Ron the Yarn Spinner

 

Sarsaparilla

A gust of  air  briefly invades the saloon’s privacy stirring the wispy miasmic haze floating over the heads of cowpokes smoking “Quirlys,”  Mexican-style roll-your-own cigarettes popular in these “parts.”  They are made with Bull Durham tobacco and corn shuck paper.

   

A large ball of dead foliage rolling down the street can be seen through the lower portion of the swinging doors. It forsakes its seeds in contrast to  the honky-tonk music and laughter that flows into the street inviting passers-by to join in the fun. But the “batwings” are only used during operating hours. Large, heavy, double doors that can be bolted tight stand at attention nearby to keep people from helping themselves during closing hours and  to fend off bad weather – or bad company. Eventually both are assured.

It is late summer, dry, and Tumbleweeds roam freely.

    

The vaquero’s horse neighs when the rider dismounts from his A-fork saddle. The fancy silver post horns and bucking roll hardware glisten in the midday sun. They are uncommon in south Texas. “Maybe he’s a night rider?” People were suspicious of strangers. They had reason.

Like the sound of the shopkeeper’s doorbells, jiggling spurs announce the stranger’s arrival to the cowhands gathered inside the (Not So) Long Branch. They thirst and seek female companions. A long shadow fills the doorway to this dusty den of inequity  just before the lanky steely-eyed trail rider steps through the double-action hinged doors. He drags his weary high-heel boots over to the bar. He is tall in the saddle,  boots on or off.  A varnish of grimy sweat coats the stubble on a face that presents an ill-tempered expression  offered in response to his last meal. He rubs trail dust off his now open duster pushing it aside to reveal the incongruously named Peacemaker on his hip. He is a shootist – one bad buckaroo.

                                 “ Howdy Stranger. How about buying a lonely girl a drink?”  

Tipping back his high-crowned 10 gallon Stetson, the rider walks towards the bar while a dance hall girl approaches. “Howdy Stranger. How about buying a lonely girl a drink?”  “Sure, thing Mam…be happy to,” the shootist  says quite politely while reaching into his  pocket for a coin. “Sam” has already poured the unblushing bar girl a drink from a special bottle of “Red Eye” which was really cold tea .

Men considered most saloon or dance hall girls as “good“ women. You had to treat them “respectable”  - as “ladies”  because men in the Old West tended to revere all women as such and because the women or the saloonkeeper demanded it. Any man who mistreated these women would quickly become a social outcast, and if he insulted one, he could be shot.

A saloon or dancehall girl’s job was to brighten the evenings of the many lonely men of the western towns. In the Old West, men usually outnumbered women by at least three to one – sometimes more. Starved for female companionship, the saloon girl would sing for the men, dance with them, and talk to them – inducing them to remain in the bar, buying drinks, and a gamble. Most saloon girls were refugees from farms or mills, lured by posters and handbills advertising high wages, easy work, and fine clothing. Many were widows, needy women of good morals, trying to earn a living in an era that offered them few opportunities. Was there another type of “Old West” saloon girl? Sure, there were plenty, but you generally  found them only in the really raunchy places and saloons.

 

“What are you going to have friend, whiskey?” Sam asks while reaching for a  bottle of “rot gut” but the shootist shakes his head. “Sarsaparilla“ comes the reply and the saloon  momentarily becomes as silent as a church until an inebriated but armed transgressor rises  from behind to malign  the newcomer’s manhood. The shootist spins around cocking the hammer on his single-action Colt and prepares to confront the  interloper only to watch as the challenger  makes a few menacing  gestures, slurs some epithets alleging  real men drink alcohol  and falls to the floor  passing out cold. The  gaggle of patrons all laugh.

Sam hands the stranger a brown bottle of Sunset to slake his thirst, but the shootist first scans the ornate label before pulling  out the cork with his teeth. There were promises of renewed health and vigor, consumption would be abated, hair regrown. It was guaranteed to cure  whatever ailed him, including his stomach rumbling from last night’s stewpot Jackpot Jambalaya. It was just what he needed or so he thought. Several bar flies  join the stranger, elbows on the bar, brown bottles in hand. One cow hand yells, “Pay no mind to Murph,” pointing to the floor hugger. “He’s all hat and no cattle.” More laughs…

 It's the Old West (but you know that), a small frontier town  being controlled by ruthless mob boss Decker (Ever notice they usually get only one name?) and his henchmen. After the local sheriff died under mysterious circumstances, Decker arranged to have the  hapless town drunk , Murph,  appointed sheriff for obvious reasons, but the mayor had another idea. He sends for the shootist, Dan Destry, son of a famous two-fisted lawman….and you can guess how the rest of the story goes.

But here’s the thing about the drink our shootist and fellow imbibers are enjoying: What was called sarsaparilla in the Old West often did not contain the requisite  Smilax root at all. It was made from birch oil and sassafras, the dried root bark of certain flowering trees. So, while many brown bottles were  labeled Sarsaparilla sometimes that beverage was simply  a “root beer.”

Anyway, contrary to what Hollywood directors would have us believe, sarsaparilla  was widely consumed all across 19th-century America, easy to find in the local saloon and said to be quite popular with cowboys and ranchers looking to tame a troubled tummy, add a little pep in their step,  or seek relief from other ailments. Like most patent medicines, however,  sarsaparilla was credited with far more benefits than it had. Aside from claiming to be a remedy for all the usual headaches, stomach aches, tumors and general “weaknesses,” it was also believed to be a cure for various STDs (herpes, syphilis, gonorrhea).

Now which of these ailments our shootist might have suffered in addition to tummy rumbling is immaterial since Sarsaparilla  would not have cured him of any of them.

Today, root beer is a summer barbecue and ice cream shop staple in America. (Who doesn’t like a root beer float?) You can pick up IBC, A & W, or even Dog’s n’ Suds  at your local supermarket. If you want to sample the real Old West, however, and  wash  down that trail dust with a bottle of Sarsaparilla Soda, you’re going to have to do some hard riding Kemo Sabe,  “Yee Haw.”  Head out to….. Winchester, Durham or maybe Freshwater  -  but before you saddle up note these towns are in the UK. The soda is not sold in the United States. Still thirsty?  Happy Trails to you.