Contributor: Binary Agent

Mac entered his dimly lit room in the back of the boarding house. He dropped Emery's limp body onto his cot, sending up clouds of dust that swirled in the slanting rays of the setting sun. He stalked across his room to a small table. He stooped down and grasped one of the creaky floorboards. He sat back on his heels and pulled. The warped board flexed upward, revealing a small tube under the floor. Mac reached for a small, tin box of bullets and wedged it under the floorboard. He reached down into the floor and pulled out the rolled up paper. He untied the twine around it and unrolled the paper across his tabletop.

“It's been a long time.” Mac said with a sigh. “A very long time.” He ran his leathery hands over the yellowing map. “The Green Mountain Mine.”

Contributor: SpaceBrown

Contributor: Binary Agent

Mac stood at the bar. The kid was slumped against it, his head resting on the wooden counter – surrounded by beer mugs and shot glasses. He had probably consumed more alcohol in the last five minutes than he had in his entire life. After the bandits had had their fun with him they'd left, presumably to fetch the wizard. Mac eyed the boy, eyes closed, drool leaking from his partly open mouth.

“So,” Mac started. “Who are you anyway?” The kid slowly opened one bleary eye, then the other. They finally focused on the cowboy.

“Uhh?” He moaned.

“Your name, boy. What's your name?” Mac repeated.

“Em'ry.” He drawled quietly.

“Emery?” Mac asked, leaning closer. The boy just shut his eyes again. “Alright Emery, where're you from? Chicago? Richmond? New York?” Emery tried to lift his head off the bar like it was a block of lead. He gave up with a groan.

“Sure, Ch'cago.” He whispered groggily.

“How'd you get into the mine?” Mac questioned. Emery wearily opened his eyes.

“...Mine?”

“Yes, the Green Mountain Mine! The mine in Solitude!” Mac shouted. “How'd you get in?” Emery winced and pressed his hand against his head.

“Gree...Moun'n...Sol'tude...Mine Door's Rocky. You can't get in.” Emery moaned while squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know, the entrance caved in years ago. How did you get in?”Mac pressed.

“Small hole...sagebrush...top...ropes.” Emery slowed to a stop. Mac examined the drunk boy. Maybe he wasn't lying. Only a few people knew about the other entrance to the mine. Explorers couldn't find it, not unless they fell into it – yet this kid had. Mac slapped his money on the bar and picked up Emery, slinging him over his shoulder.

“Let's get you back to my room 'till you sober up.”

Contributor: BrettB

“I'm afraid you're gonna be beat tonight boys.” Old Mac drawled as he shuffled the deck of work playing cards. “No one's better at five card draw than me.” The four bandits at his table looked at each other and smiled.

“Shut yer yap and deal the cards.” The first said.

“Yeah, we came to gamble, not to sit around and listen to you.” The third snapped. Mac peered at the four outlaws and a half smile broke across his wrinkled face. Nothing made him feel as good as cheating the cheaters.

“Alright, alright.” Mac chuckled. He set the stack of cards in front of the bandit on his right. “Cut, please.” The first bandit took the cards, shuffled them, and placed them back in front of Mac. He quickly dealt out a hand to each of them. “First to play is left of the dealer.” The men sat looking at their cards – trying to read the other's faces.

After the first round of betting they drew to try and improve their hands. The bet was already up to five small gold nuggets. Then the second and final round of betting started. Things went smoothly until one of the bandits announced,

“I'll see yer bet and raise it ten nuggets.” Mac eyed him suspiciously. The bandit leaned back in his chair and showed off his rotten teeth in a wicked grin. The next bandit announced,

“I fold.”

“I fold” The third bandit conceded tossing his hand onto the table. It was Mac's turn. Suddenly, a single gunshot shattered the relative silence of the saloon. The bandit directly across the table from Mac gasped once, tried to choke out a word, and toppled over in his chair. His body and chair clattered on the hard, wooden flooring. The three remaining bandits looked at Mac who casually holstered his pistol. They all jumped from their chairs – but before they could do anything the swinging doors in front smashed open with a loud bang. All heads in the casino – including the bandits and Mac – turned to see who had barged into the place.

A tall, thin man stood in the doorway; his face as pale as a sheet. He was drenched in sweat, and panting. He did manage to get out one word.

“Gold!”

The bandits raced over and caught him before he hit the floor, and dragged him back to their table.

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.”

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.”