Written by John T. Rotruck, December 30, 1927, to be included in The History of Dundy County compiled by Miss Leona McAllister.

THE DEW DROP

The saloon, the oasis in the desert, the rendezvous for draw poker and the trysting place for Cowman, occupied a prominent place on the frontier. "The Dew Drop" had the distinction of being the only saloon within a radius of twenty miles and was located at the lower end of the only street passing through Benkelman. Cowmen would ride into it, and up to the bar, where drinks were ordered and deposed of in approved frontier fashion. This being accomplished, they would remain "in the saddle" and "cuss" and discuss frivolous and weighty subjects of interest to the riders of the range.

The flooring lumber used to seal the interior of that resort contained knots, knot-holes and nail heads. In settlement of friendly arguments, on the question of marksmanship, which occasionally arose, "six shooters" would be "pulled" and shots would be taken at objects on the walls and ceiling and the loser would be called upon to "set 'em up." Cowmen would loiter there, talking, drinking and shooting until all demand of conviviality had been met, when they would ride out, as they rode into the place and go on their respective ways, The interior of that structure had been examined, many times by the writer, since it fell into disuse as a saloon and a gambling house and a spot, as large as the human head, could scarcely ever be found, which had not been punctured with bullets.

A stranger entered the "Dew Drop" one day when men only were present and walked across the floor without looking to the right or left; neither did he find it necessary to give utterance to the time honored salutation of "Howdy". Over to the far corner of the room he went, took a seat by the stove, pulled a newspaper from his pocket and began reading. The whispered inquiries went the rounds, of "Who is it?" But no one knew.

General conversation engaged the "bunch" for a while; then "Old Mose" Collins, as well known and as respected as any of the "riders of the range," asked all up to the bar to have a drink on him. All responded, except the stranger. This lack of courtesy attracted the old plainsmen who said in a loud voice, "Stranger, come up and have a drink with the "bunch." No answer—no move—simply silence greeted the request. So "Mose" walked over to the corner and touched him on the shoulder and said, "Say stranger, come up and have a drink with the boys." He looked up angrily, moved quickly on his chair and without arising, "shoved" a small twenty-two calliber revolver into the face of the old scout, with the drastic command, to "Go on about your own business; I choose my own friends," he said.

The untoward move did not startle the old Cowpuncher, who had looked into more dangerous weapons. He did lose his composure but scanned the fellow for a moment or two and said, "Say 'feller,' if you would shoot me with that pop gun, and I should ever find it out, I don't know what I'd do with you.

The answer was as much of a surprise, as the drastic command and two surprises, all at once, were too much for the "bunch." They "broke loose," in hilarious laughter and yelled unconventionally. Some of them slapped their hands on their legs, as they bent low and gave utterance to pent up energy. Others pounded the bar with their fists, while a few slapped their companions rudely on the shoulders in outward manifestation of merriment.

The boisterous stampede and romping demonstration completely outwitted the newcomer, who quickly gathered his newspaper unto himself and hurriedly left the saloon and the country too, for he was never seen thereafter on that range.