//Log Date: 2281-10-27 21:41//

<<UserID:Webb>> It’s funny how cyclical life seems, sometimes. I’m settling down to get some shut-eye in an NCR G.I. cot, surrounded by the smells and sounds of an NCR barracks that are so familiar, it could be twenty years ago.

Well, except I’m pretty sure my knees didn’t hurt this much twenty years ago.

I managed to make it up that *Expletive Deleted* hill without collapsing or resorting to trying to ride ED-E like a hover-brahmin...

<<UserID:ED-E>> 010010010110110101110000011100100110111101110000

0110010101110010001000000111010101110011011001010010000001110111

0110100101101100011011000010000001110110011011110110100101100100

0010000001110111011000010111001001110010011000010110111001110100

01111001

<<UserID:Webb>> ...then drank about a gallon of water, and took a closer look at the statues. They’re welded together from rusting scraps of sheet metal, and, according to the sign at their base, they commemorate the merging of the NCR Rangers and the formerly independent Desert Rangers. I may have a harsh word or twenty for the NCR brass, but I’ll certainly admit that the rangers are tough customers who put themselves on the line repeatedly. 

Still, you build a forty-foot tall statue to pat yourself on the back, and there’s no way you don’t come across like a bit of an ass.

A trooper whose shoulder chevrons marked him as a sergeant saw me gasping for breath beside the rusty colossi and walked over, introducing himself as Kilborn and asking in a friendly but professional manner what had brought me to the Outpost. I told him I was looking for the CO, telling him I needed to get some trading papers stamped -- find the biggest pile of paperwork in an NCR outpost, and you’ll find the one in charge -- and he pointed me towards the HQ but told me not to hold my breath.

When I asked why, he said that the CO had put a freeze on all trade traffic through the outpost due to a sharp increase in attacks on caravans. I thanked him for the tip and told him to cross his fingers for me, then threaded my way through the milling brahmin and disgruntled caravaners towards the gated NCR buildings.

Even if Kilborn hadn’t told me there was a trade stoppage in place, I could have told from the smell. You pen that many brahmin up in that small of a space, and you’ll need hip waders just to stroll across the street.

Rather than head directly into more brahmin droppings, I headed for the barracks rather than the headquarters, as Kilborn had mentioned there was a canteen in the barracks, and lord knew I could use a drink.

The barracks were dark, crowded, but markedly more fragrant. I’ll take the smell of even grain still alcohol over brahmin *Expletive Deleted* any day.

I found an empty stool next to a sullen-looking redhead pretty deep in her cups and flagged down the bartender, a harried woman with short hair named Lacey who has the charming disposition that only extended exposure to low-tipping troopers as your main customers can give a person.

While Lacey was collecting my caps and serving me a glass of water and a plate of stew, I asked her what was the word around the station. She grunted and said that, mostly, they were babysitting the caravaners that were stuck in the station, which got a disgusted laugh from the redhead. Lacey, ignoring the drunk, went on to say that, if I wanted to find out what was actually going on outside the brahmin pen, I should talk to either of the rangers currently stationed at the outpost. A ranger named Jackson is apparently in charge of the place at the moment, and then there was “that *Expletive Deleted*” -- her word, not mine -- Ghost, on lookout on the roof of the barracks.

She was clearly anxious to get back to her other customers, so I went ahead and tucked into my lunch. It wasn’t going to win any awards, but it’s also far from the worst I’ve had from a mess tent.

As I ate, I tried to strike up a conversation with the redhead. Usually, I’m not much for socializing, but it’s been a long few days on the road with no one other than convicts or smelly casino hermits to talk to, and ED-E’s beeps and squawks hardly fill the void.

<<UserID:ED-E>> 011101000110100001101001011100110010000001110101

0110111001101001011101000010000001101001011100110010000001101110

0110111101110100001000000110100001100101011100100110010100100000

0111010001101111001000000110010101101110011101000110010101110010

0111010001100001011010010110111000100000011110010110111101110101

<<UserID:Webb>> Okay, fine. Yes, I admit it: she’s also prettier than most of the folks I’ve been running across. And if a fellow isn’t going to take the time to speak to a good-looking drunk redhead, well, then what the hell ARE you going to take time for?

At first, we didn’t get far, but I bought us both a shot of whiskey from Lacey and after that she warmed up a bit, at least enough to tell me her name, which -- improbably enough -- is Rose of Sharon Cassidy, or just Cass for short. Like most of the other patrons, she’s stuck here thanks to the trade stoppage, but unlike most others, or at least so I’d hope, she doesn’t even have a caravan any more.

She’s recently gotten word that her caravan was attacked just south of New Vegas. All of her people were apparently killed, and her cargo burned rather than looted. Worst of all, she can’t even leave the outpost to survey the site because of the stoppage. Hence the drinking... well, at least, THIS drinking. I get the impression this woman isn’t exactly new to the hooch.

Her best guess is that it was Legion raiders, which makes sense to me. The focus was clearly on disrupting trade rather than theft, and that has Legion interests written all over it.

I asked her if there was anything I could do for her, once I got back out on the road, and she shrugged noncommittally. She did mention that, if I was so fired up to do some caravan work, I should look into the only company still functioning in the New Vegas area, the Crimson Caravan. That’s the outfit Ringo from Goodsprings had been working for -- with two recommendations to look them up, now, I suppose they would be a definite stop once I finally found my way into Vegas and finished up this business with Checkers.

Wishing her the best, I ordered Cassidy another shot of whiskey and got back to my feet, blinking a bit as I emerged into the afternoon sun. I followed the makeshift ramp up to the roof of the barracks, past the pot-shaped ventilation fans, and found the ranger that Lacey had called Ghost.

The source of the nickname was immediately apparent -- the woman was an albino, with nearly translucent skin and pale yellow hair. Sensibly, she was covered head to toe with her ranger gear, complete with large sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. She glanced at me dismissively and told me that the caravan waiting area was back on the ground.

I introduced myself and told her that I was here on business, but not trade business, and that I wasn’t opposed to picking up some extra work if it was on my way. She gave me another, longer look, clearly sizing me up again. She said that the troopers and rangers at the outpost were stuck there along with the caravaners, but there had been no word in from Nipton to the east. I grimaced and pulled out the holotape from Steyn, describing his deal with the Legion. 

Once she’d read it over, it clearly did nothing to ease her concerns for the NCR troops that had been in the town. She asked me to check it out if I could, and I allowed I might be headed that way. She chuckled without humor and said she’d be sure to hold her breath, then went back to scanning the horizon.

I figured I’d put off wading into bureaucracy as long as possible, so I climbed back down off the roof and headed to the other building at the Outpost. Walking in, I was met by a surprisingly pleasant desk jockey major named Knight. He asked me to register with him -- protocol for everyone passing through the Outpost, apparently -- so I fished out my old dog-eared NCR ID and passed it to him.

He fed the info into his terminal, then blinked, then stared at me for a moment before finishing up his entry and passing the ID back, his manner noticeably cooler. I sighed and pocketed the ID. 

I should expect this by now, I suppose, at least at military outposts. You see “dishonorable discharge” pop up on your screen, and that’s probably going to raise some flags.

Taking a deep breath and gritting my teeth, I filled him in on the situation in Primm, telling him how the best candidate for the sheriff position was finishing up the last few weeks of his sentence at the NCRCF and needed a pardon before he could fill the role. 

Knight had serious concerns about putting a convict into the role of fending off other convicts, but I pointed out the fact that Meyers had willingly stayed behind to serve out his sentence rather than escape when so many of the others did. More importantly, Primm was a vital trade stop on the Long 15, and any law was better than no law.

Begrudgingly, Knight admitted I had a point, and he signed the pardon. I thanked him and turned to leave, but I was stopped by a man with a ranger outfit and a ridiculously huge handlebar mustache who was leaning against the doorframe. He introduced himself as Ranger Jackson, the de facto head of the Outpost and author of the trade stoppage, and said that he’d heard me asking about Primm.

We chatted for a minute, and it came out that Jackson was fed up with needing to keep the Outpost locked down and was glad to hear that at least someone was out there trying to sort out the Mojave. I told him I’d been hearing about the raider and Legion attacks, and he said it was even worse than that -- some of those giant ants I’d seen on the Ivanpah dry lake had apparently been getting more aggressive, and they’d been attacking caravans and eating the pack brahmin. He told me that, as I was headed that way anyway, he’d make it worth my while if I could thin out the ants closest to the road.

Seeing as I probably wouldn’t have much choice in the matter if they were actually as aggressive as he feared, I agreed. Jackson seemed pleased, and he said I was welcome to stay the night in the barracks if I liked before getting back on the road.

As it was already getting late and I don’t much like traveling at night when there’s a chance of tripping and falling into giant man-eating anthills, I took him up on it. I spent a bit of time at the small firing range behind the HQ brushing up on my firing drills with my new repeater, then did a bit of trading and medical checkups for the caravaners and outpost personnel in exchange for some caps -- they had no medic stationed here, and any outpost sees its share of accidents and disease.

Flush with trade, I stopped at the barracks bar again, bought some supper, some water, and another round of whiskey for Cassidy and myself, and now I’m just about ready to call it a night. I think I’ll put myself to sleep reading that Guns and Bullets catalogue I found at the patrol station.

Signing off.

//Recording Ends//

//Log Date: 2281-10-27 15:43//

<<UserID:Webb>> Virtue never pays off in the long run.

This morning, I got a reminder why it doesn’t pay to pick sides. The ‘Gangers must have caught wise to the fact that I was the one to kill their gate guard, because a small group of them were laying in wait for me when I left the hills heading towards Primm this morning.

As near as I can figure, they must have put two and two together after finding the body, and the tower sentries remembered the direction I had headed when leaving the NCRCF. I guess my trailblazing isn’t as subtle as I’d hoped, because they knew right where I was.

To give credit where it’s due, I think I owe the fact that I’m here to make this entry -- and not decorating the rocks east of Primm -- is thanks to ED-E.

Its sensors went off in time to allow it and me to scramble for cover, seconds before I heard a voice shout “This is for Cobb and Dawes, you son of a *Expletive Deleted*”, and a bundle of dynamite with a lit fuse came tumbling down the hillside towards us.

The boulder we were crouched behind proved up to the task of shielding us from the blast, however, and my new repeater rifle distinguished itself in the ensuing firefight with the three ‘Gangers hiding in the rocks above us. I’m not much of a shot, but, fortunately, neither were these three, and the peep sight is fairly idiot-proof. 

Thanks to ED-E’s laser salvos, the ‘Gangers were forced to keep their heads down, and I was slowly able to pick them off one by one. Concerned that they may very well have had back-up on the way, I decided to forego my usual post-scuffle looting and left the ‘Gangers for the crows while I hastily got back on the path to Primm.

Approaching the town from the east, I found that Meyers had beaten me there, having taken a much more direct route past the ‘Ganger sentries and straight down the Long 15. He was warming himself by an oilcan fire in the still-deserted streets and greeted me with a nod. I told him I’d taken a bit of a detour, but I’d still be heading to the Mojave Outpost to grab that pardon. Meyers simply shrugged and allowed that he’d wait for me to get back. He didn’t say it, but I think he was just happy to be out in the free air.

Before leaving Primm, I stopped in to the Vikki & Vance again -- which, by the way, was really starting to smell overly ripe. Too many humans, not enough space... or opportunities for personal hygiene. They’re going to have to air the place out for a week once we finally convince these folks to head back to their homes.

Holding my breath, I refilled my water supply and filled Nash and Beagle in on my progress, then got back on the road. Good old Route 15 again, still headed south.

God, I hate this *Expletive Deleted* road.

About an hour out of town, I spotted a single-story structure on the west side of the road, just about the time that the unmistakable pop of distant gunfire began to reach my ears. We halted, and I pulled out my binoculars for a better look before getting closer. The building looked like a pre-war police patrol station, and there was a skirmish taking place between two distinct groups. One group was clearly more ‘Gangers -- those inmate uniforms are rather distinctive -- and the others were raiders of some type. Probably more Jackals, but, frankly, with raiders, I don’t really care about the flavor as long as they’re getting shot.

I settled myself comfortably on the tarmac, made a sandwich out of some smoked gecko meat and Ruby Nash’s hardtack biscuits, and enjoyed the show.

When the shooting had stopped and the dust had settled, I wiped my hands, got reluctantly back to my feet, and walked close enough to put a bullet in the surviving raiders as they were picking over the dead convicts. A dental inspection of the corpses confirmed my first guess: more Jackals, carrying more junk. The dead Powder Gangers had some salvageable explosives and ammunition, though, and the interior of the patrol station turned up a decent stash of caps, a few gun manuals and shooting magazines, and a minor infestation of mantises. The mantises were nothing a judiciously applied boot couldn’t cure, and I stuffed the books into my satchel for later reading.

Continuing south, the road began to cut through a dry lakebed with creatures scuttling around far out in the middle. At first, I had thought they were coyotes, but, on closer inspection through the binoculars, they turned out to be enormous, dog-sized ants, busily moving about on their own insectoid errands. Fortunately, they were far enough away and didn’t seem remotely interested in me. 

Must be my sour disposition.

When the Long 15 intersected Highway 164, however, I ran into some significantly less self-involved creepy-crawlies in the form of a small cluster of radscorpions, skittering around the wreckage of a gas station. I lit and tossed a piece of my newly acquired dynamite into the midst of them, which proved highly effective. The scorpions that weren’t killed outright immediately retreated, and I was able to poke around the remains of the station without fear of being poisoned or hacked to pieces.

Under the cracked and wildly leaning sign post for the gas station, I found the body of another ghoul, dressed identically to the one I’d found in the hills near the railroad tracks northeast of Primm. Stranger and stranger. This one also was clutching a laser rifle though, unlike the last weapon, which had merely been dented and scuffed in the rockslide, this one -- and its owner -- had nearly been cut to pieces by the claws of the radscorpions. 

I didn’t have the time or energy to bury the unfortunate fellow, so I made do by hauling him out of the elements and into the ruins of the station. I then spent a moment salvaging the undamaged parts of his rifle and using them to patch up the other laser rifle, swapping out dented casings for solid parts and replacing frayed wires. People pay more for weapons that don’t look like they’re apt to blow up the first time you fire them. 

I tossed the unsalvageable bits into the corner as scrap, then took a quick look around the interior of the building, more out of habit than general interest. The years Jess and I spent scavving after being discharged from the service have left me fairly set in my ways... even with all that happened.

In this case, though, it was definitely worth the time. In the cash register on the counter, I found the drawer jammed full of caps -- always a sign that some has used the place as a home or base after the war, seeing as, to the best of my knowledge, no one used caps as currency before the bombs fell. A little more searching even told me who it had been.

I found a holotape with a journal entry from a man named Joseph B. Steyn, and let me be the first to say I hope I never sound as puffed up and arrogant on my entries as he did on this one. It wasn’t an encouraging story, either. Steyn is apparently mayor of a town called Nipton, which, according to my map, is about fifteen miles east of here on the 164.

The journal makes it clear that Steyn has cut a deal with forward scouts from Caesar’s Legion, selling out visiting NCR troopers and members of the Powder Gangers to them.

I don’t know a hell of a lot about the Legion, having never traveled into Arizona, but if you listen to the NCR propaganda they’re a bunch of depraved, slaving sodomites who want nothing less than the destruction of truth, justice, and mom’s mutfruit pie. I know the boys in brown held Hoover Dam against them four years ago, at a high cost in lives, but if you let the NCR’s military history make your decisions for you, there’s not going to be ANYONE left to trust. The Bear's never been one to shy away from a fight, and that's putting it mildly.

Naturally, I take anything spewing from the NCR think tank with an enormous grain of irradiated salt, but the details of this proposed deal Steyn made have left a bad feeling in my gut. I definitely didn’t think Legion troops had made it this far west, and, if Mojave residents are cutting bargains with them, that’s something to watch out for. I uploaded the holotape to the PIP-Boy’s memory, just in case I should need it later. If nothing else, it might be an interesting opportunity for... ahem... favorable trading, should I ever meet this Steyn.

Right now, I’ve put the gas station behind me, and I’m hiking up the long hill to the outpost. The road is absolutely packed with the burn-out wrecks of cars -- they must have been trying to flee California when the bombs fell. Enough of them have been pushed aside to leave a path wide enough for pack brahmin and caravans, but it’s still somewhat claustrophobic after the wide-open roads in the flat desert.

Besides, I’m always a little paranoid being this close to so many pre-war cars -- there’s always the possibility that one might still have a fission engine with some juice left in it, and one stray round in a firefight could set off a chain reaction that would scythe the whole hillside down to rubble and jagged metal.

*Wheezing breaths.*

As it is, though, I need to concentrate more on getting air into my lungs during this climb and less on waxing paranoid. Goddamn hills...

Signing off.

//Recording Ends//

//Log Date: 2281-10-26 19:14//

<<UserID:Webb>> What a day... I’m getting too old for all this walking. Jess, if you could see me, you’d hardly recognize me. I’m getting all stringy and wiry, like an old bighorner.

On the plus side, it’s been a few days since I’ve had one of those headaches, and the skin around Mitchell’s surgery site isn’t tender anymore, either. Looks like I made it through the head trauma with no lasting effects.

I think I’ll keep going with this journal, though, because... Well, just because. Kind of puts a button on the day, somehow.

The whole prison infiltration was something of an anticlimax, all things considered. Yes, I did end up killing someone -- not something I should be so comfortable dismissing as “anticlimactic”, I suppose -- but I had half convinced myself that they’d see through my disguise and the whole endeavor would devolve into a running gun battle and end with me bleeding out on the floor of some urine-stained cellblock.

Instead, the guards in the tower spotted me on my way in and just waved me towards the front gate. The guard at the front gate was a little bit more on the ball, however -- guess there weren’t many redheads with bushy beards in the general population. It’s more gray than red these days -- Jess was starting to call it “salt and paprika” before the end -- but still. 

He asked me who the hell I was, and my answers were apparently not adequate to ease his suspicions, as he made some unkind assertions regarding my parentage and went for his sidearm. Fortunately, being the paranoid old crank I am, I had my service knife out and tucked up my sleeve and managed to jam it through his trachea before he cleared leather. 

I got that far on my old training and instinct, but then my brain kicked in and I jumped forward, pressing myself against the doors and bracing myself for getting shot by the guard tower sentries. When no shots came, I realized that the door was actually out of the line of sight of the towers.

NCR design at its finest.

I pulled the knife back out of the guard’s throat, dragged him up against the building, and pulled the keychain off of his belt. After a moment or two of fumbling, I found the right key and let myself into the facility.

It turns out it was an extremely short search. Meyers was sitting in the lobby area immediately inside the front doors, still wearing his prison blues but with a broadbrimmed hat perched on his head. He stood out -- he looked like the only man there still doing time.

I pulled up a chair next to him, kept my eyes on the door, and quietly filled him in on who I was and why I was there. Meyers allowed that he was interested in the job but made no bones about the fact that he wouldn’t take it until he’d been officially pardoned.

He didn’t mince words about the fact that he was in here for taking the law into his own hands when the gears of bureaucracy ground a little too slowly, and he also was extremely up front about the fact that he might very well do it again.

Can’t ask for better than a man who will be honest about doing wrong, I suppose. Besides, at least he can’t be hacked, unlike Slim.

I sighed and asked him where one might get such a pardon, and he said the closest place would be the NCR checkpoint south on the Long 15, the one they call the Mojave Outpost. I knew it, I’d been through on my way east. Skeleton desk crew there, but Meyers was right -- there might be someone with a high enough paygrade to wrangle us a pardon.

I told him I’d see what I could do, but there was no way I was hoofing it all the way BACK up here afterwards -- he’d need to meet me in Primm. After some hemming and hawing about stepping out on his sentence, he agreed and said he’d get his few possessions together and head out later today, giving me a head start as two leaving separately would be of less notice to the sentries than one leaving alone. 

I said that was fine, but he’d better be prepared for a bit of a panic whenever the guardshift on the front door changed. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t inquire further, so I headed back out the way I’d come and fought the urge to keep glancing at the towers until I was well away. 

Between me and the Long 15, however, was another away camp filled with ‘Gangers. I didn’t want to push my luck any further, so I decided to skip stay away from the 15 for now and instead started following railroad tracks running south from the prison. On my map, they looked as though they’d lead me back into Primm, but that turned out not to be the case. 

Goddamn electronic maps.

After a few hours, the tracks began cutting through some rocky hills, which definitely weren’t on the way back to the Long 15. I stopped at the remnants of a small service yard at around 1300 hours and took the opportunity to shuck off the ‘Ganger outfit I’d been wearing. It made me feel dirty just having it on, a grime that had nothing to do with the dust or dried blood coating the jacket, and I was confident I’d gotten outside the ‘Gangers’ radius of operation.

That done, I made a small scrap fire and warmed up some Cram for lunch. The stuff is foul but edible, even after all these decades. The miracle of pre-war preservatives and radiation never ceases to amaze. That reminds me, I should check my own rad levels tonight, maybe hook myself up to a Rad-Away drip before sleep if it’s getting up there.

Anyway, while having lunch, I noticed the skeleton of a pre-war radio tower on a rise to the west, so, after washing down the last of the Cram with a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla -- found another of those star caps, by the way -- and scattering the embers of my fire, I decided to climb the hill towards the tower and get the lay of the land from up there.

Turns out I was way off to the east of the Long 15. I pulled out my binoculars and could just barely see those ridiculous ranger monuments at the Mojave Outpost far off to the southwest. At this rate, I’d probably be smart to stop by Primm again on my way there and top off my water supplies again. It was right on my way now, after all.

Starting to climb down the western side of the hill, I found what I first thought was a badly decayed body crumpled next to a rockslide, but, on closer inspection, it turned out to be a recently deceased ghoul, wearing some sort of brown cloth robe. The poor fellow had a goddamn laser rifle on him, no less. From what I could tell, he must have gotten caught in the rockslide while trying to reach the same radio tower from which I was descending. 

The laser rifle was in pretty good shape, at any rate. Not my style -- never liked how hot the things get while firing -- but it probably would net me some caps back in Primm, if I hadn’t already cleared Nash out. I tied it onto ED-E and carefully resumed my way down the hill. 

It was slow going on uneven footing until I finally found my way back to something approaching even ground... what might once have been a river bed running down the hills. It was around then that I noticed a plume of smoke rising to the south. Nearby, mostly white -- looked like a campfire, which is exactly what it turned out to be.

I told ED-E to hang back -- that hum its hover unit makes isn’t exactly subtle, especially when it gets echoing back and forth between the rocks -- and crept forward to the next overlook, where I saw the source of the smoke. Two men and one woman sat around a sloppily built fire, charring some meat and sorting through a pile of scrap. All three were dressed in stained leathers, their hair greasy, matted, and clinging to their heads and necks. I knew without looking closer that their teeth would be filed down to points, too.

Jackals. The dregs of the raider community, scavengers who pick off the weak, little better than their namesakes. The vast majority of my tour in the NCR was spent tracking down raider holdouts in California, and, while I was never fond of any of them, Jackals always especially disgusted me.

I glanced back towards the meat on the fire, and my stomach twisted. Jackals eat their kills.

I cursed myself for using up the last of my dynamite in that bomb the other evening, then waved ED-E up closer to me. I moved as far down the hillside as I could while staying mostly out of sight and drew my revolver, then picked a decent-sized rock and hefted it, waiting until the Jackals were all looking away. 

I threw the rock high and far, then braced the revolver with both hands and pushed out, running forward as soon as the rock landed on the other side of the fire. The Jackals hopped up, snarling in the direction of the rock, and I opened fire on their exposed backs while running. My first two rounds went wide, but the third caught the woman in the lower back. ED-E’s laser lanced out at the same time I started shooting, and his blasts slammed into the leg and shoulder of one of the men.

Seeing his two companions fall, the third Jackal showed the sort of loyalty I’d expected, and turned tail and ran. ED-E burnt off the back of his head with another volley before he’d gone four steps.

Unfortunately, the other two were down but not out. The remaining man seemed unable to do much more than clutch at his burns, but the woman had rolled onto her stomach and was gamely trying to level a rifle and draw a bead on me.

I dropped into a firing crouch and emptied the rest of the cylinder at her, which finished the job. I let ED-E finish off the last one, reloaded my revolver, then went for a closer look at the campfire. 

I get so tired of being right, sometimes. Roasting on the spit was a human thigh. A more thorough exploration of the area revealed a small shack built into a cave under the crag I’d climbed down, which had once housed a small family and was now being used as a larder by the Jackals... mostly to keep what was left of the family out of the sun. Damn shame.

I cleared out the shack and buried those poor folks as best I could in the rocky soil. The best I can tell, it was two couples living here. No kids, at least. Not sure I could have handled that.

I dragged the Jackals away into the hills and left them there for the coyotes and the geckoes. It’s better than they deserve.

It was getting dark by that point, so I’ve decided to stay the night in the shack here and push on to the Mojave Outpost tomorrow. I don’t have much of an appetite tonight, unsurprisingly, so I’m skipping dinner and seeing what I can do about the Jackals’ gear. 

Most of it is garbage -- Jackals don’t take any better care of their weapons than they do of themselves -- but the woman’s rifle is actually worth salvaging. It’s chambered for .357 magnum rounds, like my revolver, and it has a lever action, which are notoriously hard to gum up, even for a Jackal. With a little tender loving care -- and enough duct tape -- I should be able to get it into something approaching working order. Maybe I can even find someone to trade me replacement parts for it.

I’ve got ED-E watching the outside again, and tonight I’ve left no room for mistakes.

<<UserID:ED-E>> 010011100110010101100101011001000110110001100101

0111001101110011011011000111100100100000011101100110000101100111

0111010101100101001000000111010001100001011100100110011101100101

0111010001101001011011100110011100100000011100000110000101110010

0110000101101101011001010111010001100101011100100111001100100000

011100110110010101110100

<<UserID:Webb>> Right back at you, eyeball. Signing off.

//Recording Ends//