Derelict

As Cold Waters to a Thirsty Soul

Chapter Two

The boy called Rison stood without speaking, his head drooping low and his dust covered arms hanging by his sides. Wyatt couldn't begin to fathom how a man could leave his son as a hostage. It took resolve and fortitude unlike anything Wyatt had ever encountered. He was sure Boss had been so blinded by the prospect of a pending fortune he had overlooked the steel behind the trader's actions. Yessir, resolve and fortitude.

Unless it was something else entirely. Like maybe a callous disregard for his own kin.

Either way, it seemed Boss had stuck his hand into the mouth of a lion and was liable to have it ripped from his arm.

Still staring at the door, Boss said in a low voice, "Get back there and unload all that scrap metal from the wagon and get it sorted. And Wyatt, you keep your mouth shut about this. Ain't nothing worse than a Speck what can't stop talking. If word of this gets out, that stick would not be the least bit happy about it."

Boss was right. The stick wouldn't be happy. And Wyatt knew it didn't matter whether he said a thing to anybody or not because sooner or later, everybody in town would realize Boss had made a big score. Before long, the Guild would start looking into the matter. Even if Boss relocated to Chicago, folks would take notice of his sudden wealth and start asking questions. New wealth always attracted attention and it all would be traced back to the crystals and they'd want to know how someone not in the Guild acquired such a vast treasure. And the Guild might decide to ask those questions of anyone close to Boss. And nobody--but nobody--was closer to Boss than Wyatt.

It was then Wyatt realized he was expendable. Boss was sharp enough to reason, if he hadn't already, his Speck couldn't be talking if his Speck wasn't living. And there was no justice for a Speck. Never. Specks were non-people; merely property. They had no rights, no advocates, and no recourse. Nothing to call their own other than a future filled with backbreaking labor, meager rations, and harsh punishment meted out at the whim of their masters. While Wyatt knew all this, he also knew Boss was lazy. Lugging around one thousand pounds of crystals would be hard, sweaty work and Boss always avoided like the plague anything resembling actual labor. If Boss wanted the wagon unloaded, it meant he intended to use it tonight to make the haul.

A sharp thwack of the stick across the back of his thighs dropped Wyatt to his knees.

"Did I give you the impression it was a good idea to be standing around daydreaming? Get to work!"

He turned on Rison and added with a snarl, "And you! Get your scrawny ass back there and make yourself useful. This shop's got no room for dawdling."

His legs ablaze with pain, Wyatt hobbled through the shop back to the cavernous room in the rear of the building that served as a warehouse. A wagon was parked in the middle of the room laden with discarded and broken metal scraps, most covered and pitted with rust and useless to anyone other than Boss. Stacks of crates and piles of miscellaneous debris filled the perimeter of the room, a collection of decades worth of scavenging, trading, or stealing. Boss was never above relieving the unsuspecting or innocent of their possessions if he thought he could get away with it. Of course, it was always Wyatt who took the blame should stolen goods be discovered, Stupid Speck! How dare you bring anything stolen into my shop!

And then the stick would get busy.

Well, Boss wanted this load sorted and sorted it would be, although Wyatt's notion of sorting was far different from that of Boss. Because the bits and pieces of metal were nearly indistinguishable one from another Wyatt would randomly divide the load into one of the existing piles or crates and call it good. There was no real sorting and Boss was none the wiser. The piles of scrap continued to grow, Wyatt continued his pretense of sorting, and Boss continued to believe his trove was organized.