Collarless, half starved, dirty, The Cur showed up one morning behind the Peachtree Saloon rolled up in a ball beside an empty slop bucket. Full grown, but young, he would have gone about 60 pounds if well fed, which he wasn't. Brindle coat with a white blaze on his chest that kind of looked like a star. He blended so well with his surroundings Pete the bartender didn't notice him the first few times he passed while getting ready to open for the day. He shooed the dog away and The Cur slinked off, but only went a few yards.

This scenario played out for a few mornings, until one day the dog caught Pete's gaze. The dog had not forgotten the effect of puppy-eyes and cocking his head to one side. The man stood still for a moment and cocked his head to match. Finding a half-eaten steak from the night before he tossed it to The Cur.

It went that way for a while, with the dog getting fed occasionally. Pete even set up an old crate as a makeshift doghouse. One stormy night when the bar was full of cowboys and townies all finding shelter from the rain, someone left the back door ajar. The Cur, seeking shelter himself, slipped inside. It was common for a bar to have a cat or two for the vermin, and some had dogs too, but not the Peachtree.

A bar is full of smells; smoke, vomit, stinking cowboys, stale perfume, but over all this wafted a stench that turned every nose—wet dog.

Cries rose from every corner of the room; "What the hell is that?"," Who let that filthy dog in here?", "Get rid of him."

Savannah Sal, the grand dame, stood on the stairs leading to the rooms above, clutching a sachet to her face and looking straight at Pete. He sped from behind the bar and tried to usher The Cur back outside, but the dog stood his ground. Only after a piece of raw meat was laid on the back step did he relent. Pete then went out and laid an old slicker over the doghouse and put it on a pallet to elevate the crate out of the mud.That seemed to satisfy The Cur, yet, the wet dog smell lingered long after the dog took shelter.

The next morning Pete busied himself around the bar when he heard several of the ladies of the establishment giggling out behind the bar. Investigating, he found The Cur standing in a wash tub, covered in suds getting a proper bath from three girls with Sal looking on.

"What's his name?" asked Sal.

"I just call him The Cur." Pete replied.

"Seems a little undignified." Then she addressed the dog. "Well boy, what's your name? Rover, King, Butch?"

The dog did not respond. Pete called out "Cur!". The animal looked up and barked.

The people looked at each other. "I guess that is his name," said Sal. "Seems like we have a dog, but he must be kept clean, and I don't want any trouble with any of the customers." The Cur had found a home.

As the weeks went by, The Cur found his place at the Peachtree. He greeted everyone entering the bar with a sniff. Some would get two or more sniffs and the bar staff learned that meant to watch that individual. His favorite place to lie was under the roulette table from where he could keep an eye on the patrons. If a cowboy got a little rough with one of the girls, The Cur would sidle up to the man and lean on his leg. Should the man try to push the dog away, this would initiate a soft growl. By this distraction, the girl had a chance to move away, and the incident ended.

All in all, The Cur was a quiet dog, which pleased Sal. She ran a tight establishment, and all the patrons knew it. Guns were allowed, but never out of leather. Pete's shotgun came out quickly when there was any kind of disturbance.

Once there was a rowdy poker game underway, with Bib Jones feeling he had been wronged. He reached for his side arm, but in an instant The Cur was there with his nose pressed firmly against the holster. Bib looked down, and slowly returned his hand to the table.

Normally, as the Peachtree closed for the night, The Cur would go out the front door and make his rounds. But, on this night there was a ruckus down the street. Kirt Goodly from the Bar B ranch got crosswise with Jim Hicks and a few of the other cowboys from the KN brand. The situation got out of hand fast, and the gunfire was general. Jim lay dead and another fella was wounded. Kirt knew that Sheriff Billy was on his way, and it was time to skedaddle. His horse was hitched behind the Peachtree, where he had started his binging that night. On his horse he knew he could get away in the darkness and be in the next county before dawn. Bolting down the street as the sheriff and a deputy arrived, Kirt turned the corner into the alley that led to his horse.

Feeling smug at his escape, he leaped into his saddle, and pulled on the reins, when all hell broke loose. The Cur sank his teeth into the horse's rear leg and clamped down hard. The horse kicked and reared. Kirt held on, but the dog continued his attack until the horse flung the cowboy to the ground. Now on his level, The Cur started attacking Kirt. When the sheriff arrived a few moments later they found the dog standing on Kirt's chest barking, Kirt's face bleeding from a bite that nearly split open his nose.

Pete was there and grabbed The Cur and whisked him into the Peachtree. With a wet bar towel, he began to wipe the blood from the dog. A little while later Sheriff Billy walked in the front door.

Fearful, Pete started. "Now Billy, you know The Cur. He's a good dog and has never bitten anybody, any time. Everybody loves him. He just got scared at all the gunfire noise." Pete pulled the dog behind him.

The sheriff stood for a long minute, then knelt and called The Cur over to him. "Come on boy, it's all right." Slowly the dog came out and let the sheriff scratch his ears. The Cur's tail started to wag again.

"You're right Pete. I know The Cur, and he's a good boy. If he hadn't stopped Kirt, we might never have seen him again. Besides, a dog gets one free bite, especially when he knows the guy is an asshole."

After that incident, The Cur became something of a celebrity around Calliope. Even ladies who would not enter the Peachtree on a dare would stop and pet the mutt. He ate well from scraps from the butcher and the hotel. But he knew who he was and his job. If there were patrons in the bar, he was at his post under the roulette table.

It's funny how small things get to be big things in a town. The question of who owned The Cur somehow got started. The obvious answer was Pete or maybe Sal, or the Peachtree. Some wondered if, as he was such a great protector, he should not be recognized as a citizen of the town, the town dog. Of course, there were a few other strays around who might contest that title. Just about everyone had an opinion, it even split the quilting bee ladies.

In the end the consensus was not that anyone owned The Cur, but that he was part and parcel of the Peachtree itself. On the bar stood a tip jar, there for the upkeep of the dog. They found a photographer who took his picture that they sent off to Denver where an artist painted a larger-than-life size painting of The Cur which hung over the bar with a brass plate engraved, "The Cur, Hero". Some made fun of the plate, saying "Biting a horse does not a hero make," but Sal and the Peachtree folks loved him.

Calliope was blessed or cursed to have two industries, ranching and mining, and there was always a health rivalry between the working men. That is until a grand event brought them together. Such was the case when the Lucky Charm mine caved in on nine men. All able-bodied men rushed to the site and started to dig. The cowboys took to the pick and shovel like the best of the swampers, working side by side with miners from the other mines in the area.

The mine collapse was a bad one. After a couple of days of digging, they had not made it to the main shaft. Things looked grip. No one paid much attention to The Cur at this time. If they had, they would have noticed that he was way up on the side of the mountain over the mine, barking himself hoarse. After a few days, men started to drift away from the diggings, having their own lives to attend, until just a handful of miners stayed, hoping against hope that someone would be saved.

Back at the Peachtree, it didn't take long to notice the vacant place under the roulette table. Pete and the rest searched and searched for The Cur, but he was nowhere to be found. A week after the cave in, Muley Sam wandered back into town from his last effort at finding his own gold mine.

Sam got a beer and sat down with a few miners he knew. "You heard about the Lucky Charm?" the miners asked.

"No, just got back. Came over the ridge above the mine and saw a few fellas out there, but I just passed on."

"Cave in!" a miner told him. "We've been at it for a week, but it don't look like we can clear the shaft."

The conversation went on like that, until one of the girls came in from her search for The Cur. "Still can't find him, Pete."

"I'm really worried about him." Pete fretted as he walked back and forth behind the bar.

Sam witnessed this, then turned to his table mates. "What's with The Cur?"

They replied, "Just gone, nobody knows where he is."

"I know where he is. Passed him on the ridge over the Lucky Charm. I even gave him my last chunk of bacon as I was headed here to refill my grub stake."

The bar cleared as all the patrons and staff headed out to find the dog, It was dark by the time they came upon The Cur, wagging his tail, a looking a little worse for wear. They all petted him and fed him. He jumped around and barked at being reunited with his people.

When Pete called him, as they were about to leave, The Cur would not come. He ran to a split in the rocks, wheeled around, looked back at them, bark, bark, bark.

The crowd gathered around the split in the rocks. One of the miners told everyone to hush, then in the quiet, he called down into the space. "Hello, Can you hear me?" He called several more times before a faint sound echoed from below. "We're here, we're here."

Word passed quickly that the men were still alive, and cowboys and miners started digging down between the rocks, opening a shaft to the inner mine. It still took two days to get them out, but they were safe. No one made fun of the plate that said "Hero" after that day.

Though The Cur spent most of his time policing the Peachtree, on occasion he would be seen lounging in his box-doghouse behind the bar. When Pete noticed a dog in the house, he paid no attention, until the dog growled at him. A close look revealed a strange female sprawled out on the old carpet lining the box and she was obviously ready to deliver a litter of puppies.

"Puppies!" The whole bar was abuzz with the new arrivals and The Cur's affectionate reaction to the brood and his gentile manner with Bella, the name given to the mother, left no doubt he was the sire.

Bella delivered 5 healthy puppies: Scout, the bold adventurous one who was often found where he didn't belong; Daisy, the gentle soul prone to sunbathing and rolling over for belly rubs; Buster, the noisy one given to barking at everything and nothing at all; Willow, the curious thoughtful one who observed everything and everyone; Bear, the copy of The Cur in every way even though a bit of a runt, he took no guff from his litter-mates. Things went on calmly for a couple months with the puppies having the run of the Peachtree.

Coyotes were common around the area, stealing chickens, getting into trash, howling at night, but this night they ventured close to the puppies' den.

Bella sent up a barking fit alerting The Cur, who was asleep in the bar, that danger was afoot. Responding to her call, The Cur headed for the back door, but someone had locked it. He went to the front door, but as the bar was closed, that way too was blocked. Frantically he thrashed about the building, as Bella's pleas became more plaintive.

Finally, the ruckus woke the sleeping girls, and one came out into the hall, where upon The Cur darted into her room and launched himself out her second story window. He hit the ground hard. By then two coyotes were menacing Bella who was out of the doghouse protecting her puppies inside, while a third varmint had Willow by the leg and was headed away with her. That was the one The Cur went after.

In an instant the coyote felt the vicious bite of our watchdog ripping into his back leg. At first the culprit didn't want to drop the puppy. However, The Cur's whipping him back and forth forced him to let go and defend himself. The dogs engaged, rolling around in the dirt, ripping at each other until the coyote found an opening and escaped.

By then the bar was awake and opening the back door, several of the girls drove off the animals threatening Bella. One girl got Pete's shotgun and dropped a coyote as it tried to escape. Bella had been bitten several times but was otherwise alright. Willow rejoined her littler-mates and was none the worse for her ordeal. But The Cur was nowhere in sight.

With lanterns, they searched for the dog and found him hard up against the side of the building covered in blood, panting wildly and with a twisted rear leg. When they tried to move him, he snarled and let out a pitiful cry of pain.

There was no vet in town, so they sent for the liveryman while Pete draped a blanket over their friend. With great difficulty and pain to The Cur, and with the help of the liveryman they got a blanket under the dog and carried him into the bar and laid him on a table.

"He's lost a lot of blood, and his leg is broken too." Was the diagnosis from the liveryman. They all stood around looking at each other. "I know how you all feel about The Cur, but if I had a horse like this, I'd put him down."

The assembled all knew this already but were hesitant to act. Then Savanna Sal, who had her own history of dealing with injured animals and who was the final call on anything related to the Peachtree, spoke up. "Set his leg. He's one of us and though he may suffer, he'll be better in the end."

They found some laudanum and dripped it into his mouth. Then they wrapped him in the blanket and had several people hold him down as the liveryman twisted his leg back in place amid the most horrific screeching any one of them had ever remembered.

They set up a cushioned space under the stairs, fed him with a spoon and a baby bottle. The patrons made it a point to reduce their revelry around the injured dog. After a few weeks, The Cur started testing his leg, weak at first, but little by little he could move around the bar and eventually managed to get outside to visit Bella and the few puppies who were left, as some had been adopted by townspeople.

Bear and the rest of the litter had been brought in to see him during his convalescence and once The Cur got to moving around, that pup followed his every move. The Cur still had a hitch-in-his-giddy-up that would never leave, but he eventually returned to duty, greeting guests, and keeping the clientele in line except now, Bear shared in the work.

Even in his debilitated state, he and Bella managed to have a few more litters before he fell asleep behind the piano one winter night and did not rise the next morning.

As an honored member of the community, The Cur was laid out in a specially built satin lined coffin and the Peachtree held a wake for him. Miners came and used picks to break through the frozen ground to dig a grave at the entrance to the cemetery. His funeral procession was the event of the year with everyone in their Sunday best. The town erected a stone engraved, "The Cur, Friend and Protector, 11 years of service."

Epilog: It became a tradition for the town clerk of Calliope Nv. to keep a studbook listing all the dogs in the area who descended from The Cur. To this day, in Nevada and all over the southwest, dog owners brag about having a "Cur" curled up by the fireplace. The grave marker is still there after 139 years and is kept up by a line item in the Parks Department's budget.