Preserving a beloved watering hole

GOODSPRINGS, NEV. — The sense of decorum at this town's 95-year-old watering hole is summed up by two signs that greet its patrons:

"Open Everyday Till The Drinking Stops."

"Poker Players and Loose Women Are Permitted In This Establishment."

If you're still unclear about the Pioneer Saloon's disposition, well, ask the regulars about Gary. The longtime regular died unexpectedly while drinking in the bar a few years ago; they say the bartender downed Gary's unfinished beer, smashed the glass and proclaimed: "To you!"

Noel Sheckells fell for the bar's legends and lightheartedness when he drank away a night here years ago. So when the saloon and surrounding acreage went up for sale, the Las Vegas entrepreneur in 2006 plunked down $1 million for the pressed-tin structure with scuffed floors, a bullet-riddled wall and a urinal installed in 1938.

The bar's staff is doggedly trying to preserve this Wild West relic (and de facto town square) in a sun-scorched community 25 miles southwest of Vegas. The Times described the town as close to extinction -- in the 1960s.

There's a church, an elementary school, some aging homes and little else in the 200-person blip, though a planned airport in nearby Ivanpah Valley is expected to flood the region with residents.

Sheckells notched a major victory last year when the state added the Pioneer Saloon to its Register of Historic Places; it's now being considered for the national inventory.

"He hasn't made a nickel off this place," says Dave Kent, a regular known as Friendly Dave, cradling a Budweiser bottle on a recent afternoon.

"It's a great tax write-off," says Sheckells, and both men chortle.

Sheckells, who's run low-voltage wiring and payday loan companies, owns the presumably more profitable Tequila Cantina in Las Vegas, where he DJs on weekends.

He bought the Pioneer Saloon from a family that had owned it for decades. The place had been allowed to deteriorate, the staff says, until part of the floor collapsed one day, dumping patrons into a mining shaft.

Sheckells has poured $600,000 into building a patio, clearing dead rats from the attic and reconstructing the porch after a dozing driver crashed into it. He expects to unload hundreds of thousands more for an outdoor stage.

Why? Sheckells shrugs. Bars like this, he says, so easily disappear in raze-and-rebuild Clark County. In a proud-papa voice, he rattles off some of its quirks: