One last time.

Rex made a final check of his gun; everything seemed to be in place. This was going to be his toughest challenge yet. He was getting old now, slower. He downed his whiskey, refilling it from the bottle at his table. He looked over to his best friend, his only friend these days, Wyatt. He ran this saloon with an iron fist; no one started any trouble without risking their life. He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil from his pocket.

Dear Wyatt,

I write this knowing it may well be my last act; well not the last act, I hope to draw my gun at least, but my last act as a friend.

We’ve had a good thing going here, you set the rules and I enforce them. This time will be my last though; I’m old, I’m drunk and I’m tired of the dust. If I win I’m leaving on the first stage coach out of here. I’d leave some money to finally settle my bar tab but as you’ve never paid me any wages for my services, I’d say we were even. If I die then all my worldly goods are yours.

Your friend, Rex.

“It’s noon.” Wyatt called over.

Rex nodded, left the note under the bottle and checked his gun one last time.

“He didn’t make it.” Billy, one of his regulars, said. “His spot available?”

“Sure, Billy,” Wyatt replied. Feeling a little guilty, he’d known about Rex’s plan long before he read the scribbled note he’d been left. Maybe he shouldn’t have laced Rex’s whiskey, but no one skipped out on a bar tab, not even a friend.

( Word count. 280ish)