Across most of the wasteland, The Alliance had a good reputation.
Especially The Alliance's military. Its image of strict discipline was deeply ingrained in people's minds, and no one had ever heard of any caravan or settlement being robbed by Alliance soldiers.
Therefore, Mojave was not worried at all. He boarded the inflatable boat with only two nimble mercenaries and urged the man steering it to speed toward the beach.
After sailing two or three kilometers, the inflatable boat quickly reached shore.
"Secure the boat! Come find me as soon as you're done!"
Mojave instructed the two mercenaries to drag the inflatable boat onto the shore and beach it, while he hurried toward the camp by the coast.
The beach was nothing like the sea.
Their inflatable boat had been coated with oil boiled from black ironwood, giving off a rotten stench that repelled sea mutants. But once ashore, he had to rely on himself.
As he hurried past the edge of the beach, the instant his soles stepped onto the soft earth, his eyes widened in shock at the sight before him.
On a platform built from logs, pelts of all sizes and colors had been stacked up like playing cards.
Probably to save space, they had been tied into block-like bundles with hemp rope and piled tightly together. Their only protection was a crude thatched shed.
These raw hides had probably been skinned from their prey not long ago. Blood and grease that had not been washed clean still clung to their surfaces, giving off a faint stench under the heat.
"Spirit of the Sand Sea above..."
Mojave's mouth fell open wide enough to fit an egg.
What shocked him was not the brutality of the scene.
As long as they were not so full they had nothing