"How do you know I can pay you back?"
The Baron smiled. "I get the feeling you'll find a way to enrich yourself pretty quickly around here." She handed him a pile of bulls. "Speaking of, these are for you — your cut of the bets. Winner gets a percentage. Consider it a perk of staying alive."
"Thanks. I'll consider the room. For now, I think I'll explore the Town a bit."
"Suit yourself. I'll see you around."
"Yeah. Thanks for the drinks."
He strode away, aware of the eyes watching him, gossip rippling through the crowds like wildfire. He ignored it, going only a few paces before furtive movement caught his eye. He stopped, squinting. A small figure crouched under the blistered deck of the inn across the street. The face was mostly obscured by a wide hood shadowing the features, but Gunner glimpsed gray, mottled skin and yellow eyes that flashed, reflecting the light. The figure caught his gaze and quickly scampered further under the deck, vanishing in the darkness.
Exhaling a stream of smoke, Gunner took a last look before continuing along his way, striding further into the dusty heart of the Town.
Chapter 3: Preacher of Righteousness
Paradise Inn was a half-crumbling ruin of singed wood barely held together by hastily erected rusty structural beams. The proprietor was a short man, stout in stature with a shiny bald head and a kindly look in his eyes when he looked up from the stove in the corner.
"Sorry, stranger. Place ain't open yet. Still renovating."
Gunner placed a gold bullion card on the counter. "For a room and meals. And conversation."
Roscoe's eyes gleamed when he picked the card up. "For a gold bull, you can have my room. It's the only one worth a damn in this dive. Take it as long as you like. What do I call you?"
"Gunner."
"I'm Roscoe Gibbs, the latest proprietor of this here Paradise Inn."
"The latest?"
"Property switches hands often in this Town. You probably noticed it looks like somebody tried to burn the place to cinders. And you're right — it was firebombed by the Judge's thugs when the last owner got behind on his protection payments. No one else was in a hurry to claim the property, so I made a lowball bid and got it for a song."
Gunner removed his duster coat and hat, setting them on the seat of a rickety old chair and eased himself onto a bench that creaked ominously under his weight. "What makes you think you won't fare the same way as the last owner?"
"I'm no drunk and not a bad gambler, so I reckon I'll do just fine. The interior might not look like much. Exterior, either. But I got a solarium in the back where I'll grow fresh produce and tobacco. The fusion reactor managed to escape damage, so I got power to spare. Got a deal with a bootlegger for my liquor, so all that's left is a little renovation. I can rent a few robots to do the bulk of that. Shouldn't take more than a week before I'm open for business."
He set a bowl of steaming stew in Gunner's hands. "What brings you to the Town? I figure you for a gunman looking for work. Yeah — you got that hard glint in your eyes and steel in your step like you know how to throw lead with the best of 'em. You a Nimrod? Fugitive? Bank robber? Or just one of those jack of all trades?"
"I got robbed by Waingrow and his crew yesterday. I want my Steed and guns back."
Roscoe shook his head. "That's more trouble than it's worth. You can get a new Steed and new guns. Can't get your life back, though. Waingrow is one of the Judge's main hands. Ranges back and forth robbing folks and brings the spoils to the Judge. They call him the Bushwhacker. He's actually pretty reasonable for a bandit, but it ain't wise to get on his bad side."
Gunner spoke between bites of hot stew. "Seems like everything runs through the Judge around here. I'm guessing he must have pretty deep pockets."
"Oh, yeah. Got rich somewhere in banking somewhere in Arkansas. Way I hear it, he stole all his customer's money and made his way across the Territories until he shook the dogs off his tail. He muscled his way in here, established himself as the de facto mayor, and taxes every enterprise in the Town. Took a hefty share off the blood shard trade too before that dried up."
"I talked to the Baron earlier. She seems to think the Judge is to blame for chasing the blood shard business off."
"There's a lot of blame to go around. Don't be fooled by the Baron's civilized exterior. Inside, she's as cold and mean as the worst of them. You didn't hear that from me, by the way."
"Won't be the first time someone hid their face behind a mask. What's her position here? Does she work for the Judge?"
"The Baron? She'd say she works with the Judge. And that's about the right of it. The Judge has the manpower, runs the guns, and controls the currency, but the Baron oversees the operations of the Town. It's because of her that the place hasn't been run into the ground."
"How's that?"
"She got the mines running again. Got some labcoats in here to overhaul the generator to use lithium synthesis again so the town can keep running once the blood shards ran out. That's the loud sound you hear coming from the old mill. Makes a helluva racket, but no one complains. Beats the hell outta not having power."
"And Marshal Wylie? He's in her pocket from the looks of it."
"Yeah, he's her right-hand man."
"What about the Sheriff?"
"Dead. Random shootout, or so it was made to look."
"You don't think so?"
"He was the Judge's man. With him gunned down, the Judge takes another hit."
"Another?"
"The Judge has been on the receiving end of some pretty bad luck lately. His people are dropping like flies. Just a few weeks back, his favorite nephew went and got shot by some Nimrod he was trying to get saucy with. Well, the Judge didn't like that too much, so he sent a whole squad of his men to chase the Nimrod down. That didn't end so well when her squad turned out to be better than his. A whole lotta bodies were left in the dirt from that fiasco. And just yesterday, his other favorite nephew got filled with lead while out trying to hang the preacher fella."
Gunner coughed into his hand. "Sounds pretty bad."
"Yep. Caused the Judge to be spread out pretty thin for the time being. And with him being in a foul mood, he's been pressing pretty hard to collect his dues. Whole town's a pressure cooker right now. On top of that, someone keeps messing with the generator."
"Messing like how?"
"Like stealing parts. Flipping switches and pulling wires. The town has periodic blackouts. Never used to happen. The Judge and the Baron aren't directly blaming each other, but the word on the street is that they're nearly at the point of going to war. I tell ya, all it'll take is a single match to make this whole place explode."
Gunner grinned. "Sounds about right."
"Right for what?"
"For a man to make a few quick bulls. I got a good feeling about this place."
"You shouldn't. This place is a den of serpents. Not a good idea to stir things up. Keep your head down and go about your business. Maybe you wake up to see tomorrow."
"Maybe. But that's no way for a man to live." Gunner stood, setting the bowl on the table. "Good stew. What was that meat — rat?"
"Rabbit."
"Close enough. Is there a place that sells clothes around here?"
"General store is two buildings down the street."
Gunner put his hat on. "Guess I'll mosey on over."
"Stay clear of trouble, Gunner. Room's in the back whenever you're ready."
"Where are you gonna sleep?"
"Upstairs. I'm pretty sure the floor will hold up."
Gunner strolled out the inn and over to the general store, a two-story frame building with MERCHANTILE on the faded sign. Men and women streamed in and out, carrying bundles to pack into their vehicles or load onto rusted auto-carts that chugged alongside them. Other people gathered on the spacious raised porch, talking gossip or interacting with the public screens to access banking accounts, read messages and bounties, or check on public events.