Bridger’s History Book
We pulled the battered van off the road once it turned dark beneath our tires. Adept was the first to examine the dark sand, bow in hand.
“This is a convoy road.” she said, crouched there by the blackened path. Heavily travelled paths tended to turn black from wear, exhaust and the fluids of hundreds of leaky engines.
“Acceptable.” replied Three Finger, “But where to?”
I, atop the van with my binoculars, looked into the distance, unable to espy anything but sand on the horizon, “Unknown. But this is Legion turf, so it’s very likely theirs.”
Below, the Dutch is elbows deep in the poor old van’s smoking engine. We had been nursing her along for months, just making due.
When asked how the old engine was doing, the Dutch looked up at me and shook his head, “The chief, his eyes closed, face against the wheel.”
I rounded everyone up and we pushed the van farther off the road and behind an outcropping of rocks where she wouldn’t be spotted by passers by. We’d keep a lookout on the convoy road to see who passed and how often. If they were friends, maybe we could hitch a ride to the next settlement, if it were an enemy we would have to make other arrangements.
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