The West is full of tall tales and men with the nerve to tell them. I’ve heard souls speak of adventures they’ve had, and those adventures tend to grow mightier and the telling of them bolder based upon the increasing amount of alcohol the teller imbibes. But I swear this tale is true, as the stars will attest.

It wasn’t too long ago in a tiny Arizona town called Bumble Bee that four men came together and shared an odd August afternoon on a bridge.  

Initially, three of us had been scouting for silver down by the San Carlos River in ’79, and the seam was played out after a few months, what with all the prospectors digging in the area. Since the pickings were scarce and we didn’t much like people around, we decided to head north; first to the Salt River Valley, and then to Prescott, where it was told that silver could still be found up in the cliffs ad down in the arroyos. But before we got rich up there, we’d have to cross the desert, and in the summer.

My given name is William G. Gruff, but can call me Bill, I’ll permit it. My compatriots were men I hadn’t known very long; J X Threat and Les Insipid. Let me tell you what little I know about them. 

Insipid was a smallish man, unremarkable in every way. He wouldn’t share any thoughts or feelings he had, on account that he didn’t have any. And even if he did, you couldn’t hear him speak anyway. No one cared, because he’d never said anything noteworthy anyway. 

And then there was Threat, who was always angry about something, always shouting at the wind since no one else would listen. He’d want to argue before breakfast and fight during supper. The stare in the man’s eye was formidable, like he’d hurt you for some reason and just for the looking.  

Both men, like me, were bearded, dirty, and unusually diminutive in stature. But what we lacked for in looks, we more than made up for with stupidity, bad luck, and worse timing.

Leaving the San Carlos, we rode the short stage from Contention to Tucson at first, taking care to avoid any member of the Army since we had each gone “absent” from our military duties at some point during the Civil War. When I did fight, I’d fought for the North and Threat had battled for the South. Insipid said he wasn’t sure which side he’d misfired his pistol for, although when he said ‘West’ we assured him he was incorrect. My army-issued coat was Blue, Threat’s a light Gray, but Insipid’s was a muddy Brown, the shade of cowards and horse thieves.

We left the stage at Tucson and rode 100 or so miles to the little village of Phoenix. There wasn’t much there, apart from a couple of saloons and a few fallow cornfields. The journey from there to Prescott involves a climb in elevation, and the desert changes from low scrub and cactus that’ll hurt you to chaparral and creosote.  And you have to traverse the Bradshaw Mountains to get to Prescott Valley, a somewhat hilly place, full of snakes and ornery women and who can tell the difference, since they look and act so much alike.  

On the way, the streams become more plentiful, and out here they flow above and sometimes below ground. And a man can never know which it might be on a given day, though it always seems to be above ground or at least that’s the way it appears at a distance because of all the mirages.  

There aren’t many bridges in the desert since the climate don’t call for many. Now in those days, it rained a lot more here than it does now, and if a fella got caught on the wrong side of a flooding wash, the boys on the other side just might steal his belongings, his lice-ridden bedding, even his horse. That’s what the desert and heat can do to a man’s ethics, and worse things to his mind when there’s no water to be found. Where there’s no water, there’s less sense, and even less kindness than that. 

We came to a small unnamed hamlet on a creek in the eastern foothills of the Bradshaws. The village had a stagecoach stop and another dreaded Army fort, so we wanted to outfit ourselves and leave as soon as possible. Threat became worried we were being followed after he cursed at some soldiers for no good reason. I implored him to calm down, but we hightailed it out of there all the same, plied with enough booze to get to Prescott and not remember a mile of it.  

Then the rain started.

It came in buckets; big fat liquid drops, along with the lightning and the wind that summer afternoons are known for out here. To make matters worse, we saw a detachment of uniformed men following us about a half mile back. Whether they were soldiers or highwaymen made no difference to us. We had to move. 

About two miles out of town we came to an old wooden bridge perched high over a stream. On the other side was a huge raging derelict of a man, well over six feet in height, looking like a deranged and drunken Abe Lincoln, only with a staved-in hat and what appeared to be mostly rags for clothes. He screamed at us that the bridge was his, and that in order to pass we must pay tribute. We looked again below to see if we could navigate the stream, but the crest of it overflowed its banks, and I did not fancy the idea of crossing in water festering with angry rattlesnakes and unhappy drowning insects of every kind. 

We asked the man’s name, and what he wanted in exchange for a civil passage. 

“My name is Bart Callaway and I want whiskey! And bourbon at that if you have!” he bellowed. 

Well I knew I wasn’t giving up my bottle just yet, but it was Insipid who spoke first, he being the smallest of us having the most courage initially. He began to cross the bridge, the path of timbers groaning beneath his feet. 

“Whiskey, damn you! Give it to me or I’ll throw you in the river!” howled Callaway. He raised what appeared to be a chunk of Pinon pine high over his head. 

“I have jerky, of the pork variety, with ribbons of fat and a fine smoky flavor. I paid one bit for it back in Phoenix, but you can have it if you let me cross. The next man in line will have all the whiskey you require.” muttered Insipid. Callaway must’ve had ears like an eagle to hear old Les above the rainy din. Yet he let him proceed. Clearly out West, every man has his price. 

Having seen Insipid cross to the other side gave me confidence that the bridge was strong enough to support us. And being the middleman and most reasonable of the group, I decided to cross next. Callaway stumbled menacingly toward me, glowering.  

“Whiskey! That man says you have bottles of it! Give it to me or I’ll throw you in the river!” he demanded. He swung the wood at me for good measure, missing my face by bare inches.  

By now, the storm had passed over and the rain had stopped, but the stream flowed ever more violently. The detachment behind us advanced and would proceed apace now that the weather had broken. I had to think quickly. 

“I have an old pistol, a Colt, from the war. It didn’t get much use and still has most of its luster. You can have it if you let me cross.” Then I pointed at Threat. “That last man has all the whiskey you can drink, bourbon from Kentucky. He has more whiskey than there is water in that river.” I said this as I slowly made my way past him, trusting that once beyond his reach, I could scamper the rest of the way to safety, unscathed. But I’d betrayed my friend in the process; the truth was, Threat didn’t have a drop of the stuff, but as I said before, men do crazy things in the desert. I joined Insipid on the other side as Threat now began to make his way over. The wind had stopped blowing. 

Threat was the biggest and loudest of the three of us, but Callaway would not be turned away empty-handed. “Whiskey! Your friend said you have gallons of the stuff! Hand it over with all speed or I’ll throw you in the river!” Callaway screamed. 

“I’ll do nothing of the sort, you low-born sunofabitch!”,  Threat said, not being one to stand down and cower. He had what appeared to be a rock in his hand. 

Threat threw the rock at something under the bridge, at exactly the spot under where Callaway stood. It was a beehive, and the blow knocked it off its anchor and onto the ground below. A swarmy cloud of ten thousand angry bees poured out of the ruined hive and headed straight for Bart Callaway’s forehead. The big man lost his balance because of the assault and fell far below into the river. The only sound exceeding his own cursed yelling was the drone of the bees following him down river, around a corner, and finally out of sight. 

Threat finished the rest of the way across, and, satisfied Callaway would not return that night, we settled a camp as night was falling and at least we’d have fresh water in the morning. And though all our transgressions were forgiven that very evening over a bottle of fine rye, we agreed to depart from each other the next morning, since none of us could be trusted to support the other in a pinch. We left one another at sunup, and I never saw those men again. 

After our encounter with Callaway, someone named the village Bumble Bee. It still has that name today. The old bridge is gone. 

I heard sometime later that Les Insipid ended up back in Kansas, farming an ordinary piece of land with an unhandsome wife, while raising an uninteresting batch of kids. He died in 1903. No one went to his funeral. 

After leaving us that morning, JX Threat was killed about six months later back down in Tombstone, having returned to our old stomping grounds, and unfortunately crossed paths (and curse words) with an even grouchier and threatening Frank McLaury. 

Bart Callaway was never heard from again, owing to being allergic to bees and unable to swim. His hat was found a few weeks later, far downstream in a cave. 

As for myself, I never made it to Prescott, opting instead for less occupied parts of the Territory further east where a man could live in solitude and quiet. This I have done. 

I am now an old man, and soon to die, I am taking care to write down some of my memories of those long ago days and have decided to include this tale in my memoir since I figure that a good fiction well written is always stranger than a poorly told truth.