Jacks dropped all eight tags on the counter and began lining them up neatly in a row.

Federation Marshal Verrick sat perched on a stool on the other side of the counter, watching with what seemed like fascination. And some degree of incredulity.

Marshal Verrick’s back was hunched a little, and every time he adjusted himself on the stool his muscular biceps flexed and moved. His ample beer belly, on the other hand, wobbled and wiggled a little. Depending on the angle at which he sat and how close he was to the countertop, it sometimes pressed against and spilled over it, like thick gravy on a plate of ham.

Jacks’s stomach growled. He hadn’t had anything besides old jerky and some roasted varmints in weeks. He was excited to collect his reward and get something decent to eat, and he could tell Stepton felt the same. The dog sat next to him, quiet and obedient. But every once in a while Jacks could hear him smacking and licking his lips. He was a smart boy. He knew how this went. First the job. Then the food. And Stepton had done his job.

Jacks pulled his hands back from the counter and looked up at the Marshal.

Verrick passed a finger lengthways across his bushy mustache, then ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. The folds of his wrinkled shirt seemed to stretch out as he moved, pushed round and taut by his belly. His coat and hat were hanging on a rack in the corner behind him. “Still had the tags on ’em, huh?”

“They often do,” Jacks said. “Along with the rest of their military gear. It’s nothing new.”

The Marshal scratched his arm. “And why do you think that is?”

It wasn’t the first time Jacks had considered the question. “It’s all they’ve got. They’re alone. Wandering in the wilderness on a side of the continent they’ve never been to before. The future is uncertain. But the past--well, it’s why they still wear their uniforms and medals and everything else. It’s all they have left.” Jacks thought for a second. “Perhaps they’re afraid, too. Dropping your belongings and keepsakes, shedding them like a snake’s skin--it feels too much like leaving a trail.”

“So,” the Marshal said, picking up one of the tags and gesturing with it, “You’re saying that someone could, conceivably, follow a trail, thereby procuring these pieces of ‘snake skin’, as you put it.”

“You think I wandered in the wilderness for two weeks, looking under bushes, until I found eight name tags matching the deserters who are up for bounty?”

“I find that story more credible,” the Marshal said, “Than the one where you kill eight trained Federation soldiers all by yourself.”

“Ex-Federation,” Jacks said. “And that tag you’re holding has dried blood on it.”

The Marshal paused, seeming to notice the smear of blood on the metal for the first time. He carefully set the tag back down in the row.

“This one,” Jacks said, gesturing to another one of the tags, “Has a bullet hole in it, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

The Marshal leaned back a little, raised an eyebrow, and folded his massive arms.

Jacks took a deep breath. Below and to his side, Stepton was beginning to let out a low, quiet growl. Jacks whistled and he stopped.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to renege on a bounty reward. But Jacks had never encountered this with the Federation before. And certainly not from Verrick.

In this line of work, there was always a degree of trust involved. You could haul in the body of a wanted man. Dead or alive, as they say. But at the end of the day, it’s possible for one man to look much like another. Even if the body matches the description and wanted poster, a marshal still has to take a hunter at his word that due diligence was done.

“I can’t carry eight bodies across the range,” Jacks said. “Like you said, I’m just one man. With one rented horse. One dog. And two guns. But one of them is this here rifle. I’m patient. I’m thorough. And I’m a hell of a shot. But you already know all of that.”

The Marshal studied him. After a few seconds, he unfolded his arms and sighed. “Look, kid, I’m gonna square with you.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “The reason I’m trying to get out of giving you this reward money is....well, I don’t have it.”

Jacks frowned. “What do you mean you don’t have it? You always have it.” With the way the Federation shelled out money for bounties, you’d think they didn’t expect to ever run out.

“Technically,” the Marshal said, “We printed it. Or they printed it. Part of the war fund packages and all that.”

Jacks nodded, even though this was the first he’d heard of any of this.

“Problem is,” he went on, “Some people up north don’t like all this unchecked government spending. They’re pulling the purse strings tight.”

“How tight?”

“Tight enough that I just don’t have the cash.”

“So,” Jacks said, “Because the Federation mishandled it’s own money, they’re going to break the promises they made to hunters by withholding payments?” He paused, thinking. “That does sound like the government, doesn’t it?”

"I like it as much as you do,” the Marshal said. “Don't ask me what those people up north are thinking. We're in the middle of a war effort here, with incursions from Darovenian forces all up and down the western border. Not to mention crime being what it is. You've heard of The Crows? An entire ex-military posse wearing black bandannas, marching into banks insured by the government like they own the place."

"Maybe I'd be better off joining them," Jacks said.

That earned an eyebrow raise from Verrick.

"I'm an honest man, doing honest work," Jacks said. Specialized work, and a bit bloody in nature. But honest all the same. "I deserve the pay that I was promised."

"Look," the Marshal said, conceding. "I’m not saying that I can’t pay you for the job at all. I’m just not able to give you the full amount at this time.”

“When do I get my cash, then?”

“The full amount?” The Marshal tapped his chin. “With how far the budget’s been cut, and with how many hunters are already waiting to be paid, and lacking a crystal ball to tell me when the next war fund package will pass, or how any of that will play out...” he shrugged. “No idea.”

Jacks bit the inside of his cheek. He fought against the urge to spit. Right on the floor. Or maybe even the countertop. “How much can you afford to give me?”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Jacks folded nine dollars and tucked them away in his satchel. As he stepped out the door of the station and down the steps onto the street, he tipped his hat to shield his eyes from the sun. He paused at the outside of the street, waiting for a carriage to roll past so he could cross.

Stepton sat, patient, though he seemed to take in the sights and sounds of the city with a sort of hyper-awareness. His ears flopped and lilted, sensitive to the clip-clop of horseshoes on the cobbled street, the whine and squeal of carriage wheels, and the general footsteps of hundreds of pedestrians throughout Lindem City. He tilted his head, looked up at Jacks and smacked his lips.

Jacks patted him on the head. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll get you something. You earned it.”

With the street crossing clear, Jacks pressed on, shouldering the strap of his rifle.

The city was populated enough today that there was a slight yet noticeable parting of the crowd as Jacks walked through. He didn’t think it was his dog, or the way he carried his hunting rifle, though that might have been part of it too. It was the way he looked. The clothes he wore. The way he probably smelled after so many days of travel, honestly. The unkempt look of the hair on his head and face. His type wasn’t entirely uncommon, here, but that didn’t mean they belonged. Lindem was a proper city, full of Northern upstarts, and its citizens liked it that way.

Too bad Jacks didn’t give a shit.

He liked Lindem. He liked that it was clean and beautiful. He liked that it was a convenient place to find jobs and bank his money. He liked that it was a place where you didn’t have to look hard to find good food or drink, or a place to sleep without mites in the sheets.

He just didn’t care if the citizens of Lindem didn’t want him around. Though he wasn’t a permanent resident, it was just as much his city as theirs.

Nine dollars…

Not enough to justify staying the night somewhere nice. Or maybe even getting something decent to drink. But enough that he could set some aside to get Stepton his favorite meal to eat.

Stepton’s favorite meal was a medium steak. The best steak in town could be found at a restaurant called The Shattered Table. More a reference to the shattered continent of Kalthima and the Riven West than to bar fights or anything like that. It was a high-class place. It was also the only place with a decent steak dinner where Stepton was actually allowed inside, thanks to the generosity and kind favor of the owner.

For a farm dog, it seemed Stepton had expensive taste.

Jacks stopped in front of the restaurant. The sidewalk in front of the establishment was immaculately swept. The wide glass windows cleaned to a shine. He could see his own reflection in them. As well as Stepton’s head, peeking up over the pane. Watching all of the seated customers picking at their fine food.

“Don’t worry, we’re going in,” Jacks said. He realized that he’d been procrastinating. He didn’t want to spend the money. Not just yet. He wanted to keep it for himself, to help facilitate But that felt wrong, somehow.

The marshal had explained the situation to Jacks. Reasoned with him. But Jacks could not do with same with Stepton. While dogs had many admirable qualities, Stepton in particular, the ability to comprehend currency was not one of them. Stepton had done well, and he deserved his reward. Anything less would be a lie. It would be like telling Stepton he was a bad dog, when in fact he was the best.

Jacks opened the swinging door, letting Stepton through before following him inside.

He had entered another world. The door which swung closed behind him was a barricade against the smells of horseshit, the noise of the pedestrians, the chants of paperboys in the intersections. These sensations were replaced, completely overwhelmed, by the mouthwatering aroma of spiced meats cooking on stoves and being roasted over turning spits. The dulcet tones of a piano being played in the corner; a calm if playful melody. Customers chatting quietly over their meals, isolated from the hustle and bustle of the city. Though the frantic activity was so clearly visible through those wide glass windows, this place was a haven from it.

A waiter, carrying a platter and with a white towel draped over one arm, waved to them. Jacks couldn’t remember his name.

The waiter said they were expecting them, and that his party was waiting in the booth at the far corner of the room.

“I don’t have a party,” Jacks said. But he looked over at the booth.

A man sat there, jostling a glass of wine under his nose with a gloved hand and sniffing the fumes.

Everything he wore was black. His coat. His gloves. His shirt. His boots. All except for his glasses. The lenses were tinted a dark red, for some reason.

He had thick, blonde hair, slicked back. Some kind of applied gel glistened there.

He could have been some sort of clergyman, with the way he dressed and all. But he seemed too proud for that. Too comfortable in his own skin. He seemed to think he owned the place. Which, he didn’t.

“I don’t know that man,” Jacks said.

“He said you would say that,” the waiter said. “He said to tell you that he would pay for both your meal and the dog’s, and he would compensate you for your time. And that he’s anxious to talk with you.”

Jacks suddenly felt an itch to leave. To get out of there. He couldn’t explain it.

He glanced over at the booth again. The man, seeming to notice Jacks for the first time, smiled and raised his glass in greeting.

“Do you know anything about him?” Jacks said to the waiter.

The waiter shrugged. “He asked about you. He’s loaded. And it seems like he’s been scouting local talent for some kind of job.”

Jacks nodded, more to himself. He looked down, meeting Stepton’s eyes. “What do you think?”

Stepton looked over at the man in the booth. He growled a little.

“Yeah,” Jacks said. “I know. But...money’s money.” They didn’t know where their next job was coming from. It would be silly pass up a chance like this. And not just because of the free meal.

“Well,” Jacks said, taking off his coat and folding it over his arm. “If he’s paying, I’ll take two steaks, medium-rare. Make sure you cut up Stepton’s. And remove the bones. He’s bad at leaving them alone. I don’t want to be fighting with Stepton over them in front of our new guest. Oh, and a whiskey, please.”

The waiter nodded. “Of course.” He turned, wound his way to the other side of the bar, and into the back room.

Jacks took a second to breathe, center himself. For some reason, he felt that this would be necessary. That this interaction was about to take something out of him.

He put on a smile as he approached the booth.

The man with the red-tinted glasses was leaning back in his seat. The angle was almost haphazard, but he seemed comfortable.

He was looking Jacks up and down and grinning ear-to-ear, as if there was something he found funny. Jacks wasn’t sure he much cared what it was.

“I’m not one to turn away a free meal,” Jacks said. He draped his coat over the back of a chair on the opposite side of the table. He extended his hand, introducing himself. “Jacks.”

The man’s eyes went to the outstretched hand, then back to Jacks’s face. “Jacks Wellick,” he said. “I know.” He didn’t move.

Jacks grunted. Couldn’t help but smirk. He sat all the same. He could already smell the steak. “I find you northern types fascinating. Always acting like you’re…above it all.”

The man chuckled. “We have a different way of looking at things, I’ll give you that. For example, in the north, one doesn’t simply extend their hand to anyone. The clasping of hands is a symbol of trust and kinship. Of equals.”

Somewhere in Jacks’s peripheral, a hand reached out, snatched the steak knife at his place on the table, and jammed it into the tabletop with a loud thud.

The piano music stopped with an alarmed bang of a discordant arrangement of keys. A woman gasped at one of the tables.

Jacks started to get up when a pair of strong hands found his shoulders and shoved him back down into his seat. From another direction, a revolver’s hammer clicked back, and Jacks felt the bore of the barrel pressing hard against the side of his head.

Stepton barked loud, and began to growl. His ears were tapered back against his head. His neck was low, as if he was getting ready to lunge. A wall of reared up hackles lined the length of his spine, from the scruff of his neck to his tail.

“Stay!” Jacks said. He had to find some way to maintain control of this situation. It was hard not to imagine a future where both he and his dog died right here, at this table. He could see it playing out in his mind like a fevered dream. This realization stayed him, made him slowly put his arms up in the air while the phantom hands searched him for weapons. “It’s okay, Stepton. Everything’s fine.”

Other Shattered Plate customers didn’t seem to think so. The goings-on at the booth seemed to be gathering a lot of eyes. A couple that were seated one table over stood up in alarm.

“No need to be alarmed,” the man in the red-tinted glasses said loudly, presenting a badge with a gloved hand. “Government business. Don’t concern yourself.”

“Right,” Jacks said, adjusting so the thug searching him could grab his revolver. “Government business.”

“Well, not entirely. I’d like to think we’re having a good time. Speaking of, I think I may have interrupted you earlier,” the man with the red-tinted glasses said. “What were you saying about us ‘northern types’? I could’ve sworn you were going somewhere with that.”

He took a bite off his plate, chewed. When Jacks didn’t answer right away, he beamed.