"It's a cowboy's hat - or was," Markov explains. He pockets the bullets and the pistol in separate pockets inside of his coat, hoping to keep them dry. [i]The pistol felt good. Solid. It wasn't powered by enough lead to turn somebody into a pencil, but there was more than enough to make somebody regret messing with me.[/i] "Thanks for the piece," he says, starting to turn toward the door before stopping. "You wouldn't happen to know about any work around these parts, would you?" [i]Now that I'd made myself a pauper, I'd need a job. This was a rough town, and a gig here promised to be just as tormenting. What choice did I have, though?[/i]