By Any Other Name
Hannibal Heyes walked through the batwing doors into a cacophony of Saturday night raucousness. Sidling carefully through the crowd, he sidestepped a barmaid with a precariously tipping tray full of beers. Droplets of amber fluid dripped on customers as she passed. No one paid any mind, however, too inebriated or glued as they were to the games of chance to notice or care. Heyes frowned as a larger stain spread on his forearm. The shirt was new, just purchased to replace one too weather-worn from the trail to be of any further use except as a polishing cloth in his partner's gun-cleaning kit. He had not intended to visit the laundress on this layover, pressed for time as they were to get to San Francisco on horseback, as funds for public conveyance were scarce and the road ahead still long.
Finally making it to the third row out from the bar, he held up a hand with a pair of fingers splayed, "Two beers!" His words fell, drowning in the sea of noise, and none of the three bartenders noticed. For a minute or so, or what seemed much longer, Heyes focused on strategically pushing his way to the front. His patience won as he gained first row, although those gently, or not, pushed aside in the process would gladly have saved themselves the sweat of the mines if they had known a ten-thousand-dollar payday awaited them.
"Two beers!"
A full-mustachioed man in apron thick of leather, as a smithy might wear, faced him. "Lad, ye don't have to yell. I kin here ye just fine!"
Heyes opened his mouth to say something, but did not. A roll of eyes gave his reply.
Two mugs of brew appeared. "Two bits, laddie. Sarcastic ain't becomin', ye know!"
"Two bits?" Brown eyes narrowed.
"Two bits." The voice, authoritative but earnest, was firm.
"How much would it be on a morning when it's not so busy?"
"Thirty cents."
"That's a lot."
"Boon times, lad. Best since forty nine. New vein's've been found. The old mine's producin' again, and then some. Men're makin' fortunes, and we charge what we can."
Brow furrowed, Heyes rummaged in his pocket, throwing a coin on the bar. As the bartender started for it, Heyes covered it. "Wait. How much for one?"
"Fifteen cents. Two's on special tonight. What'll it be, lad. I ain't got all night."
The ex-outlaw moved his hand, studying the coin. With a sigh he pushed it toward the bartender, who took it without another word before moving on.
Heyes grabbed a mug, observing the crowd reflected in the mirror behind the bar. He pulled the second mug closer to him.
"Beers're dear. You mind sharin'?"
Heyes' voice rose as he moved his ear closer to the shorter man next to him. "What's that?"
"I said beers're dear, and would you mind sharin'?!"
"You don't have to shout!"
"Well, sonny, if'n ya don't hear me the first time, I suppose that's all I can do! 'Specially when ever-body's tryin' to be heard above ever-body else!"
Heyes' hands covered his ears. The din had reached uncomfortable levels. Nonetheless, he guarded his purchases and spot at the bar as any zealous sot might on a busy night, even spreading his legs to expand his position.
"'Pardon me, sonny, but you're crowdin' me. 'Nuf room here fer both of us, and then some."
Heyes took a swig and looked at the man. Of short stature, he wore dirty, yellowed buckskins and a long sheath on a leather belt. From it protruded the pearled handle of a large knife. It seemed too much weapon for this old man with wild, unruly, grey hair. The ex-outlaw dropped his mouth to the man's ear. "Sorry, but I'm waiting for my partner. Just trying to hold some room for him."
They switched positions as the old man spoke directly into Heyes' ear. "That's what they all say, sonny. I been here long enough to know all's the tricks."
Keeping it up, Heyes responded, "No trick. My partner'll be here any minute. And he won't be too happy if he can't enjoy a beer."
The man looked longingly at Heyes' second mug. "How 'bout jest a sip for an old man? You're gonna be toilin' away so's that two bits won't be any mind to ya in another week when ya get paid. But me, I'm too old to do much more than run a canary into the mines, or relieve the powder monkeys when they'll let me. Funds're hard for this one to come by, and everthin' in this dang town's dear."
Heyes and the older man started as shots fired. The ex-outlaw reached instinctively for his pistol, of a sudden reversing the action once the shooter was ejected by a burly man with a badge. Just as fast, he faced the bar, hunching over it to hide his face, although he did not recognize the lawman.
The old man took note. Once again he spoke into Heyes' ear. "I might be an old-timer, but still sharp, I tell ya. Nothin' much gets by me. You're tryin' to hide from the law, aren't ya, sonny?"
The ruckus behind them subsided a little. Heyes relaxed his crouch, sideways glancing at the elderly gent. He lit into a broad grin. "Now what gives you that idea? Just passing through. Resting up from the trail."
"Uh huh. And I suppose your name's Smith, or Jones, or Johnson, or somethin'."
The grin disappeared for a quick moment but reappeared in an instant. "How'd you know?" He extended his hand. "Joshua Smith."
"I knowed it!" The old man looked past Heyes' hand to the second beer, which held his gaze for some moments.
Following the man's sightline, Heyes planted the second mug in front of him. His eyes dancing, the old man extended his own hand and shook Heyes'. "That's right kind of ya, sonny. Ain't ever-day a body shares his beer." He took a long gulp, replaced the mug on the bar, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "Smith, eh? I knowed it, I tell ya! I'm Jim Bowie."
Heyes paused his own swig, turning to look at the man. His brow furrowed with enough lines to finish a corduroy road across a river. "Jim Bowie ...? Now who's pulling a leg? He died ..."
The old man interrupted, "Yeah, I know, heard it a thousand times if'n I heard it once. Jim Bowie died at the Alamo. Don't believe ever-thin' ya hear, sonny."
"But ..."
The beer sat idle as the old man grew agitated, his voice louder. "Smith?! I guessed your name's Smith and ya don't even try to do better! I'd believe ya better if'n ya told me ya was Davy Crockett, or even Ol' Santa Anny hisself! But, Smith?" The old man's green eyes were ablaze. "Next I suppose you're gonna tell me your partner's Jones, right?"
Heyes' jaw dropped. He recovered quickly.
"See! I done told ya so!" The old man's face was red. He pulled the knife from the sheath.
Heyes' eyes widened. The blade shone in the dim light of the saloon.
"Next thing you're gonna tell me I didn't invent this pick-sticker. Young'uns these days! No respect for their elders! Keep your beer!" With that, he stomped away, leaving Heyes staring in his wake.
"Don't mind him."
The bartender startled Heyes. "Huh?"
"Don't mind him. Crazy old man. Goin' on all the time how he's Jim Bowie and then not believin' anybody when he hears their name. A lot here probably goin' by a different name for whatever reason."
Heyes eyed the bartender, looked over his shoulder as the old man exited the saloon, and turned back to the barkeep. "Where's he headed?"
The barman rolled his eyes. "Oh, probably to get the sheriff again. But don't worry, sheriff's not interested in Jim's stories. He's too busy keepin' order. Or, tryin' to keep it." He winked.
Heyes watched the bartender walk away. He opened his mouth, sighed, grabbed the handle of his beer mug, lifted it, put it down, contemplated the crowd again in the mirror, caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Doing an about-face, he strode purposely toward his partner.
Kid Curry's grin faded as Heyes, without breaking stride, put his hands firmly on the blond man's shoulders and steered him out the door.
"Heyes, my beer ..."
"We're leaving."
"I just got the horses in the livery."
"We'll get them out. The beer costs too much, and it don't go down real good."