From Barkeeps to Pharmacists

Not all pistols in the Willamette Valley were packed in holsters or saddle bags. Some rested quietly behind the counter—usually right next to a cash drawer, a spittoon, or a cabinet full of laudanum.

Folks tend to picture saloon owners with a scattergun behind the bar, and sure, some had them. But more often, the savvy barkeep kept a tidy little revolver stashed beneath the counter. Compact, easy to operate, and more than enough to deter a drunk with poor decision-making skills. The Colt 1877 Lightning was a favorite in some towns—double-action, six-shot, quick to bring into play. Others favored the rugged Harrington & Richardson hammerless models or even the quirky Kolb vest pocket revolvers, which could be tucked just about anywhere.

Pharmacists, too, were no strangers to armed discretion. With their shops full of morphine, cocaine-based remedies, and sometimes a cash-only clientele, these professionals needed a last line of defense. A Webley Bulldog or a Smith & Wesson .32 Hand Ejector served the purpose admirably—easy to aim across a counter, unlikely to jam, and capable of discouraging thieves without taking down half the storefront.

And we’d be remiss not to mention the lowly .22 rimfire—a caliber often scoffed at by men with heavy pistols but capable of causing absolute mayhem before the days of antibiotics. A single .22 to the gut in 1890 might not kill a man on the spot, but it could still be a death sentence in a world without penicillin. The size of the hole didn’t matter as much as the infection that followed. So whether you were serving shots or dispensing powders, odds were good you had iron nearby—not for war, but to ensure your day job didn’t become your last. A tidy Smith & Wesson rimfire revolver could sit in a drawer, unnoticed until needed.

The modern concealed-carry debate often forgets how deeply rooted these practices are. From physicians with pearl-handled Colts to schoolteachers with purse-sized Smith & Wessons, carrying a firearm wasn’t always about bravado — sometimes it was just good sense. A gentleman’s derringer or a gentlelady’s Webley pocket model served as silent insurance in a loud world.

Orme Dumas
Your faithful chronicler of smoke and steel