The Sun's burning rays flickered through the revolving, rusty vanes of Goodsprings' windmill, reflecting from the still water in troughs standing in bighorner's pens. The large beasts, given name by their twisted horns being bigger than their heads grazed on the brownish grass as the gusts of the wind tousled their long, brown fur. Three farmers were out tilling their fields, but the rest of the settlement was quiet and unmoving.
Goodsprings, one of the old world's towns in the former state of Nevada, was destroyed when most of human civilization wiped itself out in the Great War two hundred and four years ago. Not destroyed completely, of course. One out of five houses was actually still standing, although marred by time and helped to endure by their new owners. The rest was rubble, brought down by the terrible force of nuclear bombs, or collapsed in the fires and earthquakes of the aftermath. Charred husks of walls still protruded from the earth, with old household appliances, ovens, washing machines, and other now unrecognizable furniture caked in dirt in their shadows. These heaps of debris were now an everyday sight in any town, dried and compressed by two hundred years of nature's slowly recovering effects.
The Sun's rays were more dangerous, the very air was radioactive, and wildlife has mutated over the times, posing great threat to the few remaining humans of the world. Humans, who, of course, adapted to these conditions. The generations of people growing up in the irradiated shadows of their ancestors' past were evolving into something never seen before. The times when most all human children were born with disabilities, when every man was an old man in his fortieth year, when people lived from day to day with dirt on their faces were gone, and a new kind of civilization was born.
Using electronic relics of the past as well as inventing their new ideas, people were thriving once again. A certain standard of life was slowly coming back. Factions formed, towns were rebuilt to livable condition, and once again there were soldiers who got money for protecting others, farmers who sold their surplus food to merchants, scientists trying to improve the world, doctors aiding the sick. There was fresh water everywhere in former Nevada, and electricity too.
And, fitting a civilization where folks were connected with each other in different towns, there was a posting service too, the Mojave Express, with one courier currently being in Goodsprings. But this courier didn't come here to deliver something. This courier, named Vincent Connell had another mission now.
Trying to ignore that he was wearing a ridiculous blue jumpsuit, Vincent walked from Doc Mitchell's house where he was miraculously nursed back to health after being shot in the head, down to the town itself. The worn shoes he got from the doctor with the jumpsuit were audibly tapping on the patches of concrete remaining on the otherwise gravelly road. Nothing but that and the wind were making noises. Not seeing the farmers some houses further down he wouldn't have believed people actually lived here if he hadn't just come from a man saying so.
He was heading to the saloon with the flashing letters SALOON flickering in bright red and other colors under the roof. When he reached it, he saw another neon sign announcing that the place was always open. There was also a string of decorative light bulbs running under the roof of the porch. Quite excessive. The only thing that wasn't lit up like a New Vegas casino was the word PROSPECTOR in front of the SALOON. Guess that wasn't so important.
"Howdy," the old man sitting on one of the chairs on the porch said. Vincent didn't see him at first and was once again startled. This was the second time someone caught him by surprise, and he shook his still aching head in his own disapproval.
"Uh… Howdy," he said back, lifting one of his hands as a quick wave.
The man sitting there was probably past his seventieth birthday. His wrinkled, sun-starched face was half hidden under the shadow of a straw hat and behind a long, thick, white beard.
"You must be the fellow who got shot in the cemetery," he said in his slow manner.
"Yes," Vincent said curtly.
"Looking for something?" the old man asked, leaning back in the chair. Vincent looked at the saloon door, than back at the man.
"I was told I can find a Sunny Smiles here. She the town's expert on weapons and such."
"Sunny, of course," nodded the old man. "She's a nice girl."
"Yeah, well, I was told I should talk to her. So…"
"She's not in," the old man said, cutting him off with a gentle hand gesture. "She's going out of town to hunt down some geckos."
"Oh?"
"But you can still catch her, she's not in a hurry. Oh, there she is, right there!"
The man pointed behind Vincent. Turning around, he could see a girl with a dog on her heels walking down a road at the edge of town.
"Sunny!" the old man suddenly yelled out. The girl stopped and faced them. "This man wants to speak to you!"
"Oh, all right!" Sunny yelled back. Propping the rifle she was carrying on her shoulder she started walking towards the porch. Vincent, trying not to seem rude took a few steps too, until they met a few yards next to the saloon. As soon as Vincent got close the dog started growling at him. He stopped in his tracks, glaring at the animal from over his nose.
"Cheyenne, stay," the girl touched the dog's back. Looking up at Vincent, she said: "Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her to."
"And I don't mind dogs until they bite," said Vincent.
"Anyway, I'll be inside," said the old man and walked into the saloon.
"All right, Pete," Sunny smiled, then focused her attention on the courier. "So, what can I do for you?"
She was a pretty girl, although too young for Vincent's tastes. She couldn't be more than thirty. Her hair was a rich tone of brown, held back from her face which was unusually clean and flawless for a wastelander. Her brows arched over her dark brown eyes, and one hand was resting on her hip – her figure wasn't half bad, even under the worn leather armor she wore. In her other hand was a wooden varmint rifle, a weak gun, but it could do the job if used properly.
"I was told by Doc Mitchell that you might help me see if my aim is as good as I would like it to be," Vincent said.
"Oh. You're the one the Doc patched up after the… accident," Sunny said, then she shrugged. "Well, the accident being you being shot in the head and being buried."
"Something like that."
"So. You want me to take you to the shooting range, right? You have a gun?"
"Yeah, a pistol," Vincent said, pointing back at his backpack behind him.
"I guess you know how to use it, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah. It's just that the doc said I should check out if my aim is back to normal. Guess he didn't want me to shoot up the place unsupervised or somethin'."
The girl nodded.
"Sounds like you need all the help you can get after what they done to you. All right, come with me. I've set up some bottles to shoot at behind the saloon."
Vincent grunted and followed her.
Sure enough, at the back of the saloon was a fence, and on it were standing some empty, yellow-tinted Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles. There were some shards on the ground, and plenty of bullet holes in the brick wall, marking this as the town training ground. Opposite this was a farm building with a garden-sized cornfield, and the dog ran ahead, chasing something through it. By the time they got there too, Cheyenne had come back, sitting down at Sunny's side, drawing in the dirt with a wagging tail.
"Now, you see those sarsaparilla bottles on that fence there?"the girl asked, and Vincent of course did. "Take this and try to hit a couple of 'em. I have plenty of ammo for this thing, no need to waste yours."
Vincent shrugged and took Sunny's rifle. If he could shoot straight with this, he could shoot straight with his pistol too. And she was right: he only had only the one clip for his own gun. He had to do something about that if he wanted to journey across the desert. And he needed a good sharp machete too for close encounters. He had one, and a rifle too, but they were taken from him as they were belted to his clothes. He hoped that piece of shit old rifle would go off the other way around in one of those fuckers' faces.
He looked at the rifle, turning it sideways, then cocked it, lifted it in a tenth of a second, and without much aiming, he pointed it at a bottle, and fired.
He missed.
He shot off another round. Another miss, hitting the wall, chipping a tiny but of brick away.
"Dammit," he said, aimed down the sight and fired the rest of the rounds. All of them went into the wall, except one, which finally shot off the neck of the bottle and sent the rest toppling down to the ground.
"I can shoot better than this," said Vincent, scratching his right eyebrow, embarrassed.
"Well, if you don't mind me saying," said Sunny, "If you don't try to show off so much, and concentrate on actually hitting something instead, you might shoot better."
"I'm not…" tried Vincent but then he shut up. Maybe there was a bit of proving himself on the line here.
"Try crouching down and staying still, It'll help your aim. You know this, right?" she asked, handing him some more rounds.
"I do, I do," said Vincent, reloaded, lowered himself to one knee in anger and shot another one off to the wall, way above the targets. "Fuck!"
"Don't hurry so much!" said the girl and Vincent could hear her voice cracked from the laugh she was trying to conceal. But he had to put it out of his mind. To calm himself.
He steadied his breathing, looked down the sight, adjusted his knee a bit… BANG.
The rightmost bottle exploded from the middle and clinked on the ground in pieces.
"There we go. Nice shot," said Sunny.
He aimed a bit to the left, pulled the trigger, and another bottle went down.
"Okay. You got the hang of it."
A little bit more to the left, steady, shoot, and a third bottle was finished too. After that one, Vincent stood up.
"Told ya I'm not that bad."
"Didn't seem the bad type anyway," smiled Sunny, and added: "You're probably capable of fighting more than sarsaparilla bottles."
"You fight?" asked Vincent casually, handing back the varmint rifle to the girl. "You the town sheriff or something?"
"Nah," whisked Sunny then took the weapon. "I hunt geckos, mostly. The meat's pretty good and I can always find a buyer for the hides. I also help keep the town clear of radscorpions and coyotes. Not many people live in Goodsprings, so wildlife is always creeping in. But I'm not a sheriff."
She aimed down the sight and took down a bottle herself. BANG.
"So a hunter, huh."
"Yeah," she said, putting the rifle's strap around her shoulder and holstering it on her back. Then she glanced over the horizon behind her. Turning back to Vincent, she said: "Tell you what. I was going to chase some geckos away from our water supply. Darn critters are attracted to it. Why don't you come along? I can bring out a rifle for you."
Vincent frowned and scratched his sweaty eyebrow again.
"Uh, well, I think I'm gonna turn that offer down," he said. "I haven't eaten anything solid in days. I need a meal before I can go around shootin' animals."
Sunny pulled her mouth for a second, then shrugged.
"Suit yourself. Hoped this helped you some."
"Definitely. Thanks," said Vincent and took his hand to his head to lift his hat. He realized he hadn't had one, but he imitated the gesture nevertheless. "Uh, and take care of yourself out there."
"It's just geckos," said Sunny in a confident tone. "Besides, Cheyenne here's gonna keep me company."
She looked down at the dog and scratched its head. Cheyenne licked her fingers in loving response.
"Hey, and do me a favor," Sunny said, poking with her head at the direction of the saloon, "Trudy – she's the bartender up at the Prospector, kind of the town mom – she likes to meet newcomers."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She'd be cross with me if I didn't ask you to poke your head in and say hi. I know you're heading in anyway, just saying. Don't miss her if she isn't in when you enter."
"All right, I won't," said Vincent. "So, gecko steaks, right? Any of 'em served in the saloon?"
"You bet. Trudy's an excellent cook. You're gonna love it. Oh, and just out of curiosity, what's your name?"
He was surprised by the question, because he thought he already introduced himself. Turns out he forgot.
"I'm Vincent."
"All right, Vincent," Sunny nodded. "See you around."
He nodded at her, then they both turned around and went their way. Sunny to hunt down some geckos, and Vincent to have something to eat at the saloon, and to ask this Trudy if she knew anything about the guys he wanted to shoot in the head.
As he entered the door, he didn't see the bar at first, but he found it in a second glance. The saloon was divided into two rooms by a wall. Dusty old carpets hid the wooden floor at places. The ceiling was decorated with wooden paneling, as were the walls, with old, framed concert and show posters giving some faded color to the rooms. The lights were on to help the sunshine light the place, that alone being a bit insufficient through the dirt-caked windows. At least it was a bit cooler inside than out.
In the space in front of the entrance there was a pool table and a few dining tables with empty pitchers on them, surrounded by stools with scratched pillows. A jukebox was shining with blue and green neon lights, filling the saloon with the music of Marty Robbins. The old world's music.
Vincent turned away from this room and started for the bar, where he was surprised to hear sounds of an argument.
"I'm done being nice," said the sound of a man. Stepping closer, no longer obscured by the wall, Vincent saw it was a young black man in what seemed to be a black bulletproof vest which had the letters NCRCF on it. A prison guard?
"If you don't hand Ringo over soon, I'm going to get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?" the man said, lifting a finger to the middle-aged woman in front of him.
"We'll keep that in mind," she said sarcastically in her rather deep, husky voice. "Now, if you're not going to buy something, get out."
She was quite attractive. Black hair, not quite shoulder-length, tucked behind her ears, a beige sweater over a slightly lighter blouse, a white skirt with some kind of pattern…
"I'll be back," said the man and turned around to storm out. Vincent was in the way though. He didn't step aside.
"What do you want?" the young man said, stabbing in the air with his chin. He was half a head-length shorter than Vincent who drew himself up to enhance that. They stood close to each other and eyed each other in defiance.
Then finally, Vincent stood aside and the man stormed out, after taking a look back at the courier's strange jumpsuit. He left the door open.
Vincent closed the door and looked at the counter. The woman was already standing behind it, looking back at him.
"Well, you've been causing quite a stir," she said with a small smile which made Vincent sile too. "Glad I finally got to meet you. Welcome to the Prospector Saloon."
She motioned to the row of tables and booths in front of the counter. There were only two more people in the whole saloon: the old man from the porch, Pete, was sitting at a table, looking in front of himself, and there was a man with a moustache – a farmer, by the look of it– sitting at the counter on a stool nursing a bottle of beer.
Vincent went to the counter.
"You must be Trudy," she said to the woman. "I'm Vincent."
"Sunny told you about me, huh?" Trudy said with her smile widening for a second.
"Yeah," Vincent said. "She also told me about gecko steaks."
"Hungry, aren't you?" Trudy said with raised brows. "Well, understandable, after old Mitchell feeding you through a tube for days."
"Exactly. I have some caps, so… can I have a meal?"
"Of course," Trudy said with a friendly nod. "Unfortunately, we're out of gecko steaks. Sunny's just going out to hunts some. I have some iguana though, if that's fine."
"Anything would be fine at this point," Vincent said, sitting down at a stool in front of Trudy. "But I happen to like iguana. So yes, please."
Trudy smiled and turned around, grabbing a sooty-bottomed pan and a wooden spoon from the counter behind her. She held the pan over a plate and scooped a good portion of iguana bits onto it.
"You want something to drink with that?"
"Uh, yeah. Lots. Soda, like two bottles."
"Sarsaparilla good for you?"
"Excellent."
She set down the pan on the counter and grabbed three spoonfuls of corn from a bowl as a siding to the meat. She put the plate in front of Vincent.
"Thank you," he said and almost started eating with his hands, but Trudy quickly gave her a fork from a drawer. He stuck it into a bit of meat and put the first bite in a long time into his mouth. It was cold but well-spiced.
"Goddamn," he said. "It's delicious."
He shoveled some corn into his mouth as Trudy set a Sarsaparilla bottle down next to his plate and opened it with a hiss. She grabbed the bottle cap and dropped into a cash machine.
"Thank you," she said. Vincent looked up from his food.
"So what was that all about? That fella in the prison vest."
"Oh. That," Trudy said. "It looks like our little town got itself dragged into the middle of something we don't want anything to do with."
"Oh yeah?"
"About a week ago, this trader, Ringo, comes into town. Survivor of an attack, he says. Bad men after him, needs a place to hide," Trudy explained, resting her elbows on the counter. "We figured he was just in shock, so we gave him a place to lie low. We didn't actually expect anyone to come after him."
"But that jackass did?" asked Vincent and swallowed another bite.
"Yeah. Joe Cobb."
"Bad trouble," said Pete at his table absent-mindedly. Vincent glanced at him, then back on Trudy.
"He NCR?" he asked. Trudy chuckled.
"He's a convict," she said, surprising Vincent. "Just without the chains. Powder Gangers is what they call themselves. Plenty more like him out there."
"Powder gangers?"
"Chain gangs, really. The NCR brought them in from California to work on the rail lines. Problem is, it turns out that giving convicts a bunch of dynamite and blasting powder isn't the best idea."
"So they escaped prison?"
"Yeah. Was a big escape not too long ago. Some of 'em stuck together so they could make trouble. That's what we're dealing with now."
Vincent didn't say anything for a moment, just ate. He was half through with the meal- He grabbed the sarsaparilla bottle and drank more than half of it with one breath. It was unbelievably refreshing. Then he set the bottle down and looked at the pretty woman again.
"Sorry for asking, but why not just shoot the fella? Send a message for them Powder gangers?"
"You mean murder him?" Trudy asked, taken aback a bit, but fortunately not disgusted, just surprised. "That's not our way, even if Cobb is scum. He can bluster and threaten all he wants. He didn't actually hurt anyone."
"All bark and no bite, huh?"
"Well, he's dangerous, but he doesn't want to shoot up the town. They get plenty of food and stuff from here, so they would be in trouble if we shut down."
"You supply them?" blinked Vincent.
"Not me, only if some of 'em come into the saloon for a meal and don't go looking for trouble. Chet, though – he's the owner of the general store – he deals with them quite a bit."
"But they don't make trouble," Vincent said with a little skepticism in his voice.
"Not really," Trudy shrugged. "They're loud, sometimes drunk, talk crap. But like you said, all bark and no bite."
"So far," the farmer farther down the bar said suddenly. "Someday, they gonna come 'ere for Ringo. With guns."
Trudy sighed.
"You want another beer, Donny?"
Donny looked at the small amount of beer in his bottle and said: "Yeah."
Trudy went to the fridge to get a beer. Vincent and Donny met each other's eyes, then went back to their own business.
"Some of the others, like Sunny, will probably stand up for Ringo if he asks for help, which he hasn't," she said while he took a bottle from the fridge and closed it back. "Personally, I hope he sneaks out of town one night and takes the Powder Gangers with him. We're not soldiers. We can't defend ourselves if people come in here shooting up the town."
Vincent munched on an iguana bit, deep in thought.
"Where is this Ringo?"
Trudy gave the beer to the farmer, who tipped his hat.
"He's holed up at the abandoned gas station up the hill," she said.
"I see," the courier said, and he didn't say anything else while he finished his food. When he did, he drank the rest of the sarsaparilla, and was happy to see Trudy turning to the fridge again to give him another one.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and took a sip from the new bottle. Trudy took the plate and put it on a pile of dirty plates.
Vincent inhaled sharply, then let out a long sigh from his nose.
"Say," he said, "Do you happen to know anything about the people who shot me?"
Trudy thought about it for a minute while Vincent fingered the bottle.
"Not much, other than they're a bunch of freeloaders who expected a few rounds on the house. I was able to get them to pay up, though," she finally said. "Of course, one of the Great Khans did knock my radio to the floor "by accident," and it hasn't been working since."
Vincent looked at the broken radio next to the cash machine. It didn't seem that broken, but he didn't want to try to look at it and then simply say he can't do anything about it. He just nodded.
"They come in here after they buried me?" he asked.
"Don't know," Trudy said. "Didn't seem to be the case though, they weren't in a hurry. And the robot said it dug you out after they were gone, and it saw the shooting. So they probably caught you after leaving here. But I didn't hear the shot. I mean, a shot isn't a rare thing to hear, so I wouldn't have known."
Vincent nodded slowly through all this. Then he scratched his aching head.
"Anything about where they were headed? Did they say something?"
"They were having some kind of argument about it, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing them."
Vincent got a bit excited as he heard that.
"What was the argument abo…" he started, but the old man started speaking:
"The one in the fancy suit seemed to be calling the shots, that's as much as I know. Word of advice though."
Vincent turned around on the stool and looked at him.
"If you ever catch up with him, watch out," Pete said. "The man's got cold eyes like a snake. Can't be trusted, I'd say."
"You seen him too?"
"Yes. Saw the radio get knocked down too."
Vincent nodded and turned back to Trudy, as the old man was half occupied with whatever thoughts he had on his mind.
"So did they say where they were headed?" he asked her. Trudy nodded.
"Sounded like they came in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that's the case I can't say I blame them for not wanting to go back. That whole area is overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot 'em. Merchants avoid that whole stretch of I-15 like it's radioactive. Which it could be for all I know."
"I know the I-15," the courier said to push along the account.
"I didn't hear exactly, but the leader was talking about the Strip," Trudy continued. "Fella wants to get there and avoid the 15, he'd have to go east. Take Highway 93 up."
"Highway 93," Vincent looked down on the counter in front of him. So the son of a bitch was from New Vegas. A route was starting to materialize inside his head, as he knew the map of the Mojave well. The road to the 93 was actually a huge "U"-shaped detour to the south. If he wanted to cut ahead of them, he could cross the mountainous wasteland straight to the East, get to a town named Novac. The assholes, following the road would go south to Primm, then turn to Nipton after another few day's journey and start finally going back towards the north to reach Novac. He could be waiting for them there. He would be there days before they would arrive.
It was risky though. They could take detours, or even die on the road. Or decide in Primm that they'll turn back and risk the I-15 after all. Vincent wasn't in the best condition either to trek through the mountains. And Primm was where the Mojave Express outpost was. His boss, Johnson Nash was there. And Vincent wanted to ask Nash what the fuck was going on with that platinum chip if it was so important that a checkerd-suit hotshot would kill him for it.
So he would follow in his attacker's footsteps. That would be his best bet. He didn't have to hurry. If he caught up to the fucker one year from now, that was good enough.
Having decided in himself what to do, he raised his head. Trudy was cleaning a pitcher with a rag. The farmer, Donny, was scratching his nose vigorously. Pete sighed audibly behind him.
There was, of course, one more source of information about the thieves. The robot.
"What do you know about the robot who dug me up?" he asked. Trudy looked up from the pitcher, a bit startled. Then he shook her head.
"I know that… thing… as much as anyone else around here. It mostly keeps to itself, which is just fine by me."
Old Pete spoke up again:
"The machine? Harmless, no matter what Trudy says. She thinks it's hiding something, but I think it's just a broken down relic with no place to be."
"Hiding something?" Vincent asked. "Is it dangerous? What does it do around here? Guard the town?"
"No," Trudy replied. "Other than rolling around once in awhile, it doesn't do anything useful as far as I can tell. Goes away for a day sometimes, but it always comes back. I don't know why it took an interest in you, but I'd be careful. It's never halped anyone before."
"Really? Doesn't interact with people?"
"It acts friendly enough, but I don't trust that whole "cheerful cowboy" act. I find it all very creepy."
"Cowboy act?"
"It has this screen for a face, and there's a picture of a cowboy there, cartoony. Speaks like one too."
"I can understand why that would be creepy," Vincent admitted.
"I think it's amusing," Pete said.
"Yeah?" Vincent frowned, thinking to himself. "How long it's been here? The doc mentioned something about its owner."
"Yeah," Trudy said, coming back in front of Vincent. "Some people have said its owner lived here, but no one knows who it was. Man kept to himself his entire life. Only thing I know is that it was here when I took over the saloon seven years ago."
"It was here long before that too," said Pete. "I spoke to the man a few times, but he wasn't the friendliest fellow."
"I see," said Vincent, scratching his beard. "So, where is it? Can I talk to it?"
"As I saw, it's gone," Trudy said. "It might come back in a day or two."
"Yes, I've seen it roll away," Pete said. Whenever the old man spoke, Vincent had to turn back to him.
"Which way?"
"That way, down the road," Pete whisked in the direction of the saloon entrance, roughly to the south. Lucky Vincent was going just that way. His luck seemed to want to compensate after letting him get shot in the head and buried.
"Well, thank you all for the information," he said finally, drinking the last of his sarsaparilla. "I think I'm gonna head out. What do I owe for the meal, Miss Trudy?"
Trudy chuckled.
"I'm no Miss. Just Trudy. And seventeen caps."
Vincent set his light bag from his shoulder to his lap and rummaged around on its bottom, finding bottle caps one by one. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He put them all in front of Trudy, and tried to hide that he was startled to see he had only one cap left. The meal wasn't expensive – he was dirt poor. He took this platinum chip job because it paid a crapload of money.
"Thank you," he said.
"No, thank you," Trudy said, then she smiled. Vincent smiled back, then hung the bag back on his shoulder and stood up. He saw the sleeves of his jumpsuit and frowned.
"Hey, would you care to tell me if there was some place around where I can find some clothes maybe? I look ridiculous in this jumpsuit."
Trudy almost laughed.
"I don't know. I think it brings out your eyes."
"Very funny," Vincent said with a sarcastic smile. "So, are there any abandoned places around? I haven't got much money to buy clothes, to be honest."
"Plenty of places," Pete said. "Most of the valuable loot was already taken, but there might be clothes around."
"Where?" Vincent asked.
"Wherever. Schoolhouse, or the empty houses. But keep your gun handy if you go poking around. Critters move in to those places sometimes."
"Yeah," Trudy said. "Mantises, roaches, that kind of thing."
"Good to know," Vincent nodded. "All right, thanks."
He started for the door, but stopped at the divider wall and turned back to the bar.
"I might come back to say goodbye before I head out," he said to Trudy. She smiled.
"All right," the old man said, slightly surprised. Trudy's smile widened.
"Be careful out there," she said.
Vincent left the saloon with a smile on his face.
He went through three abandoned houses in Goodsprings.
One had no clothes whatsoever. All has been emptied there. Maybe no one ever lived there. The second house had plenty of women's clothing, but nothing male. The third house had men's clothes, but they were too small for Vincent. He tried a pair of pants but couldn't even pull it up on his thighs.
Disappointed, he pulled the blue jumpsuit back on, then strapped the Pip-Boy back to his hand and looked at it. There were three buttons under the screen. The one saying STATS under it had its little light on. The screen showed his body's condition, represented by a cartoonish man with an obnoxious grin.
He pushed the button saying DATA, and the light switched place. Now the screen showed radio stations. There was a radio in this thing?
Then he saw the words on the bottom of the screen. "Radio" had a frame around it, the rest of them didn't. He fiddled around with the rotatable switch and managed to move the frame from "Radio" to "World Map". And, sure enough, there was a map of the Mojave. What is more, an indicator was flashing on Goodsprings.
This device knew where he was.
He looked at the "Local Map" option. It was a map of Goodsprings, fairly accurate. Vincent blinked a few times.
"Hmm," he said to himself.
There was also a button on the Pip-Boy which turned a light on, like a flashlight. That was one more useful feature, although a bit awkward strapped to his hand. The "Notes" section he didn't care about, but apparently he could have taken notes there, as Mitchell said.
Lowering his hand with the device he left the house too look for another one where there was no farmer living. He walked to the house opposite this one, and tried the door. It was locked. Going around, he saw a tended garden at the backyard. Oops.
He went for another house, this time going around it to avoid misunderstandings. His eyes wandered up though, to the gas station up the hill, not far from the doc's house.
What the hell.
He looked back at the house, then up the hill again. He scratched his beard, debating.
After a while he groaned and stepped away from the house, starting for the hill. He walked past the windmill and the rusty wreck of what once was a blue pickup car and looked around there. No one was around. No one saw him. Good.
He hastened his steps and was a bit out of breath when he arrived. There was a broken round sign saying POSEIDON ENERGY on a pole next to the station which had all its windows boarded up. It could have been an outpost for someone in the past by the look of it, in this well-defendable position. There was an old supply truck on the right side at a roofed garage, and a Sunset Sarsaparilla vending machine near the entrance. The rest of the building was all boards and metal plates nailed to the original wall.
Taking a look at the vending machine, he put his hand on the doorknob and entered the gas station.
At first, he didn't see anything. The place was dark. But then a shadow stirred between two sets of white shelves. A man. He was sitting on the floor, looking at him surprised, and…
He had a gun!
Vincent jumped out to the open, hitting his shoulder on the door, and he was behind the wall when the bullet came through. BANG!
Clutching his shoulder, with his back to the outside wall, he cried out:
"Motherfucker!"
"That's close enough!" came the voice from inside. "Who are you, and what do you want with me?"
"Goddammit!" Vincent yelled. "I'm not an enemy! Put that gun away before I shoot you myself!"
"Who are you?"
"I'm just a courier! Mojave Express! I heard you're having trouble with the Powder Gangers, so, you know… I came to check out the place."
There was a silence. He swore under his breath. His heart was pounding against his chest. He sighed and looked up to the sky, cursing some more.
"Okay," came the answer finally from the inside. "Come in."
He turned from the wall and stepped inside for the second time. Ringo was waiting for him inside. He was a black-haired man in his thirties, wearing pretty much what everyone except Vincent was wearing around here. The pistol was still in his hand, held at Vincent at the man's hip.
"Goddamn, I told you to put the fucking gun away," Vincent said, flinching when he saw the weapon.
"I want to see you first. You could be lying."
"Fair enough," sighed the courier and spread his hands. Ringo eyed him with a mistrustful face.
"What is that, a prison jumpsuit?"
"It's a fucking Vault suit, I'll ditch it as soon as I can," Vincent said, irritated. "I was robbed, and now I can't find me some proper clothes. Look, I'm not a convict, I'm a courier."
"Mojave Express?"
"Yeah. Just down the road, in Primm. The supervisor's name is Johnson Nash. He's a black man…"
"All right, I think I know him, you're all right," Ringo said, lowering the gun.
"My name is Vincent. Are we all right then?"
The man nodded nervously.
"Yeah. My name is Ringo. Sorry about the gun. You just caught me off guard, that's all. I was looking around, and in you come in that blue suit. Thought you were a Powder Ganger."
"Yeah, I look like a convict in this rig."
Ringo let out a breathy chuckle.
"We got off to a bad start. What say we start over with a friendly game of Caravan? You know how to play?"
Vincent's brows went up.
"Sorry, buddy, but I'm not in the mood to play cards after getting shot at."
"Suit yourself," Ringo said. He stepped to the counter at the corner of the small room and put the gun down. He ran his hand through his combed-back hair.
"So," Vincent said. "I hear you've been having trouble with these convicts. Joe Cobb?"
"Yeah," Ringo sighed. " He doesn't look very tough though. I hear he's afraid I'll shoot him down from one of the windows when I see him, and he's right."
Like you did with me?, Vincent wanted to ask, but he didn't. He looked at the boarded-up windows and saw the gaps here and there. They weren't that visible from the outside. This gas station was definitely prepared for defense.
"I'll have a much bigger problem once his friends show up," Ringo said with his hands on his hips, looking around. "There's no way I could handle all of them in a gunfight."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to lay low as long as I can, assuming the town doesn't throw me to the wolves. I've got no chance against the gang on my own."
"Hey, listen," Vincent said calmly, trying not to sound intimidating. "You're causing this town a lot of trouble with you being here, you know?"
Ringo looked at him, his face suddenly growing resentful.
"I'm not saying it's your fault," Vincent added. "I'm just saying, that fella Cobb, he's threatening people down there. Says they gonna come in here and shoot the place up. Town don't wanna get mixed up in this shit, you understand me?"
"Yeah, but what should I do, kill myself? Or give myself up for the Powder Gangers s they can kill me?"
"No, no. But, you know, one man can slip away easily. You could leave. They'd think you were still holed up in here for days until they figured it out. You could be long gone till then."
"And watch my back for the rest of my life?"
Vincent sighed and shrugged.
"My caravan was on the return trip from California and heading back up to the company branch in New Vegas when we got jumped," Ringo said. "Not even a "drop your weapons and hands up" before the bullets started flying. We put up a good fight, but there was too many of them."
Vincent listened, nodding.
"I took a few of the bandits down before I ran, so I figure their friends are out for revenge. They're not going to stop until they have me. I don't know what to do."
"Sounds like you need some hired guns."
"Maybe. I don't know. I don't have that much money, I was robbed, remember? So, I'm, uh, staying in town for a bit."
Vincent looked at the desperate man. He was looking out on one of the gaps at the windows, the sunlight illuminating half of his face.
"So uh, you're a merchant."
"I'm a trader with the Crimson Caravan Company," Ringo replied.
A trader. Wasn't exactly a trained fighter. He did take down some of the bandits though, so he wasn't that much of a coward.
"How many of these jackasses are there?" Vincent asked. His voice was deep and calm now.
"Ten or so," Ringo said. "We took down five or six, I don't know."
"So if they'd come over here, and someone needed to held the fort, we'd be looking at what, eight, nine of these fuckers?"
"Why do you ask?" asked the trader, turning away from the window, looking directly into Vincent's eyes.
"You know. I'm a pretty good shot. Maybe I could help. Take some of them down till the rest run away. Shoot those in the back. Then you get the hell out of here while the rest are afraid back in their camp."
Ringo let out a breathy chuckle again.
"We'd just end up sharing the same grave if it's just the two of us."
"You said it yourself, they're ain't that tough."
"Cobb isn't. But who knows what the others were in prison for. Could be all killers. They can be excellent shots. Now, if some of the other people in town were also on board…"
"Whoa," Vincent said. "Don't get the townspeople involved, these are just farmers. They don't know how to shoot a gun."
"Sunny Smiles can. And she said there were others."
"Don't get them involved. They gonna get killed."
"Listen, I appreciate your help," Ringo said after a big swallow, "But I won't risk it. I'm not a mercenary, I'm not ready to die. The more we are, the more chance we have. We can organize a defense."
"So it's "we" now?" asked Vincent. "I didn't get on board with the whole town militia thing."
"That's right!" Ringo pointed a finger at him. "A militia! We could prepare the whole town!"
"Buddy. Calm down! We won't risk people's lives. It's you and me."
Ringo pressed his lips together. He looked like he was inches away from crying.
"Just ask them, all right? See if they're up for it. Look, I don't want to get anyone into danger, but if they volunteer, they know the stakes. Just see if there's anyone who would help."
"I don't know," Vincent pulled his mouth.
"Start with Sunny Smiles. She's been friendlier than most around here. Just… try. If no one wants to help, we'll think of something else."
Vincent looked in front of himself, thinking. He thought about his attackers, the pursuit. They could have well passed Primm now, maybe even Nipton.
Then, cursing at himself, he looked up and nodded.
"All right. I'll meet you back here when I have somethin'."
Doc Mitchell was sitting on the couch rereading a book for the third time when someone knocked on the door. He was confused for a bit, looking for his book-mark, then he found it under his thigh. The closed the book and set it down the table, then rubbed his bad leg as he limped to the door. He opened it to see who it was with a curious expression on his face.
It was Vincent.
"Doc. I need to talk to you. If it's no trouble."
"It ain't no trouble ever," Mitchell said with knitted brows. Vincent seemed anxious.
He led the courier back to the living room where they sat down at the same places when they did the psychology test.
"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. Vincent interlocked his fingers on his thighs. He was looking for words for a few seconds, then said:
"You know Ringo, the trader hiding from the Powder Gangers?"
"Yeah," the doc said with a sad sigh.
"He wants to organize some kind of defense here in town against the bandits. He thinks they're gonna attack Goodsprings. I tried convincing him to leave, but he won't do that. He feels cornered here, wants to fight."
Mitchell sighed again.
"Seems like wherever I go it's always the same. Folks just never leave each other alone."
"I tried telling him I'll help, but he's too scared to do it with only the two of us. And if he don't leave… The town's gonna get attacked either way. So, what I'm saying is, we either have to make Ringo leave, or fight with him. And I'm nobody here to decide what to do."
Mitchell listened, nodding now and then, with his arms folded. Then he stroked his moustache for a bit, contemplating what he heard.
"You got yourself into a middle of our town's troubles, my friend," he said finally. "I'm sorry."
"Well, it's gone down now, so no use cryin' about it."
"You're right about that."
"So? What do we do?"
Mitchell rubbed at his moustache some more.
"So I understand that if we make Ringo leave, he dies."
"He thinks so. And if he thinks so, he probably will too."
"I see. So we can't make him leave."
"Well," the courier shrugged. "He's a nice enough fella, but putting the whole town in danger for the sake of him…"
"We can't shoot him for being a coward," Mitchell said.
Vincent swallowed. He didn't say anything else on that subject. What he tried next is convincing himself.
"If we fight now," he said, "the Powder Gangers will be gone. They won't harass you folks again."
"True."
"Problem is, it's dangerous. I know I can handle myself in a fight, but what about folks here? We're gonna have to train them from scratch if we do this."
"How much time do you think we have?" asked the doc.
"I have no idea. That Cobb jackass seemed pretty angry."
Mitchell loosened the neckerchief around his neck.
"I planned on setting off today, to go after the bastards who shot me," Vincent said. "But I'd be the biggest son of a bitch if I left y'all now, when I might be your best bet to survive this."
"Quite heroic of you, that."
"Bullshit. Naw. Anyone with a conscience would do it."
"If you want to say it that way, I'm not gonna argue," the doc lifted his hands.
"So… What to do? Fight?"
"Seems like there's really no other choice," the doc said, looking away. "Look. I'm not much good in a fight, with my bum leg. And my supplies are scarce. But I'll give you what I can spare. That's what I can offer. As for the others…"
"Sunny might be interested."
"That she would definitely be. That girl's got fire in her. Hope it won't burn her bad."
"And I heard she can rouse up some people who know their guns."
"There are a few folks, yes,' Mitchell said. "But not a whole lot."
"If we convince these folks, they can convince others to join. We'll train them to shoot, tell them where to stand, where too point the gun. We'll keep everyone out of harm's way. The only one in harm's way's gonna be Cobb and his friends."
"I wish it'd go down that easily, my friend."
"It's tactics, doc," Vincent said. "We see where they're coming from, we know the town's layout. They don't stand a chance if they're not careful. And what I've seen of Cobb, they're bold and stupid. All bark and no bite."
Mitchell smiled.
"I think you're starting to believe your own bullshit."
Vincent chuckled.
"I've been shot in the head once, and my hands were tied. I lived. This time, I'm gonna be fully prepared with a gun in my hand."
"Sound like they don't stand a chance."
"They really don't, doc. They really don't."
