Getting to a point where I can see the end.
To this day, I don’t know if Ilbrin did sell us out. We didn’t stick around long enough to find out, and there wasn’t anything in the luggage I left behind worth going back for. And I haven’t been back to Portsmouth, either. If I’m going to visit an elven town soaked in danger and debauchery, I’ll just go vacation in New Havana again.
The two of us didn’t have any trouble getting out of Deadman’s Crossing. Sort of. There was the damned fool that tried to mug us, but he somehow managed to no-fooling, for-real shoot himself in the foot. It was so bad I almost took pity on the guy and tipped him a few Hershey credits; in the end I just kept Wilkinson from stabbing the thief while he was down. A surprisingly ruthless bastard, our Mr. Wilkinson. At least, when he had the drop on somebody. A thing to remember about him, to be sure.
But aside from that we easily got ourselves hired to help lug stuff into Chilicothe on the morning run. Apparently many of the locals didn’t like to take that job. Which should have maybe been a hint.