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Dust and Spit

A 'J. Cole Hawkins' Tale

By Doran Eirok

November 2020 - May 2021

So you're after a story, hm? Well alright, here's one for you. A good proper wastelands tale, this one. I'll try not to ramble off topic too much, but no promises.

In case you're new around here, like, really fakking new, no one really knows how long everything's been like this. But it is like this, and all we can do is try to get by.

Folk just call pretty much everything 'the wastelands,' at least around these parts. Some time back everyone quit bothering to capitalise 'wasteland' as it stopped seeming like special corner of a map, and more and more just covered everything as far as most people around here ever roam. Probably around the same time we all started referring to the wastelands in the plural instead of the singular, in recognition of the nuances that made different areas and types stand apart from one another, rather than all being just one big empty nothing. Nah, we were struggling more each passing year to scrape out a living in the middle of several distinct big empty nothings, each unique but none of them too friendly.

They all encroach a bit more each year, too. It's like watching a battle in slow motion, towns trying to hold the dust back while keeping their wells deep and reliable enough to bring up water. Sometimes they manage, sometimes they don't. When they don't, people salvage anything they can travel with, and whatever's left of the buildings just gets left behind to be slowly buried in sand and dust, joining the ghosts of any forests or grasslands or streams that may have once been around. Those are the only real landmarks out here in the wastelands; rock formations and ghosts.

Over my years I've gotten pretty good at reading them, the landmarks and all the other smaller signs out here. 'Talking to ghosts' as it were. How to tell one wasteland from another, how to survive in each, how to hunt and track and scout. Not a bad life if you're good with a bit of solitude. I don't mind being around people that much myself, but there's a sense of freedom in having your own way about things. I guess that balance between solitude and company is a preference common to coyotes like myself.

That's how I end up on jobs like this one. This was a caravan run from Deadriver to Dust Valley. Deadriver's held on to good fortune with its wells; the riverbed is long since dry as the name suggests but there's enough water deep underground to keep the town going. More than the average small wastelands town, even enough to support a bit of surplus farming around the outskirts and produce a tolerable mid-grade whiskey. It doesn't quite compete with the really good stuff folk have the water to make way out west in the mountains or back east in the Riverlands, but Deadriver Whiskey is decent enough to be sort of a local export. In fact on this run it was one of our main cargoes.

But I suppose that's all boring as fak and probably not what you're interested in hearing about. Sorry about that. Warned you I might ramble. Anyway, the actual job I was running was as a scout for this caravan, headed up by a prairie dog named Jack. I've near never seen him without that wide brim hat of his and a stem of dry grass between his teeth. They had several guards, but really they're just folk with guns sitting atop the wagons, ready to shoot at bandits or wilders. As a scout I'm a bit different; a scout's job is to range out from the caravan to the sides or up ahead of the route and look for trouble. Possible ambush especially, though sometimes natural hazards too. Whatever dangers I find I can signal back to the caravan so they can prepare or respond accordingly. It's good work, and kind of the best of both for me. I get to travel with the crew, meet folk and swap stories, but I also get to spend plenty of time out on my own while I'm scouting. I like to think I can do a number of different types of work, but caravan scouting tends to be one of the jobs I'll prefer when I can get it. Usually pretty safe and relaxed, but don't pay half bad neither if you do it right.

We were several days out from Deadriver and it'd be several more before we hit Dust Valley. Somewhere around the halfway point, most like. Our particular scrap of nowhere for the moment was mostly featureless grey dust in the low bits, slightly more reddish gravel on the low ridges. As was usual for most any of the wastelands there weren't much growing anywhere apart from the occasional scraggly shrub clinging to the gravel. I imagine to most folk it just looks pretty barren and featureless. It largely is, really, though I'm able to read more in it than most. I won't bore you with those details though.

I was off on one of my scouting circuits. I'd borrowed a rider and set off ahead of the caravan, and up to the left side near a ridge top. The terrain wasn't too intense but it doesn't take much to hide a bandit crew or something if anybody was planning an ambush. I'd've been better able to read ground signs and move silently and less visibly on my own bare paws, but a mount's hooves offered a lot more speed for moving around ahead of the caravan, so a rider it was.

It was a clear day and the sun wasn't holding much back, so I was glad of my usual duster and leather hat. I kept to a line following the ridge top but just below it; riding atop the crest would've made me stand out to anyone in the area.

My first clue that there was someone else in the area came a few hours into the circuit, close to high noon. My nose twitched and flared as it caught a faint whiff of woodsmoke. I stopped and sniffed the air until I had a few more scents: cooked meat, rider other than my own, unwashed bodies that made my companions in the caravan seem downright fresh out the bath by comparison.

Bandits. At least that seemed the most likely possibility to me. We were proper far from any settlements so they had to be somewhat desperate and the pickings couldn't be great for them, but the road we were travelling was a known route. At a guess they'd staked out here hoping for a caravan to move through that they could ambush. They'd live off the provisions and eventually try to sell the cargo they didn't want somewhere, if they could find a buyer desperate enough not to ask questions. There was no telling how long they'd been camped here waiting for a caravan, and thus how desperate they were. I also didn't know if they had lookouts posted that might've spotted me already, but looking around I couldn't see any obvious places for them to position one. The ridge I was moving carefully along was about the tallest feature around, and the only section of lowland I was really in view of was the dusty plain the caravan was moving along. If they were gearing up for an ambush they'd be all-in anyway and want every available gun hand for their charge, not wasting bodies on scouting. So I was reasonably hopeful. Time for me to do my thing.

I dismounted and quietly led my rider down the slope a little way just to make sure it'd stay out of sight, then let the reins hang toward the ground. The caravan's riders were well trained, fortunately, to stay in place like that, saving me the near-impossible task of finding something to tie it to. I then padded carefully back up toward the top of the ridge, keeping low. When I made it to the rocky crest, what I saw on the far side of the ridge largely confirmed my earlier suspicions. Nice having the reassurance that I still knew my stuff.

Below was a shallow valley that ran at an angle to the wider expanse the caravan was moving along, joining it a little farther on. A camp was set up and it looked like there were maybe a dozen people. There was a lot of activity, folk mounting up and checking weapons, but making no effort to tear down the camp. My guess was they'd had someone watching the caravan route who'd dashed back to report it, but I hoped they weren't thorough enough to be watching the ridge tops for ranging scouts like myself. The activity I was seeing had all the familiar hallmarks of preparing for an ambush, almost certainly where their valley met the road. It made sense; they would remain completely hidden from the caravan's sight until they suddenly came pouring out, catching their prey by surprise, or so they intended. I glanced back at the advancing caravan and briefly considered the landscape, estimating it had about ten minutes before it reached the valley intersection where the ambush would go down.

The expected timing and the strength of the enemy were the two most important pieces of information I needed. I crept back down the slope a little ways and took out my hunting knife, angling it until the blade caught the midday sun, then used the reflection to signal the caravan. We had a system worked out in advance regarding how I could signal them with different pieces of information, how they could safely acknowledge, and how they'd respond to different threats.

A single, brief glint from one of the wagons was all I received in reply to my warning. It wasn't much, but that was the idea - to anyone else it could just be an accidental reflection of the sun off a buckle, but I knew it was the acknowledgement to my message from the exact timing and which wagon it came from. Other than that the caravan made no visible reaction, just continuing on its way so as not to alert any watching bandits that they were aware of the impending ambush. The guards would be readying their weapons though, locking their eyes on the mouth of the approaching valley.

All that was left for my part now was to take up a good shooting position. I considered; I'd want a good position to drop as many of the bandits as possible with my rifle once they committed to the attack, and then sprint back to my rider so I could mount up and close in to help deal with whomever survived the first defending salvoes. There would be an advantage to having my rider close, but I didn't want it so close that it'd risk giving away my position or spook when I started firing. I opted to leave it where it was now; better a slightly longer sprint for me than risking those alternatives.

I moved along the ridgeline, staying crouched low and over the crest from the bandit camp, peering over from time to time to make sure they weren't doing something against my expectations. So far they were matching them perfectly. The landscape dictated the most obvious way for everything to play out, after all. I settled for a good spot overlooking the valley junction, behind a larger rock on the off-chance I'd need any cover but mostly for something to brace my rifle against and keep me out of sight. I gave my lever-action rifle a quick check; it was fully loaded and in good shape. I popped my head over the ridge to check on the bandit camp once more, and their crew was still following expectation; lining up their riders, readying rifles and pistols, standing ready to begin their charge, one outrider holding position at the base of the ridge to watch the caravan's progress and make the call when to attack. Glancing back at the caravan's position I estimated it would just be another couple minutes. Not long to wait.

I had a good view of the bandit outrider as he raised his arm, signalling to the rest of his crew. I could hear the gathering sound of hooves as they started their ride down the valley, gaining speed. As they came into view the outrider fell in with them, joining the charge. As one, they rounded the base of the ridge and set off in a straight line toward the caravan. Howls and roars picked up, gaining intensity with the speed of the charge. To an inexperienced or smaller caravan it would've no doubt served its purpose in intimidation. My seasoned ears, though, could hear the undertone of desperation. These bandits were tired, hungry, and thirsty. They'd been out here too long without prey, their provisions dwindling, and taking our caravan was their last shot at survival. They were all in.

I knew the caravan guards would be ready, training their weapons on the attackers, but it was my role to act first according to the plan we'd devised for an ambush like this. I raised my rifle, flung the lever forward and back to chamber the first round and cock the hammer and striker, braced the barrel against the rock in front of me, and sighted down its length. Lining up the sights with one of the bandits in the middle of the charge, leading them just enough, exhaling steadily, then squeezing the trigger.

It was a good rifle. It had been my father's once, part of a matched set with my revolver and hunting knife. None of them looked like much, just plain wood and dark steel with a bit of unadorned brass here and there, but I made a point of keeping them all in good repair. My bullet flew true, taking down its intended target. Being right in the middle of the charging bandits maximised their confusion; the ones behind their downed companion swerved and panicked, while the ones in front either kept charging unawares or slowed to look back at the spreading disarray. The unburdened rider turned in alarm and ran sideways through the crowd, further fragmenting it. One unexpected shot had broken the shape and momentum of an entire charge.

Wasting no time I re-cocked the rifle. Another round chambered, another steady exhale, another long gaze down the sights, another squeeze of the trigger. Another crack of thunder and another downed bandit. Their panic and confusion grew as it dawned on them that someone was firing on them from somewhere other than the caravan ahead - their ambush had failed, the caravan was not the helpless and exposed prey they had expected. They themselves were the hunted.

At this point the caravan guards raised their weapons and began to open fire. It was a grim scene, and with their charge broken the bandits barely stood a chance. It was a larger caravan than they should have tried to take with their numbers anyway, but their desperation had left them little choice. I wasn't without sympathy for them, but I didn't have the liberty of indulging in it until my job was done. Given the chance any one of these bandits would've killed every one of us. Not all places in the world are as harsh, but out here in the wastelands when faced up against a bandit raid, defending yourself is the only way. Mercy, regrettably, is not rewarded with these sort of folk. I've had chances aplenty to learn that.

It was over before I'd even fired all my rounds. The entire bandit crew lay in the dust, their riders had bolted off some distance apart from the few that had taken bullets from some sloppier shots by the guards. Even so, I sprinted back to my own rider and mounted up, then hurried down to the site of the failed raid. It wasn't a certain thing that they'd all been killed in the firefight and I was first on the scene before any of the guards were able to make their way there, so I switched to my revolver and started a cautious inspection of the fallen. If any were even barely alive and could still reach a gun it was likely they'd try to take any of us with them they could just for spite.

It wasn't a pretty scene. It was downright grizzly, but at least we'd done about as clean a job of defending ourselves as we could have. I knew a couple of my shots had gone wide but where they'd hit they'd hit bandits rather than riders. To their credit, the guards had done a pretty clean job of it too; where they'd first hit riders they'd taken down the bandits themselves on subsequent shots. For a moment I thought we were totally clear with no surviving bandits, dubious as it was to be proud of that, albeit necessary. I almost started to relax until I caught a bit of movement out the corner of my eye.

My revolver was aimed in an instant, my body turned and gone down to an evasive crouch. Someone had gone down when their rider had been shot out from under them and was now pinned under the dead creature. The only surviving bandit from what I'd already seen. I cocked my gun and crept closer, doing what I could to keep the dead rider between me and the bandit's line of sight. When I came around and levelled my barrel at the survivor's head though, ready to fire at the slightest hostile twitch, I'll admit I hesitated. I was caught off guard with surprise, enough that it could've cost me my life.

She was a bobcat, but what startled me so much was her age. She couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen years old. The fury and bile in her eyes was enough to convince me she would've shot me regardless if she could've, and all that seemed to save me was that her gun had flown wide of her grip when her rider went down. I could see it in the dust well out of reach, a cheap-looking short-barrel revolver.

She was struggling under her rider, pushing at the carcass with both hands and hissing as though she wanted to unleash a landslide of unkind words at me if only she could draw in enough breath to do so. More rage than sense right then it seemed like, or the gun pointed at her face might have convinced her to take it a bit easier. I kept half an eye on her hands but they only seemed interested in trying to push aside the dead rider, not going for any hidden weapon. Maybe that rusty short-shot was all she'd had on her. Out of habit I kept my gun levelled at her while I walked a few steps and picked up hers, slipping it into a pocket of my coat.

I should've put a bullet in her then. I knew how to make it quick and clean, and I've already told you how far mercy goes with bandits in the wastelands. I had every reason to pull the trigger.

But I didn't.

I was still stood over her a few moments later when the wolves that made up most of the caravan guard rode up to the scene to scavenge anything useful from the dead that could be sold in town. The pack father, Erik, rode straight to me and dismounted, quickly spotting an unusual situation. He looked down at the trapped bobcat, who had exhausted herself somewhat by now in her struggling, then up at me, boring into me with that cool wolf-stare of his. He didn't need to say anything; the question was obvious. The other wolves paused in their corralling of the riders and scavenging of bandit gear, all looking to us as they picked up on the silent confrontation.

I swallowed. I wasn't a pushover, but you don't stare down a mature wolf easily no matter who you are. "She's young. Disarmed. Ain't right to just kill her."

"She's a bandit."

"I know that. But... someone this young doesn't come to the life by choice. Probably abducted and forced into it. We've just killed off her entire crew. If we bring her with us, maybe she's got a shot at a better life."

Erik kept holding me with that stare. Around us I could feel the tension in the air as the rest of his pack watched, ready to respond to any command he gave in an instant, whether it was a motion to just shoot the girl or even me. I didn't think he'd go that far, there wasn't any reason to, but I was fighting hard against myself not to just back down. And I still couldn't say exactly why.

Between us, the bobcat girl lay on the ground but was now gazing up at the two of us, seeming to have calmed enough to realise that her fate was being battled over and that she wasn't getting a say in it.

After what might have been only a matter of seconds but felt like a small eternity, Erik relaxed. "We'll need to clear it with Jack. And she'll be your responsibility. My pack is still guarding the caravan, and that includes from her if need be." I nodded my agreement, taking his meaning. If she did anything to put us at risk, they wouldn't hesitate to gun her down. It would be up to me to make sure she didn't.

As the wolf turned away without further word to help the others with the scavenging, I realised it was up to me to get the bobcat out from under her dead rider too. This was my stupid idea and the wolves weren't wildly interested in helping out, which was fair enough. I crouched down beside her and was a little surprised to find her again staring acid at me. I hadn't exactly expected an outpouring of boundless gratitude, but even so.

"In case you missed that, kiddo, I just saved your life. Showing mercy to bandits isn't generally the way things are done out here unless you're looking for a knife in the back. I ain't looking for a knife in the back. None of us are, and you heard the big guy there, pretty much anyone in this caravan will put a bullet in you without hesitation if you give 'em a reason."

She managed to catch enough breath to hiss out a response. "Why fakking bother then? If I'm just another bandit you may as well put me down same as all the others."

I raised an eyebrow. Some lip on this one. "Is that what you want?"

"The fak does it matter what I want?"

"Because I'm fakkin' asking you what you want."

"Tell you what I don't want; you acting all high and mighty about sparing my life and expecting me to spend every breath from now 'til forever thanking you for it in all manner of ways I'd rather not. I ain't got much dignity but I'd rather keep what little I've got."

"I ain't expecting any such thing, so put your fur down. Let me tell you what I am expecting. Or with what a bundle of compressed sass you seem to be, I'll settle for 'hoping for.' How about you just spend _one_breath saying thanks for sparing your life, then we can get on with things. You travel along with our caravan, you behave yourself, no stealing, no attacking folk, no tryin' to escape because we're in the middle of the wastelands and your old bandit pals are gone so there's nowhere to go and it'd be a dumb fak move anyway. In return I'll look after you and make sure you're treated fairly, and when we get to town I'll help find you some better life to move into than banditry."

She gave an annoyed sigh. "Fine." Then she widened her eyes and spread her mouth wide in the biggest, sweetest, most phony smile I've ever seen. "Golly gee thank you ever so much for sparing my life kind mister." The smile vanished immediately as though her face couldn't stand to hold the shape one instant longer than necessary. "Now will you help me out from under this cactus-fakkin' carcass already?"

I couldn't help but smirk, crouching down and bracing myself against the dead rider, starting to lift it up as much as I could. "Help out all you can, and drag yourself out whenever you've got the space. And don't do anything stupid like make a grab for a weapon--"

"Yeah yeah, the wolf guards are all looking for an excuse and there's nowhere to go anyway, I got it." She grunted as she pushed upward against dead rider. It was slow progress but between the two of us we managed to lift it enough that she was able to start squirming slowly out from underneath the mass, and eventually managed it. Both of us sat on the ground against the carcass to catch our breath for a few moments. Despite my exertion I kept an eye on her, realising how close we were and waiting to see if she'd make a grab for my gun or knife, or her own small gun that I'd pocketed earlier. She didn't.

Once we'd recovered a bit I stood up. Offered her a hand which she just glared at, then stood up herself. I shrugged. "Any other weapons on you?"

She shook her head and held her arms out, turning around once. She had torn trousers, bare paws, and a plain shirt. No pockets in the trousers, which were to snug to hide much, just a belt with an empty holster from the small pistol I'd already collected and no spare bullets. Her shirt was also reasonably snug, enough that I was confident I would've been able to spot the bulges from anywhere a knife or second gun might've been hiding. "I wasn't exactly high in the ranks. All they'd give me was that rusty trash that can't hit a barn at ten paces. Keep it if you want."

I started walking back toward my rider and motioned her to come with. I opened my mouth to ask how she fell in with a bandit crew like that, but then thought better of it. Chances are there was a story there, probably a personal and painful one. Most stories involving bandits tended to be personal and painful. So instead I asked what her name was.

"They call me Spit."

I glanced over at her with an eyebrow raised, but she was already staring at me challengingly, having known the question, or at least a questioning look, would be coming. So I just shrugged. "Well Spit, I'm J. Cole Hawkins. Just Cole's fine." I grabbed the reins of my rider and started walking it back to the caravan alongside my new friend.

When we got to the lead wagon, Jack was waiting with a curious expression, that querying prairie dog head tilt accentuated by the broad brim of his hat. "Funny lookin' haul you got there, Cole. Care to explain?"

"She's the only survivor of the bandit crew. Found her pinned under her dead rider. She's young, Jack, folk this young don't tend to run with bandit crews by choice. Ain't pried to learn her full story yet but I'm willing to take responsibility for her. It feels like she deserves better than a bullet in the head, I was thinkin' bring her with us to Dust Valley and I'd try to find her some path to a better life than whatever she's had out here with these poor bastards." I nodded back toward the dead bandits.

Jack looked thoughtful. "Don't imagine Erik thought too much of that. Wolves having a pretty set way of doing things and all."

"I talked him 'round."

The prairie dog raised an eyebrow. "Cole, you are the only 'yote I ever met brave or dusty enough to actually stand up to a pack father wolf. Erik in particular ain't one to be swayed by most."

"I don't exactly go around looking for excuses to do so. And it honestly was a case of convincing him, not having a big dominance battle or confrontation or whatever. Erik and his whole pack are good folk and good at what they do, and we're in the middle of a run. You know I'd never go looking to undermine him or put the caravan at risk."

Jack nodded approvingly. "Welp, you know your stuff I guess. You already said it, but yeah, looking after her and making sure she doesn't cause any trouble is your responsibility. Along with the scouting responsibilities I hired you for."

"No argument. I'll make it work."

Jack nodded, satisfied. He looked up then, watching the wolves return with the riders and gear scavenged from the dead bandits. "Mmm. The spoils of the wastelands. It's uncomfortable business, but we can sell the extra riders and gear in town to bolster our profits. Bigger cut for all of us, and leaving it all here out of some sort of respect for the dead, well, it'll just get covered by dust. Same as anything else." He gave a sad shrug. "Pragmatism gets rewarded more than sentimentality."

I had to nod my agreement. "The bandits had a camp set up in that valley they rode from. From what I saw they were getting desperate, probably not a lot of spare provisions, but may be worth a look."

"Mmm. Once we've stowed all this I'll send out a few more folks to check it for anything further worth grabbing. You willing to head back out with them to be on overlook duty?"

"Of course." I glanced over at the girl... Spit, apparently... and frowned a bit. "You reckon it's safe to leave the girl here with the caravan while I do?"

Jack frowned, taking my meaning. "I think you'll struggle to find anyone riding with this caravan who hasn't lost somebody to a bandit attack somewhere in their life. Most folk are gonna have an easier time looking at her and seeing a captured bandit than someone being rescued from the bandit life. They'll feel some kind of way toward her about that. I like to think I keep a solid crew, but... if you want to be absolutely certain she'll stay safe, taking her with you is probably the better option, if you can."

I nodded, then reached into my pocket and handed Spit's cruddy little pistol up to Jack so it would be one fewer weapon to keep track of on the off chance she might still get tempted later on to try something stupid. I then turned to climb up on my rider, motioning to Spit to get on in front of me. "Mount up, kiddo." She did so, not looking too happy about it, but then she wasn't looking too thrilled with anything at the moment. Guess I couldn't much blame her.

As we rode back toward the ridge that had made such an effective lookout point for me before, she finally spoke up. "So basically the entire caravan, not just the guards, will kill me given any excuse. Swell."

"Tough break kid. It's like Jack said though, pretty much everyone you could talk to in the whole caravan has one reason or another to hate bandits, probably lost someone to 'em at one point or another. And right now they're most likely to see you as 'another bandit' rather than someone who never was one by choice."

"You're going all in with this assumption that I been forced into it, aren't you? What if I'm actually a savage cold-blooded killer, what if you're wrong?"

"Am I wrong?"

She didn't say anything for a while. It felt like a reasonable confirmation that I was right, at least it'd do for now. When she did speak again, it was on a different subject. "It sure looked pretty confrontational to me."

"Sorry?"

"With the wolf pack leader. You told the caravan boss that you just 'convinced' him and didn't have any sort of confrontation for dominance or anything. But from what I saw it looked like a pretty fakkin' intense stare down."

"Ah. Nah that was more just a matter of... you gotta understand how to talk to wolves. Especially if you're not a wolf yourself. And double especially if you're a coyote of all things. They have an easy time instinctively seeing my sorta folk as lesser than themselves, so if I want to argue a point against a wolf, particularly a big strong pack father like Erik, I've really gotta show him that I'm willing to stand my ground and earn his respect that way. If I'd shown fear or tried to convince him by being all meek and submissive, he'd've probably just shot you himself right there. I and whatever argument I was trying to make wouldn't have been seen as being worth his time. Or rather, the risk to the caravan and his pack."

"Cold guy."

"Maybe a little, but it's not even that really. Wolves are pack folk, and as such their top priority is keeping the pack safe. Especially if you're the pack father, it's your business to look after everyone in your care. So wolves tend to do things by set ways, often come across as kind of unapproachable to those outside their pack, especially other species. In your case, you were an unknown and a bandit to their eyes, so letting you live was an unnecessary risk to the pack, thus our little debate. I've been around enough that I've developed a decent understanding for how to deal with them and be taken seriously, but it can always be a bit of a gamble."

"...And you thought it was worth making that gamble over my life? Just because, what, I'm young and you inferred a bunch of stuff from that?"

"Guess so. And 'cause I'm a nice guy."

She smirked a little. "Personally I still think you're a stupid dusty fakker, but I ain't gonna argue too much with being alive, so eh."

I grinned a little. We'd reached the foot of the ridge now and the rider started to climb up the gravelly slope. We were about halfway up it before she spoke again, this time opening with a bit of a sigh. "You ain't wrong, really. About how I fell in with that bandit crew. I didn't choose it. I used to live with my folks in a homestead outside of some town... I don't even know its name or where it is from here. A bit closer to the mountains, so out west somewhere I guess. We did ranching mostly, and lived pretty far from the town. More land to work with but more vulnerable too. About two years ago these bandits raided us for our hoofers and anything else we had around that they thought would be worth plundering. Killed both my parents. I would've rather died with them, would've felt easier I guess, but I didn't. The bandits lost two of their own in the fight, so they were angry by the time they took the house and had me pinned against a wall. I got to hear 'em argue between each other how they thought I'd be most 'useful' to the crew. You know. I probably didn't help my case much by being all defiant and angry, kept spitting in their faces any chance I got, which they responded to by punching the fak out of me. In the end they decided to drag me along and make me part of their crew to help make up for the ones they'd lost. I guess it was better than just being used and killed, but it still seemed ridiculous. I was a kid, didn't know how to shoot, didn't much want to, but I guess if you ride with a crew like that for long enough and don't know anything else it starts to seep in. They managed to convince me that they'd shown me a great mercy by sparing me and letting me join their crew, and that I should be grateful for it. Named me 'Spit' after how friendly I'd been when they first captured me. And sort of... pushed their own view of the world on me, I guess, that the world's a brutal place and everyone is always out to get you. I guess that's a lot of how you justify being a bandit. It never really felt right to me at all, but when everything's about trying to earn your next meal you stop fussing over the philosophy as much." She fell quiet for a moment then, looking down at the ground as it passed beneath our rider's hooves. "I sort of thought they'd convinced me completely, and over the last two years I haven't thought about it much. I guess today having you spare my life and all is sort of the first chance I've had to give it any thought, wake up those old buried feelings about there being more to life than preying on folk and fighting for scraps."

I kept silent through this, letting her talk through as much as she was willing to, but she fell silent again then, the essentials of her story told. We were about at the ridge top by now, so I reined in our rider and dismounted, then reached up to help her down. I stayed quiet as I led us to the crest of the ridge and found a good nook to position myself in. She'd just opened up a lot, and I didn't want to jump in too soon with some sort of poorly-thought-out platitude that might undo the trust she'd shown in telling me her tale. In the valley below, the bandit camp appeared empty as several of our wolves rode up to it, starting to look for any supplies or salvage that would be worth collecting and adding to the caravan's haul. Keeping my eyes trained on the camp and the hills around it, I finally responded.

"I know that saying something like 'I'm sorry for what you've endured' doesn't come close to covering it, but it's there all the same. Some folk get desperate enough that banditry can feel like the only real option, world being as desolate as it is, but there are a lot of better ways to live. A lot of towns are kind of the other way around - the desolation brings people together, makes them look out for each other and come together as a community to make sure everyone has what they need. As a rule people don't prey on the weak or fight over scraps. I spend more time out in the wastelands myself, but I still have good relationships with folks on the caravan, and friends scattered across the lands I roam. Point is, there are other ways than what you've been taught. If you've been with those bandits for a couple years then they've had plenty of time to screw with your brain, and that ain't gonna change overnight, but it sounds like you're already at least open to looking at things in a different way, and that can take a pretty big leap and a lot of courage."

Spit wrinkled her nose a little. "Yeah alright, don't butter me up too much." She settled in beside me on the ridge top and gazed down at her former camp, naturally keeping low to avoid notice. "Weird watching your guards scavenge what was 'my home' of sorts not that long ago."

"I imagine so. Brace yourself kiddo, but I imagine there will be a lot of changes to deal with over the next while." She just nodded quietly in response as we watched the systematic ransacking of the bandit camp. "Have you got anything personal down there that you want to rescue and bring along?"

"Nah. The bandits didn't exactly let me bring a photo of my parents or my childhood plushie along when they dragged me from my home, and since then... nah. Nothing to get attached to. The only things that have been 'mine' at all are these crappy hand-me-down clothes and that rusty hand-me-down pistol. Which I hate and never want to see again, by the way, so as far as I care your caravan can absolutely sell it for scrap value when you get where you're going, if it gets you a little more coin."

I nodded, having expected as much. I kept scanning the area, especially the other ridge tops surrounding the campsite, and though I occasionally squinted at something, all I ever saw were scrubby bushes twitching in the mild breeze. Nothing to suggest any more bandits or anything else of concern. The wolves were efficient, finding what the bandit camp had in terms of spare provisions and water and any other useful supplies and materials and packing it all up to bring it back to the caravan. It didn't look like very much, all told, showing that the attack on us had indeed been driven largely by desperation. I waited with Spit until the guards had left the valley and were well on their way back to the caravan, just to be sure there wouldn't be any last-moment attacks from the rear, but it seemed all the bandits had gone down in the attack.

Spit and I rode back as the scavenged supplies were being loaded up on the wagons, checking in with Jack. "Everything seems clear."

Jack nodded. "New stuff is about loaded up, looks like. You good to head out on patrol again? Not that I expect there to be another bandit crew this close or anything, but..."

"Better safe, yeah. Want to top up my canteen and get a quick bite to eat, then I'll head out. It's what you're paying me for after all." Jack and I exchanged grins and I rode back a few wagons, Spit still positioned in front of me in the saddle and doing her best to avoid making eye contact with anyone. I felt bad that it was necessary, but the girl seemed to have a solid sense of self-preservation anyway. I topped up my water supply, took a long drink from it, then topped it up again. I also pocketed a healthy stash of jerky, considering that I wanted enough food and water to give Spit a bit of a meal too, but feeding her from the caravan's supplies right here in front of everyone felt like it'd be asking for trouble. So I rode us out ahead while the wagons prepared to get underway, getting a good lead out front before heading toward the low hills off to the caravan's right side this time. I offered Spit my canteen and she drunk eagerly from it, then we both munched quietly on strips of jerky while I patrolled. It was just as before, riding just below the ridgeline and sweeping my view broadly around the surrounding landscape, making occasional scouts over the top of the ridge to be sure the other side held no surprises. We seemed to be alone out here again. Minus my new companion, of course.

For a long time we didn't talk. I didn't want to push her about anything, and she recognised that my scouting involved a bit of listening and focus. For several hours I just went about my normal tasks nearly as I would any other time, with her quiet presence in the saddle being the only real difference.

It was only as the sun was getting quite low on the horizon, the sky beginning to redden as the caravan found a good spot to stop for the night and I was making a final large full-circle around it to look for any possible signs of danger, that she began to speak again. It wasn't much, just the odd question here and there. Asking about my scouting, what I was looking for, what danger signs tended to present themselves and what different ones meant. I answered her questions simply enough at first, like most folk never minding a chance to talk about what I was good at, but after the third or fourth question it occurred to me that this could be a particularly good thing for her. She was not only willingly communicating but expressing interest in something, so the more I could do to support that, the better. My answers got a little more thorough as I thought back to my younger days as an apprentice, learning tracking and scouting and wasteland survival from a weather-beaten old jackrabbit named Isaac Deadwood. I tried not to get carried away and bore her, but I was happy to take advantage of her curiosity as long as it lasted and try to teach her some of what I knew. She'd spent plenty of time out here in the wastelands with that bandit crew after all, but had always been dependent on them without a chance to learn how to actually survive on her own. It wasn't something one learned quickly, but maybe I could help her make a start.

We finished the final dusk circuit and made it back to the caravan as the sun vanished behind the hills. The crew had a campfire going already, using nuggets of charcoal created mostly from those scrubby little wasteland shrubs, and were starting to cook a stew for everyone. Spit wisely stuck close to me as I reported in with Jack, then tethered my rider and saw to its care and feeding before heading to the fire for some dinner. I'd been on good terms with most of the crew so far, but it was clear from the looks we got that no one was very interested in speaking with or being near to Spit, and by extension me. Maybe that would heal a bit over the next few days, maybe it wouldn't. Either way I'd already decided that I was more interested in keeping her safe than staying friendly with everyone.

We both saw the safety in settling on our own out past the edge of the group, so Spit leaned against a wagon at the edge of the firelight while I went up to get us a bowl of stew each. As expected, nobody spoke to me but nobody challenged me either. The stew was unexciting caravan fare but after a day of scouting it tasted plenty good to us both. Afterward we found a place to settle in for the night, again doing our best to keep our distance from the others. The crew would have to deal with Spit's existence sooner or later, but this first night especially it seemed wisest to just stay out of the way as much as we could.

I needed to get us some blankets though. They were stored on one of the wagons and the ones salvaged from the bandit camp had been put there too, so I didn't reckon anyone would really object to Spit using one of those since they were more hers than anyone else's at this point anyway. When I got there a few of the caravan workers were hanging out, chatting to one another in the middle of gathering their own supplies for the night. A mix of species; a couple antelope, a mouse of some sort, and a big bison I definitely did not want to piss off. My hope was to just slip past them and grab a couple blankets and be gone, ideally before they even realised who I was.

"Oi. 'Yote."

Fak.

I'd reached the blanket store but hadn't made it back out of the area yet, so they had me nicely surrounded with my back to the wagon. I wasn't going to slip out of here without some sort of confrontation, it seemed. It was one of the antelopes who had called out, but I was keeping one eye on the bison since he was the one who could probably just grab me and snap me over his knee if he wanted. I still had my revolver on me if it came down to that, but killing fellow crew, even in self-defence, would be a good way to get myself exiled out here. So I put on my best Charming Smile and turned to face them. "Hey gents. What can I do for you?"

That same antelope seemed to be the talker of the group. "I think you know. That bandit girl don't belong here. If you don't put her down someone else will."

"That ain't quite so. Look guys, I know none of us have any love for bandits, but she hardly counts. Her crew's all dead now, and she's just a kid who was forced into the life at gunpoint. I'm just trying to help her back out of it. I think she deserves that much. Any of us would. And in any case, I've already cleared it with Jack and Erik both. She ain't exactly hired on as crew but her presence here has been approved, and she's under my care. And I am hired crew. So I'm sorry if you folks aren't loving the situation, but that's the way it is. So how about we all just agree to keep out of each others' fur and call it good? Because that's really the only way this can go."

"Bandits killed my little brother," rumbled the bison.

"And my mother," I shot back, not missing a beat. I couldn't let their anger gain momentum if I was to de-escalate this. "After stealing every hoofer our ranch had. Like I said, we've all got our reasons to hate bandits. That kid's been forced to ride as one but right now she ain't one anymore. She's a rescue case who needs a bit of looking after and a chance to do something better with her life. Once we make it to Dust Valley you never have to see her again. Until then, any problems you have with her are problems with me, Jack and Erik too. It just ain't worth it, guys."

We fell into tense silence, staring each other down. I was still holding the blankets but I kept my right hand ready to make a grab for my revolver if it came to that. I really didn't want it to. My ears were raised high through the openings in my hat, both waiting for any sign they might be about to make a move and listening for any more distant indication that someone else might try to attack Spit while I was gone. I really wanted to get the fak out of there.

"Is there a problem here?" growled a new, gruff voice. It was one of Erik's wolves, a female nearly as big and imposing as the pack father himself.

"I don't know. Is there?" I said, staring pointedly into the eyes of the problematic antelope and leaning into my partial bluff that Spit was under Erik's protection. None of the wolves would care much if Spit got killed, but if anyone attacked me trying to get to her then it became an issue of caravan security, and Erik would care about that. So it was kind of half true.

The antelope glared at me a moment longer, then turned to the wolf guard. "No. No problem," he grumbled quietly, turning to leave. The others followed after him, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The wolf turned her stare on me. "You've made things tense. Don't cause trouble."

I nodded to her, tipping my hat ruefully. "Believe me, trouble is the absolute last thing I want and I'm doing all I can to avoid it." She moved to grab a few blankets, and I turned to make my way back to Spit.

She was leaning against a wagon wheel right where I'd left her, not seeming to have encountered any trouble thankfully. I guess she knew well enough how to stay out of sight, and my confrontation had been a spur-of-the-moment thing rather than planned out. I tossed her one of the rolled up blankets, and started unrolling mine beside her. She glanced over. "That took a little while. Was there trouble?"

"Hmmf. Nearly but no. How about tomorrow we just keep the blankets with us though, so there's one less opportunity for it."

She gave a small frown and nodded, starting to unroll her own blanket. "I uh... thanks. You're going to a lot of trouble for me so... yeah."

I gave a small smile as I stowed my gear beside my blanket and got comfortable. "Don't mention it, kiddo."

* * *

Morning on the wastelands is always fakking cold and this one was no different. Spit and I got an early start, grabbing a quick breakfast and some supplies for the day and then riding off to begin the day's scouting run before most of caravan was fully awake. Best way to minimise any possibility of trouble was to just not be around. I made sure to grab us enough for lunch, so all being well the rest of the caravan wouldn't see anything of us until supper time. Hopefully given a few days the tensions would ease a little, but until then I was keen to just keep us out of sight and mind as much as possible.

We set off on a single rider, forging our way ahead of the caravan while it began to stir and prepare, before long making our way up one of nearest ridges. The country would begin to open up a bit more from here onward which should reduce risks a little. Once we made it to high ground it was easy enough to see this was true; looking back the landscape was rougher and the terrain more jagged and bunched together, while ahead it got smoother and gave way to more lazily rolling hills. No matter where you looked though, most of what you saw was dust.

Spit kept her silence for most of the morning. For the first couple hours I did too, really, I was used to doing my job alone and quietly, and I was awake enough to scout perfectly fine but not enough to carry on useful or interesting conversation. So it was a good arrangement. We started to exchange a few words here and there as lunch drew closer, and finally chatted a little over dried meat and water as we perched on a new hilltop and surveyed the landscape. It turned out she'd been building up a few questions about my scouting work here and there, and finally got around to asking them. I answered her easy enough, explaining how I decided when to move to a new ridge, or what I saw or heard or smelled that made me decide to change direction, what signs both near and far away meant what. She didn't say a lot, but I could see a bit of a spark in her eyes. She was interested. She'd spent so much time living out in the wastelands but nobody had ever gone to the trouble of teaching her anything. Of granting her that level of emotional investment.

So I started. As we ranged ahead of the caravan through the afternoon, I began to explain to her what I was doing, what signs I was reading. There's a lot of knowledge and experience and instinct that goes into reading the wastelands and listening to their ghosts, but I figured I could give her a beginning, especially as long as she was seeming interested. She kept me on my toes, too, if I said anything too personal or emotional her snark and sarcasm were always on a hair trigger. By the end of the day though it felt like we'd developed a pretty good understanding of each other, and when we got back to the caravan around nightfall there wasn't anything to report and we managed to feed ourselves and sleep without any trouble this time.

The next couple days went similar. The landscape opened up into gently rolling plains as we left the jagged country behind. Bandit raids became less likely but I scouted all the same, plus there were other threats to consider like wilders or bad weather. Once we did spot a faint dust plume out on the far horizon, and I explained to Spit the signs it gave off that I used to theorise that it was most likely a natural herd of some sort. The herd itself would be harmless but might be followed and flanked by predators, and they could pose a threat to the caravan if they got closer, whether they were true feral wilders or had once been folk more like us who'd gone dusty enough to revert. The latter wasn't hugely common, but it happened, as rough as the world was on the mind.

One late afternoon we were on a low rise and I showed her the faint pattern of ruins that could just barely be made out in a low spot in the dust, where the wind had scoured it down a little. Actual ruins weren't visible, but if you knew what to look for you could barely make out a difference in the texture of the grain and how it reflected the sunlight when it hit at just the right angle. Somewhere below the dust, the forgotten remains of whatever had once been there long ago made a sort of broad grid pattern on the landscape, each square filled with smaller shapes that had probably once been buildings. Maybe houses. You could only see a small fraction of it, but I showed her what could be seen and how it indicated the long-dead ghost of a town. I think she was particularly fascinated by it and the degree of history it hinted at. She was still good at keeping her face from showing much expression, but she had quite a few questions to ask, until I'd told her just about everything I possibly could about these particular sorts of landscape ghosts.

Finally she fell silent, and we spent a while just staring at those patterns in the dust until the sun angle lowered enough that they became invisible again, once more nothing but just another featureless dip between dunes. We were about to mount up and head back toward the caravan when she spoke.

"How did the world get like this, d'ya think? Everything's so bleak and desolate. Just... how's a world like this give rise to creatures like us? Like, we need more to survive than the world has to give. It just doesn't really make sense, with how much of a struggle everything is."

"Only the Befores know for sure. I've heard some of the better-off towns in the Riverlands supposedly have old books that fill some of the knowledge gaps, and at least in good years some people even have enough time to try and make sense of them. Way I've heard it, things just used to be a lot better. A lot more green, water rained from the sky almost everywhere at least sometimes. Not just those few spots in the mountains. There was enough food to go around and it gave people enough freedom to do more with their lives than just struggle to scrape by or prey on each other."

"I... don't think I can picture that. That's just a completely different world to this one. I wonder what could possibly happen to make that kind of change."

All I could do was shrug. "You and me both, kiddo."

* * *

We fell into a good rhythm, rising early and returning unobtrusively partway through supper, until people seemed to lose interest in giving us dirty looks during the times we were around. We kept our guard up when we were with the caravan and did all we could to stay out of the way and avoid trouble, but over the days it started to feel like we'd gotten past the most dangerous bit. I kept taking Spit out with me and teaching her about scouting as I did the work, and she stayed interested. Acidic comments from her even started to become fewer and further between, but I never pushed her about anything personal. Better to offer something personal of my own as a trade of sorts first, perhaps, and the opportunity for that arose naturally when she got asking about my background and how I got into scouting.

I told her how I grew up with good parents on the edge of a town called Greydust, how we'd farmed the land until well after well dried up and there was nothing left we could farm. How after my father died of a sickness my mother and I spent about all the savings we had on a small herd of hoofers. How I learned to shoot with my father's old rifle by defending our herd from would-be thieves, until one night we were raided in force, too many to fight off. My mother held me back and told me it was a fight we couldn't win, so we just hunkered down in the house and let them take the herd, otherwise we would've just gotten ourselves killed too. I'd hated it, not knowing how we'd survive the loss, but understood her point about it being better than losing our own lives too. It had seemed like the pragmatic choice until the same bandits came back the next night, thinking it would be an easy follow-up to raid our house for valuables and provisions. That time, we fought back. My mother got killed in the battle though, and that sent me over a dark edge into fury. I ran and grabbed my father's revolver, and the bandits hadn't expected me to be armed at that point. Their surprise allowed me to drop four of them, sending the final two turning and running. My aim with a revolver wasn't as good back then. I took down those last two with the rifle as they rode away, though.

I was 22 years old then. I owned a house and a bit of land but had no way I could farm or ranch it on my own, and with my parents both dead I no longer felt like there was a lot binding me to Greydust. I collected what money I could from the bounty on the bandits and selling their gear, put my family farm on the market, and used the money I had to buy myself an apprenticeship as a tracker and scout. Isaac Deadwood put up with me for a couple years, taught me everything he could, and we ranged together for a number of jobs until I felt ready to strike out on my own. And I've been doing the work ever since.

Spit listened, taking it all in. Finally she asked, "So I guess you've got every reason to hate on bandits pretty bad yourself, eh?"

"Only the ones who decide to be bandits."

"Hm. So why 'Cole'? What's the J stand for?"

"Jeremiah. Which I've got nothing against, mind, but it's kinda a mouthful. 'Cole' is nice and simple."

"You could use 'Jeremy' or 'Jerry' I guess."

"Maybe, but they both sound kinda... cutesy. I'm supposed to be a tough and rugged wastelander that people want to hire to keep their caravans safe or whatever. 'Cole' works better for that."

She smiled just a little. "Yeah okay, that's fair."

Silence, for a while longer. Dust still covered everything, the landscape was only very gently rolling now, but in the far distance up ahead we could start to make out the occasional rocky tower. Dust Valley was out in that rocky country, so we should only be another few days out. Spit surprised me when she next spoke. She had a way of thinking for a long time about what she wanted to say before coming out with it. When she did, it was almost like she was just picking up where a previous conversation had left off, even if it had been hours since.

"I... I killed folk, Cole. First couple times it were captives the crew took during a raid or something. They put a gun in my hand and made me put 'em down. I didn't want to, obviously, I was crying, tried to throw away the gun. They hit me, which I didn't care so much about, but when they started threatening me with all sorts of other things... saying what they'd do to me if I didn't obey... I dunno. It finally scared me too much I guess. It's sort of funny, I can hardly actually remember the actual moment, just... being so scared one moment, and then staring down at a dead body the next. And it was like my memory of the noise and kick of the gun only caught up with me after it had happened. I didn't want to do it the second time either but they just had to start in with the same threats again... After a few more times, once I stopped fighting, the boss told me to keep the gun. Since then I've been part of the attacks... not too sure how many folk I actually killed since then, I aimed and I shot and all but usually the whole crew were riding and shooting too, and you saw that tiny gun they gave me. I reckon they were using me more as cannon fodder than as a proper member of the crew anyway."

I sighed, nodding softly. "I reckon you're right, most like. A crew like that benefits from extra bodies, extra noise when they're running a raid. Makes for more fear. Not all the bodies need be decent gun hands though. Some sure, the rest are there as a balance between having a large enough crew to hit the targets you want, without being so many you can't keep 'em fed and watered."

"You seem to know about this stuff. Were you... I mean, did you ever actually ride with a bandit crew or something?"

I shook my head. "Fak no. Just spent a long time fighting and defending against them. I guess the two best ways to learn about something are to be that something or to be the complete opposite of it."

She was quiet for a few moments, seeming to collect herself and get her emotions under control. Then her old self was back. "Wow. That's pretty fakkin' deep, Cole. You really got the crazy old hermit of the wastelands thing sorted out don't you?"

"Damn right, kiddo. All this tracker stuff is just a side gig until I make it big in the crazy old hermit business." For a second she even grinned. It felt like progress. "Listen, it's awful that they put that gun in your hand and forced you to be the one squeezing that trigger. Everything those bandits put you through is stuff they forced on you, but did in such a way to make it feel like it's on your own conscience. It ain't fair, but all you've done is what you had to in order to survive."

"You could say the same of the bandits, depending on how you look at it."

"I get what you mean, but nah. They chose that life, they chose to stay with it, and they chose to force you into it. It's not to say I'm without sympathy, because yeah, maybe once upon a time some of them were forced into it the way you were or through some other desperate circumstance, but... point is, you shouldn't have to carry the load they forced on you. We all end up with loads to carry, the weight on our souls of things we wish we hadn't done, but your stint as a bandit shouldn't count against you, the way I'm seeing it. You know the bandits forced you to do what you did and you didn't really have a choice."

"Yeah, reckon so... it's just, even knowing that, I remember the feeling of squeezing the trigger, the kick of the gun, the smell of the powder and blood, the sight and sounds of those folks falling dead. I can tell myself that it wasn't my choice all I want, but... I don't think anything can stop me from feeling that weight."

I nodded. "I get it. That's why those bandits were all nasty gravel fakkers and I'm content with the role I played in gunning them down. Not that I'm ever eager to go ending lives, but... those ones sound like folk the world's just as well without."

Spit nodded firmly at that, displaying some of the strongest and most genuine emotion I'd yet seen from her. "Believe me, it is. And... you know. I kinda said it already but thanks for not gunning me down too."

I smiled. "Sure thing."

* * *

Our routine continued until we must've been only a day or two out from Dust Valley. Spit was always quick with a sassy or sarcastic remark if I earned one, but for the most part we ended up getting on pretty well. Largely moving in silence, sometimes talking, mostly involving me imparting little bits of wasteland knowledge here and there.

It was actually Spit who spotted it first. I would've in another moment, but when we crested the low hill my eyes were scanning a different direction. The rock formations around Dust Valley were getting closer, and if we were to encounter any more bandits they'd probably be somewhere in there. Spit was the one gazing over the rolling hills to the north though, into the gentle breeze.

"Cole, hey... that's not...?"

I turned and looked where she was looking. The horizon had a strange darkness to it that didn't fit with the direction and time of day, and something about it just looked wrong. The fur on the back of my neck immediately stood up, and I imagined Spit experienced the same thing. "Fak... yeah I think it is. Good spot. Let's hold here a moment and try to gauge it..."

"It's upwind of us. Almost exactly."

I frowned as I felt the wind on my face, deceptively steady and easy at the moment, and nodded. It was blowing toward us exactly from that dark patch. "...Yeah. Alright, we need to get back to the caravan, now. Reckon we've got an hour at most."

Spit held on to me as we abandoned our usual scouting route and made a straight gallop back toward the caravan. Jack's eyes were fixed on us as we drew close, knowing something was wrong. "What is it?"

"Storm. Coming at us from the north, probably going to hit within the hour. We need to get the caravan secured now."

Jack flashed a quick frown, but then lost no time in reining in the riders pulling the lead wagon and then standing up and turning around to call back down the line. "Oi! Storm inbound from north, secure the caravan! I want all wagons brought into formation, all canvases tied down and triple checked, all riders protected. We've probably got less than an hour folks so get on it."

One of the things good caravan folk know is how to secure for a storm. Everyone acted quickly, bringing all the wagons into a U-shaped formation that time has taught us best channels the worst of the dust around the outer edge. The inside of the U, downwind, would get scoured by wind but it would mean less deposition there, so however bad the storm might get the wagons should remain exposed enough there for us to get at them and work them loose after it all. As for us, all the people and our riders had to take shelter underneath the wagons once we were sure they were as secured as they possibly could be. Spit and I both helped with this, tying down canvases over the cargo and reinforcing everything with the best knots and straps we had. In preparing for a storm, all grievances were forgotten and nobody minded working alongside me or even Spit. Her bandit crew had clearly been through a few storms in their time, as it was obvious she knew the usual routine without having to be told. Being smaller and lighter than a lot of the caravan crew she was able to scamper atop the wagons and secure cargo in half the time it would've taken some of the older hands, myself included. I was impressed, but not so much that I let it distract me from doing everything that needed doing. She was good with the riders too, keeping them calm and helping fit purpose-made cloth masks over their muzzles to protect their noses and mouths from inhaling too much dust, and covering their eyes to hopefully prevent them from spooking too badly. Convincing them to lie down and shelter under the wagons was always an awkward task but Spit seemed adept with it, and the riders were well-trained for hunkering down in a storm.

We timed it well. We were finishing up and just about ready for it, as the wind began to rise and that ominous roar began to shake the sky. The entire northern horizon was dark now and we could see it looming over the nearest hill to the north, and just as we all scrambled under the wagons for cover I got a glimpse of that unstoppable wall of dust and sand cresting the hill. The sight never failed to make me tremble with dread and awe, even after all the years I'd been doing this work and all the storms I'd seen.

We hunkered down and sheltered ourselves and each other as best we could, strips or small bags of fabric tied over our muzzles to try and filter out the worst of the dust. Precious water was spent dampening the masks to make them more effective. Anyone lucky enough to own a pair of goggles wore them, the rest of us just tried to keep our eyes shut tight. Spit and I stayed particularly close and clung to each other, but as the wind roared and the sand and dust whipped around the wagons and blasted at us wherever it found an opening, nobody really cared who was touching who. We were all just bodies pressed together, instinctively hiding from something that was far larger and more powerful and frightening than anything we ourselves cold ever dream of creating.

I couldn't say how long it blew around us for. When you see a storm coming your way you just shelter, and there's never a good way to tell how large it is. Nothing you can really do about it even if you did know, besides wait and hope. Wait and hope.

One nice thing about the horrifying roar of a dust storm is that it's loud enough to cover up the sound should you find yourself scared enough to whimper for your momma or some other loved one. For my part, I've been out in the wastelands long enough that I've come to terms with storms and haven't been that scared of them for a good few years, but I've had my moments. Just to put it in perspective though, if our own big bad guard wolf Erik had been overheard whimpering and trembling at the height of a storm like this I don't think anyone would hold it against him or think any less of him. Storms are terrifying and that's just an accepted truth out here.

Eventually, things did start to quiet down. The wind eased, the roar quieted, the scouring grew less painful. We waited longer though, not in a rush to emerge until we were sure the danger was past. When it finally was, the silence was downright eerie. We started to work our way out from under the wagons then, digging first ourselves and then each other and our riders back into daylight, coughing the dust from our lungs because no mask could keep all of that fine substance out, taking cautious drinks from our canteens. We needed water but we didn't want to be careless with it.

All told, we'd weathered it pretty well. Everything in sight, including ourselves, the wagons, and even the sky above, seemed to be the same reddish-brown colour, completely saturated by the dust, but there seemed to be no real harm beyond that. Everyone was accounted for, the riders seemed to have come through just fine as well, sturdy creatures as they were, so we went to checking the wagons. Many wheels had obviously become half-buried in the dust, especially on the windward side, but it was nothing that took more than a few minutes to dig and pull free. In the end, the total damage to the caravan seemed to be that two wagons had had corners of their canvases pull loose, resulting in a heavy coating of dust to the cargo underneath which probably wouldn't ruin it, just involve some cleaning; a couple other wagons had their canvases work their way loose a little for a similar but lesser result, and Jack's signature straw hat had been blown away despite his best efforts. It became apparent that its loss would mean he'd now be wearing a signature unhappy scowl until he could find a suitable replacement in Dust Valley.

Frankly it was an excellent result. A storm could ruin a caravan if it hit hard and without much warning. We'd been both lucky and well-prepared. As we got to shaking the dust out of our clothing and making ready to get underway again, Erik's voice sounded from close enough behind me to make me jump.

"Hey."

I turned to face him, but was surprised to find that he wasn't looking at me. I turned to see where his attention was directed and found him looking at Spit, who was staring back at him warily. "...Yeah?"

"You were good with the wagons. And the riders. Saw you securing them. It was good work, and all the knots you did held fast."

It clearly wasn't what she was expecting. Nor what I was expecting for that matter. She blinked, then nodded to the large wolf. "Thanks. It just... needing doing." Erik nodded, then wandered off. I looked around at the wagons. For all I could tell he was right about which ones she'd worked on, while the ones that had come open had been secured by hired crew, but I was impressed he'd been able to actually keep track during the scramble to prepare for the storm. I certainly hadn't been watching.

"He's right, from all I was able to see anyway." Jack's voice chimed in. "You did good, kid. Thanks. I can't speak for the whole caravan but as far as I'm concerned you pulled your weight when it was needed, did better than some of the folk I'm actually paying to be here. So you've earned yourself a share, once we pull in. Should be tomorrow if there are no more surprises."

Spit clearly wasn't expecting this either, and it caught her off guard enough that her eyes went wide and she seemed to stumble over herself with the lack of anything sarcastic to say. "I... really?"

"Sure as dust. Don't cause no trouble between here and Dust Valley but Cole here has done his bit to keep anything from brewing, and I imagine most folk will be at least a little less prickly now if they were paying any attention. Surviving a storm together has a way of bringing folk together somewhat."

She nodded, still looking kind of stunned. "I never wanted any trouble. Just sort of... wanted to not get killed."

Jack chuckled. "Well, you and Cole have both done a good job of not giving anyone a reason. He tells me you're the one who actually spotted this storm, too."

"It was hard to miss. He would've seen it himself in another moment, I was just looking the right direction when we came over the hill is all."

"Still counts." He grinned, then squinted a little as the sky began to clear and the sunlight became brighter. He reached up to adjust his usual hat, then scowled at its absence. "You two up to a bit more scouting before we make camp for the evening? Would be good to cover a little more ground, and those rocks could potentially be a bit bandit-y if we're unlucky."

I nodded. "No worries. Let us just water up and then we'll ride out ahead." Jack nodded, and Spit and I went through our now-familiar preparation before taking a rider and ranging out ahead where we'd weave our way among the rockier hills the caravan was headed toward. Hopefully any bandit crews that might be in the area would be unprepared for an ambush after the storm had rolled through, but if there were any they might be thinking the same of us so it made sense to be sure. There were only a few hours to sunset and we didn't note any sign of trouble during that time, though given the rugged country we were extra careful. As the sky grew dark and I finally turned the rider back toward where the caravan was stopping for the night, circled at the base of a cliff, I nodded to Spit. "You done good today, kiddo."

"It was just tying down some canvas and such..."

"It was more than that. You jumped into action when the caravan was facing a crisis, and you acted like crew. Better than, in some cases, and keeping riders calm when a storm's coming ain't always easy. It was good, and seems it got noticed by the right people. Even Erik complimented you, that's rare. And Jack's officially made you part of the crew now. I'd be real surprised if anyone gives you any more grief after today."

"That's gotta be good for you too, I'm sure this job hasn't exactly gone normally for you, with all you've had to do to keep me out of trouble."

I smirked. "What do you want me to say, kid, that you've been a total pain in the tail? Ain't been too bad really. I've spent less time nattering with the other caravan folk than I might have, sure, but it's been nice having somebody to talk with on the scouting loops. Listen, you're a good kid, Spit. You'll land on your paws. You've already been showing that you can."

She was quiet for a while as we rode. The sun dipped gradually below the rocky hills as we made our way toward the campfire that the crew was starting to get going in the circle of wagons. Spit mumbled something that I could quite make out, so I perked my ears toward her. "Mmm?"

"...My name's Jane."

* * *

All of us deserved a break after facing that storm the previous day, but it was agreed over dinner that given the rough terrain it would be good to have a few people on guard duty through the night. The wolves agreed to split the work among themselves, and I volunteered to help out with one of the shifts. Jane offered as well, to which Erik fixed her with that expressionless wolf stare for only a moment before nodding. We divided the night up and agreed that most would stay ready at the camp, while a few of us scrambled to nearby clifftops, particularly the one our camp was pitched at the foot of, to keep an eye on as much of the surrounding terrain as possible. If anyone tried to creep toward us during the night one of the watchers could call an alarm and rouse the camp. Jane and I were roused sometime in the night for our shift and joined by one of the wolves on our makeshift watchtower, staying there until the sun rose. Happily, nothing came of it. The terrain posed a risk in the number of ways it could hide an ambush, and the proximity to a town could attract bandits eager to hit caravans coming and going, but Dust Valley was prosperous enough to hire its own rangers and keep the nearby country relatively safe.

Breakfast tasted particularly rewarding after the early start and long guard session in the cold night. Since we'd be making it to town today, there was also some incentive to use up any of the perishable rations that wouldn't be worth selling or keeping around for the next run, so breakfast was a bit larger than usual as well. Jane and I scouted as we made our final approach to Dust Valley, with a couple of the wolves helping out on their own riders as well to account for the terrain, but we were mostly feeling pretty safe by now. Even so, the town coming into view was a sight that filled us all with relief.

Dust Valley's an interesting one. The town is actually built atop a rocky hill overlooking the valley it takes its name from, but they've set up wells down in the valley to supply water. A bunch of windmills are set up on the ridge top among the buildings to power the pumps that bring the water first up out of the ground and then uphill to the town. It's a fairly ambitious setup that requires more maintenance and mechanical know-how than you're likely to get in a lot of wasteland towns, but access to that much water keeps the town big and healthy, allowing them to grow surplus grain and livestock and making it a good trade hub. As it came into view for us, we could see that some of the wind turbines were missing blades and people were up repairing them, no doubt damage from yesterday's storm.

It's always a good feeling for a caravan, knowing that you've made it successfully, the job's done, you've got all your cargo and are about to get paid. It'd be up to Jack to negotiate specific prices for most of the goods we were bringing in, but there wasn't too much uncertainty there since he made this run regularly and was well-known and trusted by the locals. From our perspective on the crew, we'd signed contracts that guaranteed a certain amount of pay so we didn't generally have to worry about market fluctuations and the like. We all stayed with the wagons for the final roll down the main street to the market area, then gathered around for final payments and goodbyes. Many of us would still see each other at the local tavern, some would be shipping out again with the next run of Jack's caravan, but I was a free agent and didn't have anything planned as yet.

Jane and I received our pay, which she looked pleased about. Jack also offered to give her back the cheap revolver she'd had on her but she refused, telling him to sell it for scrap or something as she didn't want to see it again. He started to try and convince her to sell it to a gunsmith herself so she'd at least get the money, but she just shook her head and said she wanted every trace of that gun out of her life, including any money from it. Jack nodded his understanding then and moved on to the market, getting to work delivering or selling the caravan's haul, along with the extra riders and salvage we'd taken on from the bandit camp, while Jane and I were left on our own. She finally looked a bit awkwardly at me, not quite voicing it but with a clear 'what do I do now?' look in her eyes. I tilted my head in the direction of the nearest tavern. "Let's go sit down. Get a proper good meal and something to drink. And we can talk about your options, unless you've got any particular plans." She started walking with me, shaking her head to indicate that she didn't. She hid it pretty well but I could tell she was feeling uncertain and lost about what came next for her.

We strode into the tavern and exchanged greetings with a few of the caravan crew who were sat there, and none of them even seemed to be hanging on to any ill will toward Jane at this point, reassuringly. The badger minding the bar grinned as he spotted me walking over, waving. "Hey Cole, good to see you out in this corner of the world."

"Good to be in it, Henry. What've ya heard?"

He glanced at Jane and I, getting out a couple glasses. "Sounds like somebody struck it rich for iron up near Shadehaven. There's some talk going around of them trying to put together an actual industry of it, working alongside Redpine and that coal mine they started a couple years back. If it works out it could be pretty big. Too early to tell though. Your usual? Who's the young lady?"

"Sounds interesting, I'll keep my ears open. Nothing to really tell you from Deadriver, but I guess no news is good news. Yeah, usual for me, and some lunch for both of us please. This is Jane. Picked her up on the road." Jane gave her best cool nod. It wasn't bad, considering her young age. "What'll ya have?"

"What are you having?"

Henry smiled and took that one. "Cole's usual is Deadriver whiskey, not unlike what your caravan just hauled in I believe. Can I get you some water? Milk? Tea?"

Jane's eyes flared a little at the barkeep. "You think I can't handle whiskey?"

I gave her arm a gentle nudge and raised my eyebrows. "Do you actually want whiskey?"

Her temper cooled after a moment's reflection. She wasn't living among bandits anymore and no one was going to judge her for what she drank. The fur on her cheeks puffed up a little sheepishly as she looked at the bar and muttered, "...Milk's fine."

I hid my smile because I didn't want to get punched or clawed or anything. Henry poured our drinks, and both of us sighed quietly over the first sip. The badger smiled and gave us a moment to savour it, before telling us, "Lunch will be out in a few minutes. Take it here or at a table, whichever you prefer, I'll find ya."

"Thanks Henry. It's good to see you." I paid him and led Jane off to find us a more comfortable small table. Lunch passed in silence, as it felt too important to savour the fresh bread and sausages and eggs after so long subsisting off trail fare. It was once we'd finished the meal and were nursing refills our respective drinks that I levelled my gaze at Jane and decided to push on the conversation that had been hanging in the air.

"Alright kiddo, listen. I was older than you when I found myself alone and without any parents, but I faced a similar choice. What the fak do I wanna do with my life? Not that what you pick now has to be what you stick with forever, but you're at a good age to start learning a trade or some good skills that'll last you. When it was me, I paid a tracker to take me on as his apprentice for a couple years, and he taught me most of what I know. You've shown some knack for tracking and scouting during the trip here, so that's something worth considering. I'm not looking to force my lifestyle on you, but if you like your solitude it ain't a bad life. On the other hand, if you want to settle down into something easier and more sociable, we ought to be able to find a farm or ranch that'd take you on as a hand. You're young, but if we find the right folk I think I could convince someone to take you in and pay you a fair wage. You're a quick thinker and have a cool head in a crisis, and that's worth water."

I stopped a moment to shift in my chair and take a small sip of whiskey. Jane's eyes stayed locked on me like a hawk's, like my next words were going to decide her entire fate. As hard as I was trying to convince her elsewise, I couldn't really blame her for feeling so. In a way I suppose they sort of were.

I swallowed the whiskey down and cleared my throat. "You also can be an unholy pain in the tail and have enough sass and bile on you to send most folk screaming over the nearest horizon. Has a slight negative impact on your hiring prospects, shall we say." Her muzzle started to wrinkle in the beginnings of a defiant snarl but I held up a hand. "Sorry kid but you've got to be able to face facts, and others are gonna point that out too. Being strong-willed ain't bad, and it's made you a survivor. It just means we're not going to pad up to any random person and find you a setup that solves all your problems. I think you need to figure out what you want to do, at least for now, and then I'll figure out who I need to call in a favour from. I know various folk here and there, trackers, guards, bounty hunters, farmers, ranchers, local law folk. Barkeeps," I added with a slight grin, nodding toward Henry. "Any of those that appeal to you as a profession, or at least an apprenticeship, I'll take you to the best one I know and put in a good word for you. Several. I'll make an obnoxious bastard of myself until they promise to take you in and teach you. And we'll see how things go from there."

There was a fire in her eyes like she really wanted to flip the table over and claw my face off. I couldn't really blame her, I never would've liked being talked down to or having some old fart lay out my life options like that when I was her age either. But to her credit, she was fighting the urge down. There was hope for the kid.

The fury slowly drained from her eyes and she looked down at the table, worrying a split in the battered wood with a claw. After a few moments she gave a small sigh. It wasn't much, but it was one of the more vulnerable looks I'd seen on her face since I'd met her. "...I'll think about it." She looked back up at me then, some of the defiance and stubbornness coming back into her eyes. Or maybe it was more just a sort of confused exasperation. "The fak do you care so much anyway? Why go to all this trouble for me? You've already done plenty, fought to keep me alive and all. You could ditch me here, leave me with this town's orphanage or something and I'd be out of your fur. Why... call in favours and drag me around with you? Anywhere you have to travel between here and whoever you want to leave me with I'll just be dead weight and get in the way of your work."

I raised my eyebrows a little. "We both know you'd hate it at the orphanage and be out the window within the first night. Full of kids older than you who ain't lived half as much. It would drive you dusty. I could just leave you to your own devices if that's what you really want, but I feel kinda responsible for you and I think you're at an age where going it alone might be tricky, so I want to help. As for having you along with me, sure you'll slow me up a little but you sure as fak ain't gonna be dead weight. I'm gonna put those developing skills of yours to use and you'll pull your own every way I can come up with." I gave her a small lopsided grin.

This time the look on her face was more just annoyed than outright furious. Seemed like progress. "I'll rent us a room for the night. Two beds, don't worry, you can have all the space you need. I don't want to stay in town burning cash for too long so keep thinking about what might sound good to you, then I'll try to find a job to get us headed in the right direction if I can. Another caravan scout job maybe, or a courier run or something. Depends what you decide." She gave a small nod, finally starting to look like she was running out of energy to maintain her anger at everything around her. Or at least me, anyway.

We took it easy that afternoon, renting a room and getting cleaned up, doing a spot of shopping to find her some sturdier clothing. It was nice and relaxed, but when I glanced at her I could tell her wheels were turning, and she hadn't stopped thinking about the possibilities I'd laid out for her.

When I woke up the next morning, I jumped a bit in mid-yawn to find her already awake and sat up in her bed, staring out the window. "Mmh, mornin' kiddo..."

"Hey Cole?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I wanna learn to be a scout. Or tracker, or whatever. Like what you do and have been teaching me. It's felt good and interesting so far, and like... all the bits of how to survive in the wastelands that I should've been learning over the past couple years but the bandits didn't bother to teach."

I smiled, sitting up in my bed and rubbing my eyes. "It's worked well for me, and at least you've seen lately what kind of work it tends to involve. When you master the knowledge you can do more with it than just scouting for a caravan, too. Bounty hunting needs the same kind of know-how, though it's a bit riskier. I can keep teaching you some of the basics, but for getting a proper start on things I think you'd be best off apprenticing with a guy I know. Jet Kessler, been a good friend for years, lizard fellow maybe a week's ride north if he's in. I've worked with him a number of times and I trust him. I'll keep teaching you myself during the trip there, but truth be told he's much better than I am at actually teaching the stuff. I can set you up with him, but I'll loop back around periodically to see how you're getting on. Maybe even run some jobs together."

She gave a small smile, nodding. "It... sounds good. I know I haven't been all super friendly at all times but I've liked travelling with you, and I think you do teach it pretty well personally. But I get that you need to keep running your own jobs too and taking me on a full-time apprentice would sort of get in the way."

I nodded. "It really ain't that I'm eager to be rid of you or anything, but truthfully I need to bring in enough money to get by somehow and Jet's a lot better set up to accommodate an apprentice. Trying to take jobs while you're this early into learning would stretch our money and ability awfully thin. The more you learn from him the more I can come by and we can run some easier jobs together. You can start building up some savings, we can both repay Jet for his time, and soon enough you'll be well on your way. Whether you want to team up with me more, or strike out toward some far horizon and never see me again."

She grinned a little. "Nah. You're alright." She leaned over from her bed, starting to get dressed and gather her things. There was a definite decisiveness to her movements now that she had a plan. "So when do we leave?"

I turned to start getting my stuff together too. "This morning, I expect. Just a few very important things we need to see to first."

"Mm?"

"Breakfast, first of all. Then purchase some supplies, a couple of riders. Maybe we should kit you out for the trip just a bit more too, get you a good knife, maybe even an inexpensive pistol if you want. Oh and most important by far, if you're going to become a true wastelands tracker, there's one thing you should never be without."

She eyed me suspiciously. "And what's that?"

I blinked at her, as though the answer were obvious. "A really good hat."

She snerked and rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, within about an hour we were fed and equipped, new hat and all, and I'd taken on a straightforward job for us running a courier packet to Tallstone. We mounted up and started out of town along the north road as the sun moved toward noon, Jane sitting a bit taller in her saddle than I'd seen her do before.

Yeah. She'd land on her paws alright.