Trouble in Town

Author's Note: This one's a little longer since it's primarily a dialogue chapter

The walk back to town was quiet, save for the girl's unsteady breathing and the faint crunch of boots over gravel. Sunny walked beside her, rifle slung casually, but her eyes scanned the hills with quiet vigilance.

I kept pace behind them, pistol holstered, mind working.

By the time we reached the first few houses, the townsfolk were already filtering out. Cautious, half-hidden behind doorways, peering from windows.

A man stepped onto the porch of the general store, old cowboy hat low over sharp eyes. Trudy, the saloon owner, leaned in the doorway nearby, arms folded, her expression pinched with concern.

Sunny helped the girl over to them, exchanging quiet words. Trudy's eyes flicked to me once — curious, uncertain — then back to Sunny.

It wasn't long before the conversation shifted… low voices, glances toward the southern hills, tense body language.

I caught fragments of it.

"—lucky they didn't send more—"

"—Joe Cobb's been itchin' for an excuse—"

"—Ringo's the reason they're stickin' around—"

I drifted closer, posture relaxed, but ears sharp.

Trudy noticed, straightening slightly as she addressed Sunny, but loud enough for me to catch every word. "He with you?"

Sunny nodded. "New in town. Helped with the geckos. Lot better with a pistol than most."

Trudy's gaze lingered on me for a moment, weighing my presence, then softened — marginally. "Hmph. Well, any friend of Sunny's…"

"Not sure 'friend' is the right word yet," I offered flatly.

That earned a faint smirk from Sunny, but Trudy just sighed, the lines in her face deepening.

"Suppose you oughta know what you've walked into then," she muttered, jerking her head toward the saloon. "Ain't much point pretendin' it's business as usual."

We followed her inside, the faint murmur of townsfolk trailing behind like a nervous echo.

Back at her usual spot behind the bar, Trudy poured herself a drink — not water.

"So," she started, meeting my gaze evenly, "you've probably noticed the town's… tense."

"Hard to miss," I replied.

"Name's Joe Cobb," Trudy continued. "Powder Ganger. Him and his crew've been camped just outside town at the old NCR checkpoint, making it real clear we've got a problem."

"Extortion?" I asked.

"Close enough," she muttered. "They want Ringo — fella's holed up at the old gas station. Says he was ambushed by Cobb's gang on the road. Killed a few of theirs in self-defense. Now Cobb wants blood."

"And the town?"

Trudy's jaw tightened. "We ain't fond of Ringo bringin' that trouble here… but most of us ain't ready to just hand a man over to be executed, neither."

I leaned against the bar, processing. "And if you do? Cobb leaves?"

"That's what he says." Her voice flattened. "But folks've got a gut feeling… even if we give up Ringo, Cobb'll find another reason to keep squeezing us."

Sunny nodded grimly beside me. "It's what gangs do. You show weakness once… they never stop pushin'."

A classic power play. Fear. Leverage. Weak leadership invites more aggression. Textbook.

I exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the dusty windows overlooking the street.

"Well," I muttered, the faintest edge of a smirk curling my lips, "sounds like Cobb's about to have a bad day."

Trudy raised an eyebrow. Sunny just chuckled faintly.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, hero," Sunny warned. "It ain't your fight… yet."

But it would be.

One way or another.

The low hum of conversation filled the saloon, voices threading together into a dull, nervous buzz.

Plans swirled in my head. Meet Ringo. Scout Cobb's position. Size up the Powder Gangers. Piece together the board before making a move.

But before thought could become action, the door slammed open.

BANG.

The heavy wooden frame cracked against the wall, drawing every set of eyes in the room as a dozen boots stomped across the threshold.

Joe Cobb.

Even without an introduction, I knew him.

Mid-thirties. Hard-eyed. Lean frame dressed in the patched remains of prison garb and a bullet proof vest on his chest, NCR markings still faint beneath the desert grime. A crooked sneer twisted his face, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Behind him… a crew of fifteen.

Rough, mean, every one of them strapped — pistols, clubs, a few homemade rifles slung across their backs. Dynamite belts jingled faintly with each step.

The saloon went dead silent.

Cobb's eyes swept the room, amusement dancing behind the malice as townsfolk froze mid-sip, hands curling instinctively toward holsters… but not drawing. Not yet.

Sunny stiffened beside me, rifle hanging low but ready. Trudy's hand drifted just below the bar — shotgun likely within reach, but her eyes betrayed the calculation happening behind them.

Cobb's gaze finally settled on me. New face. Unknown quantity.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice carrying easy authority. "Looks like Goodsprings picked up a stray."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just studied him.

He chuckled, stepping forward, the faint sulfur stink of dynamite trailing with him.

"Name's Joe Cobb," he announced to the room, purely for show. "Leader of this merry little outfit. You folks know me — friendly neighbor, tax collector, amateur fireworks enthusiast." The gang snickered behind him.

"But you…" He pointed at me now, finger like a loaded gun. "Don't know you. New in town, yeah?"

I straightened subtly, meeting his gaze. Cold. Controlled.

"Just passing through," I replied evenly.

Cobb's smile widened — all teeth, no warmth.

"Uh-huh. That's what they all say… till they start pokin' their nose where it don't belong."

His hand drifted toward his belt — resting casually near a holstered pistol, not drawing… yet.

"I'll keep this short," he continued, addressing the whole saloon now. "You hand over Ringo, nice and quiet, and this little town keeps on breathin' easy."

His eyes snapped back to me, smirk deepening.

"You play hero… well… I reckon we'll be diggin' more graves before sundown."

Fifteen sets of eyes behind him glinted with eager malice.

The room stayed frozen.

I flexed my fingers by my side, feeling every instinct, every inhuman calculation slot into place.

Cobb wanted a war of nerves.

Problem was… I didn't have nerves to break.

The door slammed shut behind Cobb and his crew, their heavy footsteps fading down the street. The silence inside the saloon was thick, brittle, ready to crack.

Trudy exhaled slowly, bracing her hands on the bar.

Sunny cursed under her breath, adjusting her rifle strap. "This ain't gonna hold much longer."

I straightened, my mind already tracing the edges of the problem like a blueprint. Cobb wasn't here for negotiations — that much was obvious. But the town? The town still had time… if they played it right.

And if they had the right tool for the job.

I cleared my throat, stepping toward the bar.

"All due respect…" I began, letting my voice carry enough to draw both women's attention, "but you folks are going about this the wrong way."

Sunny raised an eyebrow. Trudy's tired gaze settled on me.

"Oh?" Trudy asked, dry but not dismissive. "And what's the right way, stranger?"

I offered a faint, calculated smile.

"You need eyes on the inside. Someone to talk, to listen… maybe even throw Cobb off his game long enough to give this town a real shot."

Trudy straightened slightly. "You volunteering for that?"

I nodded once, slow and deliberate.

"I'm new. Cobb doesn't know me. He's already curious, and curiosity makes people sloppy." I tapped my temple lightly. "And, despite recent… injuries… I know how to read people."

Sunny crossed her arms, giving me an appraising look. "You offering to spy for us, or play messenger?"

"Both," I answered plainly. "I talk to Cobb. I see how far he'll push. I figure out how many men he's got, what they're carrying… what they're scared of."

Trudy's eyes narrowed faintly, suspicion laced with reluctant hope. "And what's in it for you?"

I shrugged, honest. "A town that survives is a town worth staying in… or passing through in one piece. Besides…" I let the faintest smirk curl my lip, "you saved me a bed and my skin. Consider this paying part of that debt."

The silence hung for a beat, the weight of the decision pressing in.

Finally, Trudy exchanged a glance with Sunny, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

"Alright," Trudy said at last. "But be careful. Cobb's not the trusting type."

"Neither am I," I replied smoothly.

Sunny chuckled faintly. "Guess you'll fit right in."

I turned toward the door, the afternoon sun bleeding gold through the cracks.

The game was set. The pieces were moving.

Time to see what the Powder Gangers were really made of.

The warm Mojave sun hit my face as I stepped out of the saloon, boots crunching against the dirt. The town stretched ahead — quiet, tense, watching. Beyond the outskirts, faint dust clouds marked where Cobb and his crew had gone to regroup.

I had my heading.

But before I could take more than a few steps, a voice called after me.

"Hey!"

I turned.

Sunny jogged up behind me, her rifle slung over one shoulder. But it wasn't her rifle she was holding out — it was another, cradled in her hands.

A Varmint Rifle. Classic make. Bolt-action. Light. Reliable enough — at least when properly cared for.

This one? It had seen better days.

The wooden stock was scuffed to hell, the bolt worn smooth from years of use, and the barrel—slightly crooked, with faint stress fractures near the end. Another firefight or two, and the whole thing might seize up… or worse.

But beneath the wear, I saw potential. Solid frame. Simple mechanics. And if I could get my hands on a few more like it? Could gut this thing, rebuild it into something… better.

Sunny held it out, her expression casual but her eyes… sincere.

"Consider it thanks," she said, "for the geckos… and the kid." She paused, glancing toward the hills. "And maybe a little insurance, 'case Cobb's boys ain't in the mood for talkin'."

I accepted the rifle, running my hand along the battered stock. Even in its state, it settled into my grip naturally — a familiar weight.

"Bit worn down," I noted, inspecting the bolt, mentally cataloging every weak point. "Could fall apart."

Sunny smirked. "Yeah, well, welcome to the Mojave. Most things out here are held together with hope and duct tape."

I allowed a faint laugh to escape my lips. "I'll make it work."

Her smirk widened. "Knew you would."

I slung the rifle over my shoulder, turning back toward the road.

The Powder Gangers were waiting.

But now, so was opportunity — and maybe, just maybe… a way to start fixing more than just old rifles.

The houses thinned out as I moved further down the slope, leaving the heart of Goodsprings behind.

At first, homes stood close together — small, weather-beaten, but lived-in. Porch lights flickered. Faint voices carried on the wind. Curtains twitched as cautious eyes tracked my steps.

But the farther I walked, the quieter it got.

The homes grew more distant, more battered. Fences sagged. Doors hung half off their hinges. Windows were cracked or boarded entirely. No smoke from the chimneys. No animals wandering the yards. Just silence.

The outskirts.

A graveyard of abandoned hope.

Each empty structure told a story — families that packed up and left… or didn't make it long enough to pack at all. Another casualty of the Mojave's slow bleed: raiders, drought, the NCR's endless war machine… or men like Joe Cobb.

I kept moving, boots kicking up dry dust.

And then I saw it.

The road straightened, curving gently around the hill toward a crumbling checkpoint. Rusted metal signs leaned at odd angles, half-swallowed by sand. The husk of an old NCR outpost — abandoned, forgotten… now claimed.

Powder Ganger territory.

Makeshift barricades of scrap metal and rubble blocked the path. Faint figures milled about behind them — silhouettes in tattered prison uniforms, rifles slung, dynamite hanging from belts.

I was ten steps from the edge when a voice barked out.

"Hold it right there!"

The shout echoed off the hills.

Half a dozen guns leveled toward me from behind the barricade.

I stopped, hands relaxed by my sides.

Time to see just how much the Mojave respected words over bullets.

The rifles tracked me like predators waiting for a signal.

One of them stepped up — lean, rough around the edges, NCR jumpsuit repurposed into makeshift gang colors. His rifle was up, not shaking, but not exactly steady either. Behind him, the others watched, fingers dancing near triggers.

"Who are you, and why'd you come here?!" he barked, the words rough, suspicious… but not yet hostile enough to end the conversation.

I stayed perfectly still, posture loose, hands well away from my holstered sidearm. The battered Varmint Rifle stayed slung across my back — worn enough not to be threatening, but present enough to remind them I wasn't completely helpless.

"My name's Prometheus," I called back, voice steady, carrying across the distance without strain. "I'm not here to play hero. I'm here to talk."

The man's eyes narrowed, his grip shifting faintly on the rifle. "Talk? About what?"

"About how this little standoff doesn't need to end with half the town dead," I replied, gaze cool, unreadable. "Joe Cobb — he wants Ringo. The town's scared. Nobody's blinked yet, but they're close."

I took a careful step forward, slow, deliberate.

"Cobb strikes me as a man who prefers control… not chaos. I figured it's better to hear his terms straight from him… instead of second-hand over a corpse."

The rifles stayed trained on me. The man hesitated, uncertainty flashing behind his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder toward the checkpoint, toward the cluster of Powder Gangers beyond.

One of them peeled away, jogging back toward the camp — no doubt to inform Cobb.

I stayed right where I was, eyes never leaving the group.

The Mojave didn't reward cowards.

But it respected patience.

The Powder Ganger who'd been questioning me disappeared behind the checkpoint for a few minutes. The others kept their rifles trained, eyes wary, uncertain. I didn't move.

Eventually, the first man returned, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

"Cobb's willin' to talk," he announced. "But… you know how it goes."

He gestured with his rifle, eyes dropping meaningfully to the Varmint Rifle slung across my back, the pistol at my hip.

"You leave your guns here. You get it back when you leave — if you leave."

I let the words hang there a moment, gaze cool, weighing them.

"If," I echoed, sharp and pointed. "I'm not stupid enough to walk into a Powder Ganger camp without insurance."

The man's smirk faded slightly.

"You got my word," he insisted.

I shook my head faintly. "I'm sure that's worth a lot in here… but let's make this clear. I hand over my gear, we talk, and when I walk out of here, I leave alive… with everything I came in with. That includes the rifle."

The man hesitated. The others shifted, the mood brittle but uncertain.

Finally, he snorted. "Suit yourself. Cobb'll talk. But you pull anything stupid… well, nobody's gonna be diggin' you up."

I allowed the faintest of smirks.

"Fair enough."

Slowly, I unslung the worn Varmint Rifle, ejecting the magazine with practiced ease and setting it down beside my holstered sidearm on a nearby crate. I kept my hands visible the whole time.

No sudden moves.

The man gave a sharp whistle. Another Ganger stepped up, collecting the weapons.

"You'll get 'em back," the first man assured me, then jerked his head toward the barricade. "Come on."

I followed, boots crunching gravel, walking straight into the wolves' den — unarmed, but far from defenseless.

The checkpoint opened like the gaping mouth of a canyon — rough barricades of scrap metal and debris formed a perimeter, jagged edges and makeshift cover littering the area. Faded NCR emblems still clung to some of the concrete walls, sun-bleached and cracked.

The Powder Ganger camp sprawled behind it, little more than a collection of tents, scavenged furniture, and weapon caches. The faint chemical stink of dynamite hung in the dry air, mingling with cigarette smoke and the faint, metallic bite of gun oil.

Eyes followed me as I walked — rough, scarred men in patchwork prison uniforms, most with the telltale dynamite belts slung around their hips like crude trophies. Weapons rested within arm's reach. Every one of them sizing me up.

I walked steady, unreadable, hands loose at my sides.

Cobb stood near the center of the camp, arms folded, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He watched my approach with a crooked smirk, eyes sharp and calculating.

"Well, well…" he drawled as I stopped a few paces away. "Look at you. Didn't figure you had the stones to come strollin' in here."

I met his gaze, calm, unimpressed.

"Better to talk than shoot," I replied. "I figured you'd appreciate that… considering how expensive funerals are these days."

Some of the Gangers chuckled low, but Cobb's expression stayed razor-thin.

"Cute," he remarked. "Real funny. You got a name, stranger?"

"Prometheus."

He tilted his head faintly. "Like the guy from them old stories? Brought fire to the people… got chained up for it?"

"Close enough," I replied coolly. "Let's skip the mythology lesson. You want Ringo. The town's scared. I'm here to find out if there's a version of this that doesn't end with bodies in the street."

Cobb flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot.

"Here's the version I'm offerin'," he shot back. "You tell the folks in Goodsprings to hand Ringo over. No stalling. No speeches. They do that… and maybe my boys don't have to burn their nice little town to the ground."

I let the silence hang for a second, studying him.

"All this," I gestured subtly around the camp, "over one man? You send a whole crew to lean on a farming town because Ringo got lucky in a firefight?"

Cobb's eyes narrowed, the faintest hint of irritation slipping through his practiced grin.

"Ain't about one man," he said flatly. "It's about respect. Can't have some trader blow a hole in my crew and go hidin' behind civilians. That makes me look weak. Makes the whole crew look weak."

"So it's not about revenge… it's about reputation," I concluded, filing it away.

Cobb smirked again, all sharp teeth and menace. "Smart boy."

I held his gaze, steady as stone.

"Let me take your message back to the town," I said. "They deserve to hear the terms direct. Maybe they hand him over. Maybe they don't. But one way or another… this gets settled."

Cobb tilted his head slightly, considering… then finally nodded.

"You got guts, I'll give you that," he muttered. "Fine. You tell 'em they got… say… two days. After that?" His voice flattened. "Ain't no one safe."

I nodded once.

"Fair enough."

He gestured to one of his crew. My weapons — battered rifle, sidearm — were handed back over, untouched.

"You're free to walk outta here," Cobb finished, turning away. "For now."

I slung the rifle over my shoulder, holstered the sidearm, and walked back the way I came — every pair of eyes burning into my back.

I turned to leave, rifle slung, sidearm holstered — but I'd barely taken a step when Cobb's voice followed after me, smooth and low like a rattle under dry sand.

"Hey… Prometheus."

I paused, half-glancing back. His expression had shifted — less of the overt threat now… more of the salesman's grin. The kind that never reached the eyes.

"You're smart. Smarter than most of the folks 'round here. You see how this ends." He spread his hands faintly, gesturing toward the hills, the checkpoint, the scraggly town beyond. "Goodsprings? It's holdin' on by threads. All it takes is the right push… the right words… and it falls right into line."

The faintest chuckle under his breath. "Could be… your words, if you wanted. Talk 'em down, get 'em scared enough… you help me? Help my crew?" His grin widened like a knife's edge. "You get your cut. Hell, you stick 'round, maybe you help run the place when the dust settles."

His gaze sharpened, testing, calculating.

"Whole lotta power for a man with no past."

I didn't reply at first. Just studied him — every muscle, every shift of his stance, every note of arrogance poorly veiled beneath practiced charm.

And tucked beneath that? Desperation. Ambition. A man barely holding his crew together on reputation alone.

I let the silence hang, the faint breeze stirring grit across the checkpoint.

Then… I offered the faintest smile.

"I'll think about it."

Cobb chuckled. "You do that."

I turned, walking away, the weight of the Mojave sun and his proposition settling behind me like a second shadow.

The sun blazed low on the horizon as I walked, the faint buzz of insects and distant wind filling the silence.

Cobb's words echoed behind me, lingering like the taste of smoke.

"Power for a man with no past."

I mulled it over as my boots crunched the dirt. I wasn't naive. He didn't offer me a seat at the table out of kindness. He saw a weapon — sharp, well-spoken, unpredictable — and like any opportunist, he wanted it pointed away from him… preferably at someone else.

But power built on fear and blood? That wasn't power. That was a fuse burning toward an explosion.

I wasn't here to carve a petty empire out of dust and bones.

But I'd be damned if I didn't use every scrap of leverage the Mojave handed me.

The slope of the hills guided me back toward the outskirts of Goodsprings. The abandoned homes passed by again — quiet reminders of what happens when the weak lose to the wolves.

The town still had a chance.

But only if someone smart enough played the board right.

And today… that someone was me.

The sun was dipping lower as I crested the hill, the first houses of Goodsprings coming back into view.

The closer I got, the more the nervous tension in the air thickened. Curtains shifted. Heads peeked cautiously from windows. They'd seen me head toward the checkpoint… and they were watching to see if I came back in one piece.

I did.

But whether that meant good news or bad? That was still up in the air.

The saloon's porch creaked under my boots as I stepped inside. The same tense faces turned toward me — Trudy, Sunny, a handful of regulars nursing drinks they weren't really tasting.

Trudy straightened behind the bar. "Well?"

I didn't waste time.

"Cobb's giving you two days," I announced plainly. "Hand Ringo over, and they leave the town alone… for now."

Murmurs rippled through the room, a mix of fear, uncertainty, anger.

Sunny's jaw clenched. "And after 'for now'? What then?"

I shrugged faintly. "He didn't say. But we both know how this ends. You give up Ringo, Cobb and his crew get bold. First it's one man… then supplies… then protection money… then the town's theirs."

Trudy exhaled, steady, but I could see the worry etched in her features. "And if we fight?"

"You've got farmers. Miners. A few ranchers." I glanced toward Sunny. "And one decent shot with a dog."

Sunny smirked faintly despite herself, but her eyes stayed sharp.

"I'm not saying it's impossible," I continued. "But untrained? You're not ready. Cobb's men aren't soldiers, but they're dangerous enough to steamroll through frightened settlers."

A pause, the weight of the situation hanging thick.

"But…" I added, voice steady, "give me time, willing bodies, and enough ammunition… and I can make sure Goodsprings doesn't just survive this. You can stand your ground."

Trudy raised an eyebrow. "You offering to turn this town into an army?"

"Not an army," I corrected. "But enough marksmanship, discipline, and nerves of steel? That's more dangerous than numbers."

Sunny exchanged a glance with Trudy. The spark of possibility — slim, but there — lit behind their guarded expressions.

I leaned forward slightly, gaze steady.

"You've got two days. We can waste them wringing our hands… or we can start making sure Cobb regrets underestimating you."

Sunny scratched her head, glancing toward Trudy, a faint smile curling the corner of her mouth.

"We just might have a shot at it, Trudy."

Trudy folded her arms, eyes narrowing slightly in that cautious, matriarch way. "You trust him that much, Sunny?"

Sunny met her gaze, firm, unflinching. "If only you were out there by the water wells… then you'd be saying the same things as me."

She jerked her chin subtly toward me.

"I've seen plenty of folks handle a rifle. Most flinch, some freeze. This one?" She let out a short breath, almost a quiet laugh. "The gun's an extension of his body. No wasted movement. No panic. It ain't just skill — it's… natural."

Trudy's eyes flicked back to me, studying. Weighing.

I stayed quiet, steady, letting the facts speak for themselves.

Trudy sighed, the sound heavy with the burden of leadership.

"Alright…" She finally said, her voice softer but resolute. "We'll do it your way… but you better be right, Sunny. 'Cause if you're not…"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't need to.

The Mojave didn't forgive mistakes.

The room settled into uneasy silence after Trudy's quiet concession. Dust hung in the sunlight cutting through the windows, the saloon still but for the faint creak of a ceiling fan overhead.

I straightened, slinging the Varmint Rifle back over my shoulder.

"Good," I said plainly. "Then here's what happens next."

I looked first to Trudy, then to Sunny.

"Spread the word quietly. Anyone here with enough backbone to defend this town? They meet me out back behind the saloon before sundown. Doesn't matter if they've never fired a gun before. If they're willing to stand their ground, I'll teach them how."

Trudy exchanged a brief look with Sunny, nodding faintly. "Consider it done."

Sunny gave me that familiar, half-crooked grin. "Just make sure you don't work 'em too hard. Most of these folks know how to plant crops, not plant bullets."

I smirked faintly. "We'll fix that."

Turning toward the door, I added, "In the meantime, I'm paying Ringo a visit. If he's going to be the spark for this whole fight, it's only fair he knows what side of the fire he's standing on."

Sunny's grin faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. "You sure? Ringo's holed up tight — probably jumpy as a feral dog."

"He'll listen," I replied, adjusting my rifle. "He doesn't have much choice."

Without another word, I pushed the saloon door open and stepped back into the Mojave sun.

Time to get the other half of this plan moving.

The old gas station sat on the edge of Goodsprings like a forgotten relic — rusted signage barely legible, the paint stripped by decades of sun and sand. The windows were boarded up, gaps just wide enough for a pair of eyes or a pistol barrel.

I approached the door, raising a hand to knock—

"Who are you?!"

The voice snapped from the shadows, tense, sharp — the desperate edge of a cornered man.

A faint metallic click followed as the muzzle of a pistol emerged from a gap in one of the side windows, aimed squarely at my head.

I froze, hands rising slowly, palms open.

"Calm down, Ringo," I said evenly, eyes locking on the barrel. "I'm not a Powder Ganger."

A pause. The gun didn't waver, but the voice faltered slightly.

"You know my name?"

"It's not hard to figure," I replied, keeping my tone steady, calm, just loud enough to carry. "You're the only one Cobb's foaming at the mouth over… and the only reason this town's sitting on a powder keg."

Silence hung heavy for a moment, the wind brushing grit along the porch.

Finally, the barrel lowered, just slightly.

"What do you want?"

"To talk," I answered plainly. "That's all."

Another pause. The barrel disappeared behind the boarded window. I heard the shuffle of boots, the creak of old hinges.

The door cracked open, just enough for me to see a man — scruffy, wiry, nervous eyes darting over me like I might explode at any second.

"You've got two minutes," Ringo muttered.

I stepped inside.

The door creaked shut behind me, the faint click of a lock sliding back into place.

The gas station was as run-down as it looked from the outside — cracked tiles, faded NCR posters peeling off the walls, the faint scent of old fuel and desert dust lingering in the air.

But for a man on the run, Ringo had done what he could.

Crates and empty shelves had been stacked into makeshift barricades near the windows. Blankets and a bedroll were tucked in the corner, alongside a half-eaten can of beans and a battered kettle. The faint metallic tang of gun oil clung to the room.

A pair of rifles leaned against the wall. Ammunition neatly sorted beside them — not much, but enough for a last stand if it came to it.

I scanned the details, cataloguing them, calculating odds.

Paranoid. Expected.

Organized. Useful.

Desperate. Dangerous, if not handled right.

Ringo hovered near the center of the room, pistol still in hand, shifting faintly from foot to foot. His eyes flicked to the windows, the door, back to me — jumpy, sizing me up, waiting.

I let the silence stretch — twenty seconds, maybe more.

Long enough for him to get uncomfortable.

When his grip on the pistol tightened and his jaw flexed, I finally spoke.

"The town's divided," I said simply, breaking the silence. "Half of 'em want to hand you over to Cobb and pray he leaves it at that."

Ringo stiffened, tension snapping through him like a coiled spring.

"And the other half?" he asked, voice guarded.

"They're scared," I replied. "But they know giving you up is only the beginning. Cobb won't stop with you. You're the excuse, not the goal."

I took a slow step forward, keeping my tone calm, matter-of-fact.

"There's a plan in motion now. I'm working with the ones willing to fight. Sunny's onboard. Trudy's… cautious, but listening."

Ringo's eyes sharpened, uncertainty giving way to something else — curiosity… maybe even hope, buried under the fear.

"And you?" he asked, watching me carefully. "What are you? Merc? NCR? Just… good Samaritan?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"None of the above," I replied. "But I've got enough sense to know when a town has a fighting chance… and when it's walking itself to the gallows."

I gestured toward the door. "You can hole up here and pray they don't drag you out… or you can help me make sure Cobb regrets ever stepping foot near Goodsprings."

Ringo's fear was still there — that much was obvious — but behind it, something was shifting. The nerves, the suspicion, it all dulled for just a moment as he considered my words. His fingers flexed slightly around the grip of his pistol, but he didn't raise it again.

"You really think the town's got a chance?" he asked, the doubt laced into his voice like barbed wire. "Against Cobb? His crew? They've got dynamite… they've got numbers."

I took a step closer, posture loose but confident. "Cobb's got numbers, sure… but they're not soldiers. They're cons with explosives and bad aim." I let the words hang there for a second. "The town? Farmers, ranchers… scared. But willing."

I pointed at the floor between us. "Willingness is half the fight. The other half is teaching them not to miss."

Ringo's eyes stayed locked on me, studying, measuring.

"And you're gonna do that? Just walk in here, drill some farmers, and send a gang running?"

"It's not that simple," I admitted. "But it's possible. Cobb's not a general. He's a thug with a grudge. His crew? They're only dangerous if the town panics. Keep 'em calm, organized… suddenly, fifteen Powder Gangers doesn't look so scary."

Ringo shifted his stance, glancing at the barricades, the empty shelves, the weapons.

"If this goes south, I end up dead… town ends up burned to the ground… and Cobb walks away laughing."

"If you do nothing, same thing happens," I replied, deadpan. "But at least this way, you've got a chance to change the ending."

Another long pause.

Then… Ringo sighed, lowering the pistol entirely. His shoulders sagged slightly — not in defeat, but in acceptance.

"Alright," he muttered. "You've got yourself a helper… and maybe a few extra bullets if I can scrape 'em together."

I nodded once. "Good. Stay sharp, stay ready. We've got two days… and a lot of work to do."

Ringo set the pistol on the counter, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Guess I picked the wrong town to hide in."

I smirked faintly as I turned for the door. "Or the right one… depending how this plays out."

The Mojave sun was starting to dip low by the time I made it back toward the Prospector Saloon, shadows stretching long across the dirt roads. The dry wind stirred faint trails of dust behind my boots as I approached.

From the back of the building came the low hum of voices — not loud, not many, but enough to catch my attention.

I rounded the corner to the rear lot, the rough fence and cracked earth stretching out beneath the open sky.

A small group had gathered — no more than six or seven, scattered along the fence line. Mostly men, a few women. Ranchers, traders, settlers. Weathered faces, sun-creased skin, calloused hands that knew hard labor, not hard combat.

They watched me approach — guarded, uncertain, but… present.

Willing.

Sunny Smiles leaned against the fence, her dog, Cheyenne, lounging at her side. Her eyes flicked to me, reading my expression.

"Ringo?" she asked.

"He's in," I replied simply.

A faint, satisfied smile crept onto her face. "Figured."

I stepped forward, surveying the group. Their nerves were obvious — shifting stances, clenched jaws, wary eyes. But beneath that? Something steady. Tired… but steady.

I stopped in front of them, my voice calm, even.

"You're here," I said, letting the statement hang. "That's more than I expected."

The townsfolk exchanged quiet looks, but no one turned away.

I continued. "I won't lie to you. This won't be easy. Powder Gangers are sloppy, but dynamite doesn't care how good your aim is. If we panic? We lose. If we stand together? We've got a shot."

I let the weight of the words sink in.

"First step's simple. We make sure you can hit what you're aiming at."

I unslung the Varmint Rifle, glancing at the battered weapon. "It's not about fancy tricks or heroics. It's about staying calm, planting your feet, and pulling the trigger when it counts."

Sunny gave a small nod beside me.

"Listen to him," she added. "I saw him shoot. He knows his stuff."

I turned back to the group.

"We've got two days. Let's make them count."