3 years have passed. Matt's 16, and I'm 15.
That old "town" is far behind us now. As the days went by we started to muster more and more gecko pelts. More than we could carry or even use. Their value wasn't worth the weight of 100 stinky flaps of flesh. So we decided to donate them to the "community" for a better cause.
And a for a better cause they did get used. One day a caravan passed through the town. This never happened before, and I'm sure they were lost. Everyone, the whole 23 people in the town, came to see all the shiny things being peddled.
Suddenly it hit us like a miniature-nuke smashing directly into our skulls. We could trade all those damn hides! For all the skins and some other junk of no practical necessity, the town got building materials, like rusty metal, nails, warped wood, and even some paint for the fancy folk.
For the first time, the people could actually call this place a town. A real town! In thanks for our part, the people agreed unanimously to name the town "____." That's right, it's still the town with no name.
We may never see that town again. I don't know about Matt, but I miss it. Even Stumpy Joe, who always used to rip us off because he was the only gun merchant around. Where the hell did all that weaponry come from, anyway?