Contributor: E.S. Wynn

“He’s lying.” Old Mac pressed the dirty cards against the table, turned up one eye under the brim of his old, leather hat. “Lookit him sweat.”

The trio of scarred bandits turned toward the new kid, eyes vacant, touched by a rattler’s hunger for violence. Like a passing rainstorm, the saloon fell slowly silent, left only the five men hunched over their game of cards.

“That true, boy?” One of the bandits asked. The new kid swallowed, shook his head.

“Honest, I’d never lie to none of you.” He breathed. “By the devil himself, I swear! That mine’s got enough gold in it to buy a country, but also a whole army of evil spirits too fierce to be taken lightly.”

“Spirits.” One of the bandits spat. “Guess we’re gonna need that old wizard again, lives out in the desert.”

“Guess so.” Old Mac glanced at his cards, pressed them back against the table.

“I fold.”