar a month hand. It’s then the barkeep gets disgusted, reaches for the bottle an’ hammers the cork home with the heel of his hand, which tells this cowhand plainer’n words that his credit’s run out.

After some useless augurin’, he zigzags off to the next saloon lookin’ like somebody’d stole his rudder. Feelin’ his way ‘long the buildin’s like his legs was a burden, he wonders why they don’t stay put an’ why they’d never thought to build them board walks wider. To watch ‘im y’u’d a-thought walkin’ was a lost art.

At the next saloon his tongue’s a lot thicker an’ his lies a lot bigger. He’s gettin’ to the point where he believes ‘em himself. It’s gettin’ pretty late an’ he’s talkin’ mostly to himself by now, the barkeep bein’ down at the other end of the bar out of ear shot an’ cussin’ under his breath. A little peeved at the neglect he’s receivin’, this cowhand may decide to do a little target practice to command the attention he deserves. When he reaches for his iron he claws an empty holster, not knowin’ that his friend behind the first bar has lifted it to keep him out of trouble.

His swing, as he starts to reach, also starts him to reelin’ ‘round like a pup tryin’ to find a soft spot to lie down in. He winds up by beddin’ down all right, but it ain’t in no soft spot.

Though most cowhands drink when they hit town, there’re some, like watched Puritans, who stay sober as a muley cow. Others jes’ take on ‘nough joy juice to get a talkin’ load. Their tongues can run a long time if kept well oiled. These fellers get what we call diarrhea of the jawbone, an’ have so much to say it gets in their way. If their tongues get too thick to talk they resort to the sign language, but they stay peaceful as a church.

There’s others with a bronc disposition an’ when they get a full grown case of booze blind they wanta smoke up the town. His kind’s the ones that give the other cowboys a bad rep’tation. If he can’t wait till he gets outside to start trouble the bartender’s usually a fighter an’ has a bung-starter, blackjack or six-gun handy. More’n one bad hombre’s had his hair combed where it was thinnest with a six-gun barrel, raisin’ a knot that’d sweat a rat to run around.

When he starts paintin' his nose y'u'd think he's dry as a sponge the way he's soakin' up that cowtown neck oil. Pretty soon he's knockin' 'round like a blind dog in a meat shop an' can't hit the ground with his hat in three throws. At this stage he begins to see things that ain't there an' orders the barkeep an' his twin to set out more drinks. A corkscrew never pulled no one out of a hole, but there's men who go into a barroom to build up their courage when they're "lookin' for someone." He then mighty often has to prove this courage. There's others who try to drown their sorrow in likker, but they only irrigate it. Givin' some folk's likker is like tryin' to play a harp with a hammer. When a man makes a night of it an' stays out with the dry cattle, the next mornin' he feels like the frazzled end of a misspent life, an' has one of them headaches built for a hoss. His head feels so big he won't bet he could crowd it into a corral. He's usually got a brindle taste in his mouth like he's had supper with a coyote an' feels like goin' out an' buryin' his teeth. Besides, he's so shaky he can't pour a drink of whiskey into a barrel with the head out. When the drought is over this celebratin' cowboy usuallv rides out of town with nothin' but a head an' some debts. As one once said, his "head's mighty heavy an' his pockets plenty light." If he has any money left maybe he slips a bottle in his saddle pocket to take some hair off the dog on the trail home. I remember a saddle pocket bottle though that cured one cowboy of drinkin'. When him an' his partner starts for the ranch from town, his friend puts a wrapped quart bottle in this cowhand's saddle pocket 'cause his own saddle don't have one. A few miles out of town the one packin' the bottle has a burnin' thirst that can't resist temptation. He sneaks the bottle out, peels the paper down the neck an' takes a cow swaller of the stuff. It ain't long till he's so sick he heaves up ever'thing but his socks. He couldn't a-been cleaner inside if they'd used a vacuum cleaner on him. When his pard takes a look at the bottle an' sees what he's done he laughs like a hyena over a carcass. "Y'u damn fool," he busts out, "what y'u mean drinkin' up my Neet's foot oil?" This sick cowboy wishes he's so far away it'd take a week for a bloodhound to find him. He needs sympathy like a fresh branded calf, but he don't get none. By the time he gets back to the ranch he's weak as a dragged cat, an' he was never known to look up the neck of another bottle. His bottle fever days was over. Gamblin' is another of the cowboy's advertised sins. Accordin' to the magazines he spends most of his days at this pastime. But mostly he's used to a little poker or sevenup played on a saddle blanket, or bettin' on a hoss race run on the range. The town gambler knows the lure of the games for the cowboy an' has the cards stacked. Against the house a cowboy's got 'bout as much chance winnin' as a grasshopper that hops into an anthill. Them dealers always seem to know both sides of the cards.

When a cowhand hits town it don't take him long to put his money into circulation. His pockets soon spring a leak like he's got a hole in 'em as big as his pants' leg. Sometimes he sets up all night tryin' to find somethin' better'n some mighty young clubs. But the luck always seems to be campin' on the dealer's shirttail an' he keeps showin' this cowboy hands that look as big as a log house. All the while this cowhand's havin' trouble findin' enough spots on the cards, the dealer's outholdin' a warehouse.

Maybe the game starts kinda small, but it soon gathers a heap of moss. Lookin' at too many hands of five all showin' the same complexion soon makes this cowhand wish he had all the change them bartenders had forgot to give him back.

He might start with a roll as big as a wagon hub, but with his luck runnin' so muddy he's soon cleaned down to his spurs an' ain't got a tail feather left. When that session's over it's the dealer who's grass-bellied with enough spot cash to burn a wet mule, an' a cowhand's not ridin' home singin' with his tail up.

Oh, well-like the old sayin', "play 'em high an' sleep in the street"; but still a faint heart never filled a flush an' a cowhand'll keep buckin' the games. He never learns that he can't beat a drum when he goes up against them cow town gamblers.