The Outpost would never be the same.

Frank took it upon himself to enlighten the trapped soldiers of the Mojave Outpost, seeing that Ranger Jackson would allow no soul to leave, and Major Knight cared for his logbook only. He set up shop in the room adjoining the bar, which served as the barracks/courtroom, and now as Frank's counseling office. Mike helped spread to the men that Frank had helpful advice for all of their needs and troubles. Normally, after dinner, the men would all come to Frank's "office" (which consisted of three bunks creating three sides of a small cubicle-sized square, and Frank sitting behind a table) to chat and converse. The men would pile on the bunks as one would sit opposite Frank across the table. And, once the man asked his question, the whole congregation would try to add on their own bit, and then argue with each other over who's advice was better. Frank, however, always persuaded the crowd otherwise.

One night shortly following the groundbreaking trial, Kilborn decided to venture into Frank's humble abode, and the Outpost would never be the same.

Kilborn walked into the barracks hall shortly following dinner. It was normal for Kilborn to abandon his gate post; nobody bothered him about it, because Kilborn always abandoned his post. He said he didn't want to be the first the Legion killed when they rolled in.

Kilborn walked into the barracks hall shortly following dinner. Mike noticed him glance in the direction of Frank, and turned to Lee beside him, "Round up the usual spectators, Frank's got a customer," Lee grinned and ran off to tell the usual spectators.

Back in ye olden office, Frank had prepared for Kilborn's arrival. In fact, he had prepared himself for this moment since he began the advice sessions. Kilborn had a knack for making Frank angry; everytime Frank had something to say, complained, or even spoke, Kilborn chose to argue or say something cross. And this time, Frank knew it would get hairy.

By the time Kilborn sat, Frank had rested his clasped hands on the table, leaning forward. Mike, Lee, and the usual spectators arrived and took their positions on the bunks surrounding the killing floor.

"Sergeant Kilborn," started Frank, "what may I help you with?"

This time, Kilborn had a wild look in his eyes. Frank knew he was out to get him; maybe he had spoken with Major Knight. It seemed like Ranger Jackson was the only superior officer in the Outpost that didn't have it in for Frank. But, that could just be the only two superior to Frank were Major Knight and the Ranger. "Frank, I got a problem," began Kilborn flatly. In reality, Kilborn got many problems. He never had as many problems as he got. In elementary school in the NCR, Kilborn made good grades and learned a whole lot. He learned nearly everything he was taught; he never learned what they didn't. He lacked common sense. He was afraid of nearly everything that there was to be afraid, and he never knew when to be wrong, because his teachers had taught him to always be right, and Kilborn had enjoyed it. So, his teachers made him the problem for many students who didn't like being wrong. Kilborn could do just about anything, but he couldn't do anything because he always ended up scared. Essentially, Kilborn had been taught how to be scared, and that was his problem.

"What's your problem, friend-o?" asked Frank, smiling.

"My problem is the Legion," Kilborn announced calmly. The usual spectators ooooh-ed.

"Everyone's problem is the Legion," Frank replied.

Kilborn leaned forward. "No, my problem is the Legion."

"How'd you figure?"

"Because they're trying to kill me."

Frank laughed. "You think that's a problem? My own army is trying to kill me. Just ask Major Knight."

"Besides, the Legion is trying to kill everyone!" Lee added from above. The usual spectators roared as Kilborn squirmed uncomfortably.

"Why don't you worry about the Legion?" Kilborn asked.

"I've decided to live forever or die in the attempt," grinned Frank. He thought he had read that line in a book somewhere.

"Why are they trying to kill me?" asked Kilborn vainly.

"Everyone," corrected Lee. Kilborn glared.

"Maybe Caesar is power-hungry," Mike mused.

"Or he doesn't like Arizona anymore," another soldier added.

"I've heard he's bald," someone else joined in.

"Maybe Mr. House has a new hair product?" Mike wondered.

"Deedle-deedle-deedlydee," another soldier sang.

"Caesar is like any normal dictator. He lusts for power and land. And, yes, he is bald," Frank told Kilborn. "He isn't just trying to kill you. He is trying to utterly destroy the NCR. Like Major Knight wishes to utterly destroy me."

Kilborn didn't seem satisfied, but he didn't have the chance to retort, for Mike suddenly started and shouted, "I've lost my wallet!" and the usual spectators flew into a frenzy. Frank's humble abode became trashed as bunk beds bent and toppled under the weight of thrashing spectators. Tables were flipped in a fanatical struggle to find Mike's wallet. The barracks trashed in a matter of seconds, the usual spectators rushed out into the nuclear winter with Mike leading the charge. Kilborn shuffled lonely to the bar, leaving Frank against the wall behind a barricade of wrecked bunk beds and flipped tables.

Outside, the usual mob had kicked over sandbag emplacements and cut them open all the same, but still Mike's wallet was not to be found. A traveling merchant caravan watched the scene from beyond the fence. The usual mob rushed the group, tearing open the pack brahmin's packs and searching. Still, the wallet remained amiss.

Next came the administration building. Major Knight hardly looked up.

"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or..." his voice trailed off under the jeers of the usual mob, who jumped over the reception desk and tackled the man. His logbook thrown into the air, members of the mob opened the log and searched again, only to find weeks and weeks of Major Knight's logs.

Ranger Jackson ran into the lobby. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Mike stepped forward. "My wallet has been stolen!"

"What makes you think it was stolen?" asked Ranger Jackson.

"Well, I can't find it," answered Mike.

"It must be stolen," Ranger Jackson whispered, placing his hands on his hips. "Right then. We'll tear the place apart!" and he became a usual spectator as the usual mob stormed off down the hallway. They tore into the storage and ransacked the offices. Everything was flipped, and Major Knight ended up sitting on the roof above the door keeping the log, because he could not find peace within.

But, by the end of the day, the wallet had not been found, so Ranger Jackson called in the big guns.

"I always wanted to make something of myself. I got stripped of my name at an early age, so I always wanted to prove myself, you know?" Frank sucked on the cigar and stared across the table. The man sitting in the opposite chair appeared mighty uncomfortable, and Frank hadn't the slightest idea why. He wanted answers, anyway. So, Frank smoothed his fatigue pants out and crossed his legs.

The man finally lowered his eyebrow. "That is rather interesting, but I'd like to know more about your friend Mike and his stolen wallet."

"Mike's wallet is stolen?" asked Frank with his mouth agape.

The military investigator nodded solemnly. "Yes, it appears that way. See, Ranger Jackson called me down here to investigate. I'm a military investigator, from the 111th MP."

Frank leaned forward. "A military investigator?" the man nodded again. Frank hhhmphed and leaned back again.

"So, tell me something about yourself, First Lieutenant," the military investigator said cooly.

"You first," retorted Frank. "I gotta trust you first."

The military investigator sighed. "If I must...my name is Colin Marks. I was born and raised in Sac-Town before I signed up in the MP. Been there all my life. I'm thirty and nearing the rank of full blown Colonel. Enough?"

"Which way d'you vote in the last election?" asked Frank as he eyed Marks suspiciously.

"I voted for President Kimball, of course."

Frank scoffed. "Kimball is a loser. He's nothing but a war hero who's domestic policy is lacking and relies on police force to emphasis his power."

Marks fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Ah, don't be nervous, inspector. I won't kill you, though I'll probably cut your throat before morning."

Sitting back again, Frank puffed on the cigar. "I was born and brought up in Junktown, just seaward of the Sierra-Nevada. Born into the jerky business, I was. My dear old father had inherited the Robertson Jerky Stop from his father, and him from his. I was destined to own the Stop, but tragedy befell my family before I came of age," Frank stopped and wiped his forehead with his blue special forces beret. Marks sat glued to his seat.

"A man - a rival jerky vendor - had been found clubbed to death with a jerky presser in the alley behind the Stop. The local law chalked it up to my father hiring a hit for the dead man. When they went to arrest him, my dad jumped and ran up on the roofs of all the Junktown homes and businesses. Before he did, though, he left me some parting wisdom."

"What'd he tell you?" Marks asked.

"He said, 'Never let nobody tell you that you can't be nothin', cause then you'll just sell jerky. Don't be me, Frank, be better,' and then he flung himself on the roof. He's been on the lam ever since.

"The loss struck my family hard. My mother took it worse of us all. She tried to provide for me, but we didn't have much; the law confiscated most of it. I ended up on the streets. I ran with a few kids my age, and we were pretty good at stealing things. We stole to get by, and any excess we gave to those who needed it. I guess I saw something of redemption in that. But then our luck finally ran out," Frank stopped for another puff.

"We were going to steal from one of the rich guys in town. This guy had been making money by liquidating local businesses of their funds. I was seventeen or so, and my and my friends had set ourselves up as the top thieves in town. But the law caught wind, and we got caught. They gave me an ultimatum: jail, or the service. They'd set me and my friends up in special forces, since we were good at sneaking and that such. So that's how I ended up in the service, and I made good. Rank of Captain, until a few months ago."

"When you were demoted to First Lieutenant on charges of insubordination?"

"Yes sir. Colonel Hsu ordered me to throw some kids in the brig for stealing food from the mess, and I disobeyed and ignored him."

"Why?"

"Because those kids were giving that food to some homeless refugees on the Strip."

"I see..." Marks wrote some notes on a legal pad. "And Mike, was he a part of your childhood gang?"

Frank nodded. "Yes sir, Mike and I have been best friends since."

"So you didn't steal his wallet?"

"No sir. I would never take anything from him," and suddenly, Frank's eyes lit up with an idea, "but I may know who did."

Marks was all ears.

"See, it has come to my attention, in my time here, that Major Knight is a communist."

"Really?" Marks was fascinated.

"Indeed, inspector! He keeps the logbook, and I am positive he has communist ideals written down in them. He even asks the men to sign contracts restricting their ammunition rations so everyone is more equal!"

"Preposterous!"

"And I believe that he stole Mike's wallet, because he wants to redistribute Mike's money to everyone!"

"We must bring this man in!"

And bring him in they did. The warrant flew from Ranger Jackson's pen furiously, and the mob ransacked Major Knight's office and carried him to the small broom closet where Marks interrogated suspects. However, upon intense questioning, it was revealed that Major Knight could not have possibly stolen Mike's wallet during the Frank-Kilborn debate; he had been keeping the log at the time.

So, Mike's wallet remained lost.

The fourth night after the wallet had been reported MIA, Marks and Frank stood up on the roof of the barracks looking out over the Mojave. Both had already drank their share of alcohol, but the night called for extra celebration: Marks had received word that he was to return to McCarran to report a failed investigation.

"I heard the good news," Frank announced to his newfound comrade.

"That's right," replied Marks, smiling, "a failed investigation is going to go in a report that no one cares about. All in a day's work, really."

"And you're still going to report Major Knight to the Committee on Anti-Communist Activities?"

"Of course!" laughed Marks. "We can't have commies running in our military and keeping our logbooks."

"Right we can't," sighed Frank.

"Hoover Dam is getting close, Frank," Marks said, all of a sudden serious. "It isn't going to be good for you guys. We're going to get creamed."

"You figure?" Frank asked.

"I'd fly the coop if I were you. Get on to Vegas, and then maybe north to Seattle. I wouldn't head back to California. I hear there is a settlement just south of Vegas, called Goodsprings. Maybe you could lay low there until the NCR is at it with the Legion and don't care about deserters. Take Mike and that Lee fella with you."

"What about you?"

"I'm heading back to California for a desk job and hopefully a pension. If not, I'll be dead with the rest of these sorry suckers. There's really only two choices for you."

"To live free or die in the attempt," whispered Frank softly. The two fell silent and sipped at their drinks. After a while, the two shook hands and Marks turned to leave.

"You'll end up good, First Lieutenant," Marks called back as he walked down the ramp from the roof. "Your father would have been proud."

Frank didn't answer. His head swam with different ideas and thoughts: the Legion, deserting, fighting, living free or dying in the attempt.

Marks left the following morning. No one rose to see him off, but he signed out with Major Knight upon leaving.

The following day Frank met with Ranger Jackson, who informed Frank that he had been promoted to Captain again. In response, Frank asked permission to lead some of the men on patrols around the area, to secure the Outpost and to make sure the Legion weren't pushing from Nipton. Ranger Jackson said he would think on it.

"Another thing," Ranger Jackson called to Frank before leaving his office. Frank turned, and was surprised to see Ranger Jackson holding a wallet in front of him. It was Mike's.

"I guess you're wondering why I have this," Ranger Jackson said comically.

"It is quite puzzling, sir," Frank agreed.

"Well, see, I needed some pull with the brass at McCarran. Just kidding, that was an excuse. To be honest, Captain, I really just wanted some expendable inspector to try and brave the roads, so I could see if they were safe. Now that I know they are, we can think about patrols. Stealing Mike's wallet was just a way I could get a man down here. And it was quite fun, seeing everyone so up in arms about the whole deal."

"Yes," Frank agreed again, "it was." Frank began doubting. The coldness in Ranger Jackson's plan to sacrifice a seemingly-expendable man appalled him, though not as much as Major Knight's ruthlessness with the logbook. Frank decided to mention to Mike the thought of deserting. With a casual smile, he dismissed himself from Ranger Jackson's office.

Ranger Jackson smiled and flipped the wallet into his pocket, and jumped through his office. Mike found the wallet under his bunk, and all was well.

That is, until Ranger Jackson allowed Frank to lead patrols of the area, and Lee was killed.

And the Outpost would never be the same.