The town of Goodsprings sat on top of a small hill, which led to another small hill, which led down from the hill again, and then a huge mountain range. Named after the aquifer that supplied the town - and the majority of the Mojave - with clean, pure water, Goodsprings served as a major trading stop on Interstate 15 to NCR patrols coming to and fro, and the Crimson Caravan Company. A large percentage of the town's business relied on the water and the trade it brought. The other percentage relied on the Tortilla Shoot.
"The Tortilla Shoot essentially exists as an annual event for the middle-class to hold festival for absolutely no reason at all," explained Gunslinger Greg to Daniel as the Rambunctious Bunch pulled their bobsled into town. "Games are held, people got drunk, and the main event is the Tortilla Shoot."
"What is the Tortilla Shoot?" asked Daniel.
"I just told you," stated Greg.
Daniel fidgeted in his clothing. A few days prior, while camping on the wastes, Killer Kevin went gecko hunting, and crafted a fine set of leather armor for Daniel to wear in place of his suit. Feeling too heavy, he had forsaken the shoulder pads and thick leather for a separate set of buckskin clothing Kevin had tanned from the skin of a wasteland caribou.
"No, you told me what the Tortilla Shoot is, not the...Tortilla Shoot," stammered Daniel.
Greg nodded, understanding. "The Tortilla Shoot is the name of the festival. And the main event of the Tortilla Shoot is the Tortilla Shoot, which the Tortilla Shoot gets its name from. The event Tortilla Shoot is the reason for or bobsled here. See, in the Tortilla Shoot, teams ride their bobsled down the hill from the cemetery heading north. Then, they must guide their sled to a small hut which contains tortillas. The team must fill their sled with such tortillas, and then push their sled back to the cemetery."
"Seems simple enough," observed Daniel.
"But there's a catch," interjected Evan.
"A catch?" asked Daniel, hopelessly confused.
"A catch," answered Greg. "See, the track from the cemetery to the hut is infested with cazadores and radscorpions. And your occasional Powder Ganger."
Daniel paled. Cazadores and radscorpions were creatures synonymous with death in the wasteland. Cazadores, insects with huge wings and stingers to match, and the radscorpion with their long tails and radiation spreading venom. Only deathclaws could dominate said creatures. The Powder Gangers, on the other hand, were ex-convicts from the NCR Correctional Facility just to the east of Goodsprings. Recently, they had escaped after raiding the prison armory and stealing tons of dynamite. Currently, the NCR had put forth no effort in controlling the gang, and Powder Gangers appeared everywhere on the Interstate.
"That's some catch," muttered Daniel.
"It's the best there is," agreed Greg.
"Haven't I heard that somewhere?" asked Roger. No one replied, because a crowd had formed to receive the team. The townsfolk milled about on the main street. To the right, a saloon and general store stood with people on the boardwalk, watching the newcomers.
Booths with mini-games and stalls with merchants lined the main street. Straight ahead and up a small rise lay a large Colonial house, the town doctor's. The street T'd from there, running north and south. To the south, the street ran down a hill and passed groupings of old, dilapidated houses and past a school house before running into the base of another mountain. Northward lay yet another hill and a gas station, and finally, the wastes. All around, Daniel saw people of all ages and sizes. They walked with a lazy atmosphere and countenance, talking and interacting with the activities of the day.
These people neglected their misfortunes - or their fortunes - to join together in a single day and revel in the positivity of life. Daniel marveled at them; how could so many people of suffering act in such a way?
But Greg spoke again: "Look alive, boys," he turned and gave each a glance, and back ahead. Walking down main street toward them was a man in black overalls complete with a black shirt and red bandana. His age showed in his short white hair and bushy white mustache. The slim man walked with a gait of authority, yet the townsfolk and others regarded him with friendliness.
"Howdy, partners, how're y'all?" he asked with a low, semi-raspy voice.
"Doin' well, Doc Mitchell," Greg tapped the brim of his top hat.
"Good to hear. You boys lookin' to pull out a win this year?" The good doctor asked. Seeing each man's nod, Daniel realized they had never won the Tortilla Shoot. But Doc Mitchell was speaking again. "Tough competition this year. The Junktown Jerky Vendors are talkin' tough, 'specially after you boys beat them in the stickball champ this year," he eyed Daniel. "Who's the new fella?"
Greg patted Daniel on the back. "This hear is Danny Fuller, our new member. Willy got hitched, so we recruited this cat from Vegas a few weeks back. He's a former sheriff from Caliente," he informed.
Doc Mitchell nodded, sizing Daniel up. "Good to hear. Alright, boys, you know the drill. Check in your weapons to Chet, 'cept for you Kevin. Tune up your sled, we'll draw for the starting positions come high noon."
The doctor left the five on main street, and Greg led the quintet up onto the boardwalk. A man stepped out of the general store; a short man wearing a plaid shirt who looked about with equal curiosity and nervousness. He scratched at his beard when he noticed the Bunch.
"Need to check in weapons?" he asked.
"That's right, Chet. Same as always," Greg answered.
The shopkeeper, Chet, led them into the store. Kevin remained on the boardwalk with the bobsled, his hunting rifle slung over his shoulder as he surveyed the crowd. Chet walked to the back of the store, sparsely filled with customers, and pulled a cloth sack from a filing cabinet. The Bunch began placing their weapons inside: both of Greg's pistols, Roger's pump shotgun barely fit, Evan's carbine, and Daniel's Sig and lever-action shotgun. The sack looked heavy, and Chet couldn't fit it back into the cabinet, so he placed it in a small back room.
"That'll do, gents. Good luck," he called as they left to rejoin Kevin.
"We'll meet up here at the call to the starting line," Greg told them. "Now go and enjoy yourselves."
The Bunch dispersed and went their separate ways around the town. Hundreds of people filled the main street, walking from stall to stall and into the saloon. Men, women, and children alike stood on the boardwalk and watched the masses. Daniel stopped and watched as Rambling Roger began playing horseshoes with a short man with a bowler hat. Evan and Kevin were having a conversation about the smoked meats. Greg had distanced himself from the crowd; he spoke to Doc Mitchell near the doctor's front gate. Daniel leaned on a post and watched the scene unfold before him.
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he noticed an NCR soldier walking up the road. He wore a blue beret and the bandoleer of an officer. The man stood above six feet, an assault rifle across his shoulder and a neon Nuke-Cola sign on his back. Daniel eyed the soldier for a few moments, and wondered if the NCR was trying to start a Mojave-wide curfew before Hoover Dam became a battleground once again.
However, he tore his eyes away when a man in a white shirt stumbled over his extended legs and almost fell. Daniel turned and caught him, and saw that this man wore a red beret, signifying First Recon. A smaller man stood next to this one, wearing a worn parka and faded jeans.
"Sorry, excuse me," Daniel said. The man in the beret grunted thanks, and the duo continued down the boardwalk away from the saloon. Feeling a bit agitated, Daniel turned and walked into the bar.
Boone turned to Hank at the end of the boardwalk, Hank's boots kicking up dust. "Some people are too lazy to move out of the way these days," he reflected, folding his arms and scowling.
"It's not like they have much to do; the world ended two hundred years ago," observed Hank in sardonic reply. Boone's scowl deepened, and it seemed to Hank his scowl was infinite.
Boone stepped over to Hank and crossed his arms. He had little patience for inept fools who failed to notice the people around him. When Carla had still been here, he had been the same; only focusing on his own wishes, and not realizing the true value that lay in the bed beside him. Carla loved Boone unconditionally, and he had too, except he never showed it to her. And now? Now she was gone, whisked away to wherever the Legion had taken her. He would never see his wife again, and it was his fault. Now all that mattered to the hollow shell named Craig Boone was killing legionaries. And maybe...maybe someday...
No, he decided on the boardwalk in Goodsprings. I'll never see her again.
Hank watched him. In their trek together, he discovered that Boone's gift lay strapped across his back: the rifle he carried. Boone could shoot a bloatfly at nearly one mile. Normally, Hank would never see the things Boone shot at until they were already dead. The red beret and his rifle were the only items he possessed he cared about. Boone lived to exact revenge that would never be exacted, because he could never retrieve what had been taken from him. Watching Boone for a few weeks now, Hank began to understand that he was capable of caring and loving - had, once upon a time - but now would never allow himself to feel that way again.
In a way, Boone had shut that entire part of himself away into the recess of his mind, and it would never come out.
However, Hank knew that he had just scratched the surface of the enigma of Craig Boone.
Finally Hank broke the silence, "This whole spectacle is quite amusing."
"I hate it. Crowds are annoying and unpredictable," Boone never moved. He kept his arms crossed and watched the crowd fluctuate around town behind his sunglasses and scowl.
Hank let that one slide. Suddenly, Boone uncrossed his arms and stood straight, trying to stretch over the crowd to look at something. "Heads up," he announced. "NCR coming up the street."
Looking with a sickening feeling in his stomach, Hank noticed the tall, lean man in the blue beret walk up the street. He paused in front of a knife stall. The man, whom Boone noticed held the rank of captain, spoke with the vendor before buying a hunting knife. He wrapped the knife in its corresponding holster, and strapped it to his hip. The assault rifle slung around his shoulder swung easily as he moved. The corners of Boone's mouth tilted upwards slightly.
On the other hand, Hank fought the nervousness inside of him away as he watched the soldier strap the knife to himself. There was absolutely no way the NCR could have learned of his radical desertion from the ranks of Caesar's Legion, although if they had, they would almost certainly be pursuing him. And the blue beret signified NCR Special Forces - could they know? Could Vulpes Inculta have leaked word through one of his many agents?
No, Frank had no idea that Hank was really the ex-Explorer of the entirety of Caesar's Legion. In fact, he had just deserted his post at the Mojave Outpost. This was his second day on the lam, and he was thoroughly enjoying every moment of it. No strict curfew, no limit on alcohol, and especially, no Major Knight. He had started this glorious adventure with Mike, but yesterday he had caught cold feet and decided to head for Hoover Dam, the guilt being too strong. Frank had tried to persuade him otherwise - Mike never made the best decisions - but his friend was concrete. He wanted to fight.
And Hoover Dam was about to erupt. The Second Battle was within days.
Now Frank walked with the crowd in Goodsprings, looking at stalls and enjoying the light atmosphere. He looked towards the saloon when he heard the sweet voice of Frank Sinatra singing "Blue Moon," and decided to join the bartenders and their customers. As he moved toward the outer fringes of the crowd, his gaze strayed to the general store, and he stopped cold.
There, standing just on the boardwalk under the shadow of the overhang, stood a man with a First Recon beret. Frank's heart dropped into his stomach as he realized that his game was up. Thinking of the internal working of the NCR military, Frank figured they would send a First Recon man to find a runaway. First Recon tended to act more conservative than Rangers, while thinking more rationally than your average trooper. And when the runaway was a captain in Special Forces, they could disappear within days if they weren't tracked down.
Tentatively, Frank raised a hand to his beret as the two locked eyes. First Recon did the same.
In the Prospector's Saloon, Daniel sipped his whiskey and rye slowly as he listened to the local gossip. It seemed that a courier from the Mojave Express had been shot in the head in the town cemetery the night before. A Securitron (HD television screen with wheels and arms) had found him and brought him to Doc Mitchell. The man would make a full recovery, but would probably not be able to do hard labor for awhile.
The owner of the Prospector, Trudy, walked over to where Daniel was sitting and started wiping the bar. She smiled at him.
"Hey, Trudy," a gruff old man with a long white beard said down the bar. Trudy looked over. "Joe Cobb just rolled into town. He's alone, but I'd be on the lookout."
"Thanks, Pete," replied Trudy, rolling her eyes.
Daniel leaned forward and propped his elbows on the bar. "Joe Cobb? What's his story?"
"You heard of the Powder Gangers?" she asked. At seeing his head shake, she continued, "They're the local 'gang,' if you could even call them that. They busted out of the NCRCF a few weeks ago, raided the armory and stole a ton of dynamite and pretty much anything that explodes. They're holed up in a vault a few miles north of here."
"So where does Cobb fit into all of this?"
"Joe Cobb was the leader of a group that set up in a little way-station just outside town. Well, this week a caravan came through. Cobb and his men attacked, killed all except for the leader, Ringo, who killed a few Powder Gangers before heading here. He's hiding out in the old gas station up on the hill. Joe Cobb came into town a few days after he arrived and demanded we hand him over. Naturally, we didn't."
"Is he going to leave - Ringo?"
"Guess not, unless the Crimson Caravan sends some escorts to take him home. As for the town? We like to let problems solve themselves. Most of us don't take to solving people's problems. There are some people - like Sunny Smiles - who'll stick up for Ringo. But she won't be enough against Cobb and his boys."
Daniel took another sip of his drink, but before he could reply, a trumpet sounded the call to post. Silence filled the bar. Movement: chairs scraping on wood, drinks hitting tables, men heading out to the back. Daniel followed, and joined the Rambunctious Bunch outside as they climbed the hill.
On the crest, next to the lined bobsleds, Doc Mitchell stood in his black garb. On the ground next to him, a man sat with a didgeridoo across his lap, and a large bandage covering his forehead. Daniel guessed this was the Courier.
"At the sound of the didgeridoo," whispered Greg, "we run. Godspeed, gentlemen."
"Hello, all! Welcome to the annual Tortilla Shoot! You all know the rules. I want to see a fair game, and may the best team win!"
The groups lined up at their bobsleds. Greg sat in the front, Daniel stood to his left, ready to push and jump in the second seat. Roger stood on the right, and Evan brought up the rear. Kevin, his rifle at the ready, lay in a prone position on the ground. Looking around, Daniel noticed the First Recon man standing next to his parka-clad companion, and the NCR Spec Ops man stood a few yards behind them.
All of a sudden, a gunshot report filled the air, and the Courier began playing his didgeridoo. The low rumble echoed across the still atmosphere, and then the Tortilla Shoot began.
Greg flung his hands forward, and lowered some goggles he had produced from his duster pocket. "Go, go, go!" he shouted. The three pushers began to run as they held onto the handles. As they approached the drop down the hill, Daniel jumped in as they had practiced for the weeks before, followed by Roger and Evan. The four huddled with their heads low down.
The bobsled picked up speed as it fell down over the crest and into the wasteland beyond Goodsprings. Daniel chanced a glance above Greg, and saw a valley. A small shed sat in the center. And all along their path flew the green cazadores with their red wings. Green hulking masses that Daniel could only guess were radscorpions began moving toward the path. The bobsled hurtled down the hill.
In the front Greg handled the controls, weaving them in and out of the paths of cactus and creature alike. From behind them, on the hill, Kevin shot periodically - only when it seemed a radscorpion or cazadore would make the kill.
After what only seemed to be a few seconds, the Bunch reached the shed. Greg pulled his two brakes, and the bobsled dusted to a halt. For a moment, all was still. When the dust cleared, the Bunch saw more sleds screaming towards them.
"Out, into the shed!" Greg ordered. "Evan, you turn this thing around!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" Evan shouted back.
The four dismounted. Greg strolled towards the shed and kicked the door in. The smell of baked bread wafted outside. As Evan pulled and pushed with the sled, Greg, Roger, and Daniel rushed into the tortilla shed. There, piled to the ceiling, were tortillas by the hundreds.
"Grab some and go!" came the command. Outside, the buzz of cazadores grew louder, and the sliding halt of sleds sounded.
The trio began stuffing everywhere with the floppy tortillas. Greg stuff every pocket of his duster, and gathered an arm full as he ran back to the sled. Roger followed suit. Evan rushed in from turning the sled around and gathered some of his own up. Daniel piled some into his grip and carried them out as his compadres ran back in for one final load.
Other groups had begun to run towards the shed, and as Daniel carried his second load he collided with a burly man running in. Daniel's tortillas flew everywhere, and he fell and rolled over. Quickly dusting himself off, he realized that the Bunch had already manned the handles on their sled. As Daniel retrieved his tortillas, the buzz of a cazadore filled his ears, and he turned to his left and came face to face with the gnarly creature. It pulled its stinger back, preparing to strike.
A booming report sounded from the hill, and the cazadore dropped, its lower midsection bursting into an irradiated green substance. Daniel, frozen in his tracks, never saw the radscorpion clip his legs out from beneath him.
Falling once again, Daniel realized his life had come to an end. Not wanting to stand up again, Daniel resigned himself to die.
However, his resignation was cut short by three close, thunderous shots. The radscorpion keeled over, dead. Looking from the gunshots' source, Daniel saw a mysterious, trench coat-and-fedora-clad man hidden in the depths of the remaining tortilla pile, smoking .44 revolver sticking out. The participating teams didn't seem to notice him.
But Daniel didn't have time to register this recurring stranger, because Evan and Roger ran over to him and threw their arms around him. On his feet one more, Daniel finally placed his second load into the bobsled, and the Bunch began pushing the sled up the hill.
It took them no time at all, and despite their difficulties, the Bunch reached the crest and crowd first. Doc Mitchell was there, along with the didgeridoo-playing Courier and the Securitron who had saved him, the face of which was a friendly cowboy.
Soon, the remaining teams arrived. Surprisingly, only one man had fallen victim to the sting of a cazadore. His group carried him up the hill on their sled, and a group of townsfolk carried him to the doctor's house.
The Rambunctious Bunch stood gathered around their bobsled, each wiping the sweat away. Greg smiled, and he knew that their run had been the best ever. He knew they had won.
Sure enough, Doc Mitchell counted out two hundred and thirty-nine tortillas. The team with the second-place finish had only two hundred. The Bunch shared a celebretory cheer, and Doc Mitchell presented them the Golden Tortilla Trophy. The crowd cheered as the Bunch lifted the trophy. Daniel felt proud, and he felt the eyes of three separate men on him.
Suddenly, the crowd grew quiet. Trudy stood near the front, next to a red-haired woman in leather armor. The two looked around, and turned to see a tall black man in riot armor walking through the crowd. Daniel knew at once this was Joe Cobb.
Cobb stopped in front of Trudy. The crowd listened intently.
"Hand over Ringo, lady. We mean to see him dead for killing my men," he growled.
Trudy hesitated, and the woman next to her stepped in. "Get lost," she told him.
The Powder Ganger nearly spat. "Give me Ringo, or I'll burn this town to the ground." A hushed murmur ran through the crowd. Daniel looked around, and saw that the Bunch had stiffened, grasping for weapons that weren't there. Kevin held his rifle in both hands, ready to bring it up at a moment's notice.
Before anyone could reply, a pistol slide clicked, and Cobb turned to see Hank stepping forward, his 9mm drawn and ready. In an instant, Cobb had drawn his own weapon, a .357 magnum revolver.
"I think you should go back to whatever pit you crawled from, sir," Hank said between clenched teeth. His finger gripped the trigger hard.
"What'd you say to me?" Cobb asked angrily. He flipped the hammer back on his revolver.
Another shucking sound, and Boone had his rifle raised. Cobb nervously darted his eyes between the two, and began looking around at the crowd, searching for a face.
He found it when a man in a cowboy hat and white NCRCF shirt stepped forward with a single-round shotgun. Cobb smiled when his friend pointed it at Boone.
Frank stepped back a step and pulled his assault rifle around, slamming the lock home and flipping the safety off.
"Why don't we all just put our weapons down before we do something we regret?" he asked in a calm voice. Daniel remained by the Bunch, but fidgeted as Kevin brought his rifle up to cover another Powder Ganger who had stepped from the crowd and placed a pistol on Hank's temple.
From where he stood, Daniel had (Boone and Hank) on his right, pointing across to Joe Cobb in the center of his vision. (Frank) stood to his left, holding his assault rifle back across to the Powder Ganger behind (Boone and Hank). Kevin stood a little behind Daniel, pointing across to (Hank).
Another Powder Ganger stepped behind Frank, and placed a double-barreled shotgun on his head. Daniel sighed.
Taking quick steps, he walked the five feet to his left. The Powder Ganger saw him coming and fidgeted, murmuring, "Watch it," but Daniel paid him no heed. Reaching (Frank), he grabbed the new hunting knife from its holster and took two more steps, holding it at the Powder Ganger's throat.
"Take it easy," remarked Daniel to the Ganger, who began to squirm. "This blade is new, and I'm guessing it's pretty sharp."
"It is," Frank said over his shoulder. "I cut myself on it when I purchased it."
"Cobb, it's your move," Daniel called. Cobb, who had appeared smug when the standoff first occured, looked uneasy now. "Someone shoots, everyone dies 'cept for me. You included. Sure you want to risk that now? For a caravan leader?"
At first, it seemed nobody would move. The crowd watched with baited breath as the scene unfolded before them. Joe Cobb hesitated, and finally withdrew his revolver back to its holster. His men followed, and only when everyone had lowered theirs' did Daniel lower his knife.
Joe Cobb began backing away, towards the outskirts of the crowd. His men followed. "I'll be back. And when I come, you'll all regret this. You'll see, we'll burn this town to the ground, and all of you with it."
Daniel watched with steely eyes as the gangers ran away. When they disappeared over the lower hill leading out of town, he handed the knife to its owner.
"Nice choice. You NCR?" he asked.
The man shook his head and removed his beret, revealing a head of dark brown hair. "Technically," he replied, and after seeing the man's confused look, added, "it's complicated."
Daniel decided that he would let that one slide.
"Frank S. Robertson, at your service," the technically-NCR man shook Daniel's hand.
Daniel, in turn, introduced himself and added, "Don't be in my service, I'm too lazy, and I wouldn't want you to do hard labor."
The Bunch joined Daniel and Frank, and the proper introductions were made. Hank and Boone joined them, and more introductions were made.
"Well, fellas, I think it's about time we hit the road," Gunslinger Greg began.
Daniel cut him off. "Nonsense, Greg. These townsfolk need us. They're under threat from these Powder Gangers, and I'd wager they'd give over Ringo without much of a fight."
"Nonetheless, Joe Cobb would still burn the town down," added Hank. "I know how these types work. I used to be Legion." The group did a collective start, except for Boone. He just scowled his infinite scowl.
"Huh, that's funny. I used to be NCR," quipped Frank.
"Me too," Boone raised his hand.
Silence prevailed, broken only by the pitter-patter of feet on dust, and the joyous noise of voices enjoying the Tortilla Festival.
"We should talk to Sunny Smiles," said Daniel. "Trudy said she might be interested in helping Ringo."
"I know Sunny well," Greg said. "I could talk to her. We should also spread the word to the locals. We're going to help out. Maybe one of us could talk to Chet and see if he could loan us some weapons?"
"I'll talk to Chet," informed Kevin. "He's an old friend of mine. Evan could go up and talk with Doc Mitchell; he could maybe score us some chems," and by default, it was decided that Roger would go around to the locals.
"We should also go see Ringo," Frank put in. "He may not like the idea of the town helping out."
"Some people are that way," Hank admitted, eyeing Boone, who shrugged.
"The Bunch has their jobs, and shall assist in any job necessary," said Greg.
"That leaves us," observed Daniel, looking at Frank, Boone, and Hank.
"I'll do some reconnaissance," said Boone. "It's a trademark of mine."
"And then there were three," Daniel said, making his grand observations again. "And I need a drink. All this dust is making me thirsty. Care to join?" he asked Frank and Hank. The two nodded, and the three walked together down the hill towards the saloon.