Contributor: BinaryAgent

Mac got up roughly from the table and walked over to the bar. He motioned to the barkeeper who slid a glass of whiskey to him. The younger man hurriedly followed Mac over to the bar. He stood there and watched as mac drained the alcohol in one long gurgling gulp. Mac put the empty glass back on the counter with a thud and passed the back of a leathery hand over his mustache. The bartender slid him another drink.

“You've got to believe me!” The younger man protested. Mac ignored him, and drained his second drink. He dropped his glass back on the bar and squinted at the scrawny kid. He couldn't have been much over 20 – though he looked 15. He was thin and gangly – probably hadn't been out in the west for too long. His clothes were fresh and new – definitely not from these parts. “I'm telling you there's gold! Can't you help me haul it out? I promise you can have an equal portion.” Mac looked him up and down again.

“And why is that you can't get it yourself?” Mac questioned.

“I told you, there's spirits in that mine! Ghosts too fearsome to desribe!”

“Lookit, the only spirits I care to tangle with are the ones in this Saloon – Bill here,” He said jerking his thumb at the bartender who slid another whiskey across the bar, “is the only one I know of who doesn't dump turpentine and gunpowder into his Forty-Rod. If there was gold or spirits in that mine – I'd know about it.” Mac drank his third whiskey in one long pull. “Say, what are you going to drink anyway?” He asked the kid.

“Drink?” He asked. “Uh, beer I guess.” Bill slid a beer across the bar. Mac caught it before it slid off the end and placed it in front of the new kid.

“Go ahead. Drink.” Mac urged. The kid reached out and grasped the glass handle. He lifted the beer to his lips and took a sip. He sputtered and put his drink back down.

“Ugh! It's warm!” He exclaimed. One of the bandits came up behind the kid.

“Course it's warm, Slicker. All the drinks out here is warm.”

“Don't you like our drinks, boy?” The second one asked.

“Drink.” The third ordered, pulling out a pearl-handled pistol and sticking the business end of it into the kid's gut. “It's for your own good.”