Jack Quate walked into the Lucky Lady and sidled up to the bar. Bart Blackey was at the other end.
“Barkeep…whiskey, two fingers.”
“I thought you was a teetotaler, Quate. Smiley–put it on my tab.”
“Much obliged, Blackey. I can buy my own whiskey.”
“I were just tryin’ to be neighborly, half-breed.”
“Now there you go and ruin it.” Quate could see Blackey’s flunky in the bar mirror–six-shooter drawn.
His gun drawn–Quate spun round–shot him in the chest; turned and shot Blackey between the eyes before he could shoot.
“Go’n get the Sheriff, Smiley…tell him I got the last one.”
It’s a tradition that dates back to the Old West. Mirrors were put up behind the bar, so that anyone enjoying a quiet drink would know if and when someone was approaching from behind them. It basically let you see if you were about to be shot in the back of the head (strangequestions.com).
Friday Fictioneers at Addicted to Purple
Photo Prompt: Copyright Janet Webb
Saloon photo credit: legendsofamerica.com
Word Count: 100
Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers