PART 1: The Mustache That Nearly Ruined a Marriage

The loudest gunshot in the history of Dry Creek wasn’t fired from a pistol.

It came from Sheriff Walter Briggs, standing in a barber’s chair, staring at the left half of his missing mustache.

“MY WEDDING IS OFF!”

Outside, three horses startled. A woman dropped her groceries. And the town’s elderly preacher nearly fell off his porch.

It was Saturday morning, September 14, 1889, and Sheriff Briggs was supposed to marry the prettiest widow in Arizona Territory at precisely four o’clock.

Instead, he was threatening to arrest a twenty-two-year-old barber for destroying the most famous mustache west of the Mississippi.

“I can explain!” young Tommy Fletcher squeaked.

“Explain WHAT?” Walter thundered. “That you’ve murdered half my face?”

Tommy stood frozen, holding a straight razor in one trembling hand.

On the floor lay a magnificent pile of dark brown hair.

For twenty-three years, Walter Briggs had cultivated his enormous handlebar mustache with the dedication of a man raising prize-winning cattle.

He waxed it every morning. Combed it before church. And once refused to enter a burning barn because the flames might singe its perfectly curled ends.

The people of Dry Creek didn’t recognize their sheriff by his badge.

They recognized him by the mustache that arrived through every doorway five seconds before the rest of him.

Now half of it was gone.

And the remaining half stuck out from his face like a frightened squirrel’s tail.

“Nobody can know,” Walter whispered.

Tommy swallowed. “Sheriff, the wedding is in six hours.”

“Then we’ll postpone it six months!”

“You can’t postpone a wedding over a mustache.”

Walter slowly turned toward him.

“Son, I once chased three bank robbers through a thunderstorm with a bullet in my shoulder. But I will NOT stand before Eleanor Whitcomb looking like a broom somebody stepped on.”

Tommy made the terrible mistake of laughing.

Walter reached for his handcuffs.

Within twenty minutes, the entire town knew.

By noon, the general store had sold out of fake mustaches, the blacksmith had offered to forge a replacement from horsehair, and the mayor had suggested Walter simply turn his head sideways during the ceremony.

None of those suggestions improved the sheriff’s mood.

Then Eleanor Whitcomb arrived.

At forty-one, Eleanor was a beautiful, sharp-witted widow who owned the finest dressmaking shop in town. She had spent the last three years loving Walter Briggs despite his stubbornness, terrible dancing, and unfortunate habit of storing mustache wax in her kitchen.

She pushed open the barbershop door wearing a pale blue traveling dress.

“Walter, why has Reverend Miller informed me that my wedding has been canceled?”

Walter immediately turned his good side toward her.

“Eleanor, darling, there’s been an unfortunate development.”

“Are you injured?”

“Worse.”

“Has someone died?”

“Something has.”

She stepped around the chair.

Walter tried turning again.

She caught his chin.

And saw everything.

For three terrible seconds, she said nothing.

Then her lips began trembling.

Walter closed his eyes. He expected tears. Anger. Perhaps the immediate termination of their engagement.

Instead, Eleanor burst into laughter.

Not a polite little chuckle.

A helpless, breathless, knee-buckling laugh that made Tommy grab the counter for support.

“Oh, Walter!” she gasped. “You look like a handsome man fighting a dead prairie dog!”

“I knew it!” Walter groaned. “The wedding is ruined!”

But Eleanor suddenly stopped laughing.

Her expression changed.

She studied his face with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

Then she quietly said, “Tommy, would you please shave the other half?”

Walter nearly swallowed his own tongue.

“WHAT?”

Eleanor smiled.

“Walter, there’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for three years.”

“That you hate my mustache?”

“More than you could possibly imagine.”

Walter stared at her.

“But you said it made me look distinguished!”

“I said it made you look distinctive. There’s a difference.”

Tommy covered his mouth.

Eleanor stepped closer.

“Walter, every time you’ve kissed me, I’ve felt as though I was being attacked by a very affectionate porcupine.”

“You could’ve told me!”

“I tried! I bought you a new razor for Christmas. I complimented clean-shaven actors. I even told you that Reverend Miller looked ten years younger without his beard.”

Walter frowned.

“I thought you were flirting with Reverend Miller.”

“Walter!”

For the first time that morning, the sheriff fell completely silent.

Eleanor softened her voice.

“I don’t want to marry your mustache, darling. I want to marry the man underneath it.”

Walter looked at himself in the mirror.

Then he looked at Eleanor.

Slowly, he lowered himself into the barber’s chair.

“All right, Tommy. Finish the job.”

Tommy grinned and lifted the razor.

But just as the blade approached Walter’s upper lip, the barbershop door slammed open.

Mayor Chester Higgins stood in the doorway, red-faced and sweating.

“SHERIFF! DON’T YOU DARE SHAVE THAT MUSTACHE!”

Walter blinked.

“Why in heaven’s name not?”

The mayor held up an official-looking envelope sealed with red wax.

“Because the governor’s special representative is arriving on the noon train to present you with the Territorial Lawman’s Medal!”

“What does that have to do with my face?”

The mayor swallowed.

“The ceremony includes the unveiling of your official portrait. The artist spent six months painting that mustache. And the governor specifically requested that you appear exactly as depicted.”

Tommy stared at the razor in his hand.

Eleanor stared at Walter.

Walter stared at the remaining half of his mustache.

Then the mayor delivered the worst possible news.

“And Walter… the governor’s representative is bringing the newspaper photographers.”

At that exact moment, the noon train whistle echoed across Dry Creek.

And Sheriff Walter Briggs realized his missing mustache was about to become the biggest public embarrassment in Arizona Territory.