Desolation Crossing Read Online Free PDF

commodities, he was overstocked with that he could afford to let go at a low rate. Never knew when they might come back this way, and they wanted a hospitable rather than hostile reception. Come to that, it would ensure they left on friendly terms, rather than in the wake of a firefight. Because these were mean folk, more so than in many other places. The misery of their existence saw to that.
    So it looked as though this little detour would draw a blank, and it would be little more than just some wasted fuel.
    Until the one thing that had been nagging at Trader the whole while suddenly clicked in his mind.
    “You notice something about these folk?” he asked Poet in an undertone.
    “Other than they’re being meaner than a mutie rattlesnake with a jolt hangover?”
    Trader’s grin returned. “Yeah, other than that. Take a look at their blasters.”
    Poet allowed himself a surreptitious study as they walked, before answering. “Nice gear. Wouldn’t like to have to face them down with those, even with all the ordnance we carry.”
    “Too true, Poet. But think about it. This place is knee-deep in its own shit, with nothing to offer us in any way…to offer anyone who passes through. So how come they have such good ordnance?”
    “Let me ask a few questions,” Poet replied.
    Which didn’t prove too hard. There was only one bar in the ville, and although the brew it purveyed was of a poor quality—indeed, Poet felt he’d drunk better sump oil than this filth—it was all the locals had, and they were more than happy to let a lonely traveler spend some jack on getting drunk with them. He had plenty to spare, it seemed, and was more than happy to spend. Get him drunk enough and there was the chance of rolling him, boosting the local economy and getting one over an outlander, which was always a local favorite.
    Except that Poet had drunk more, and far better, men under the table than lived in Guthrie. And for all its foul taste, the local brew was nowhere near as strong as some that he’d tasted over the years. So it wasn’t long—and not so deep in his pocket as he’d feared—that Poet had turned the tables and had the locals on the subject of their hardware. A little flattery about how good their blasters were compared to some he’d seen on his travels, and they were soon telling him about their little secret advantage in the matter.
    And it didn’t take them much to start speculating on J. B. Dix, the taciturn and private teenager who’d arrived the previous fall had been a hot topic of conversation ever since. Tongues loosened, Poet had to put up with a whole lot of speculation that was of no use to him. But he did work out—among the drivel and drunken babble—that the young man had a rare talent that he figured Trader would feel wasted in this backwater.
    So it was that the following afternoon, while Poet busied himself and those he had drunk with still nursed the mother, father, son and daughter of all hangovers, Trader made his way to the small shack that the mysterious J. B. Dix had made his home.
    “Speak to you, son?” Trader had asked as he hovered in the doorway. The young man said nothing, hunched over an old Smith & Wesson .38 snubbie, meticulously cleaning and reassembling the blaster. The pieces he had finished with were immaculate; the pieces he had yet to reach looked as if they came from a different blaster. Trader was about to speak again, when J.B. finally answered.
    “What do you want?” he asked in a tone that was neutral but brisk. He didn’t bother looking up.
    “I heard you’ve got a talent for this sort of thing,” Trader said, realizing that niceties would be wasted, and that it would be best to cut to the chase. “I’ve got some ordnance that needs work. You care to take a look?” He didn’t feel it necessary to add that the ordnance had been fine until he’d told Poet to work on it.
    “It’ll cost you,” J.B. said simply.
    “We’ll see,” Trader replied. “See