Go over to the man.

After some consideration, you think you’ll visit the man in the corner. Someone who looks like that probably has some work for you, so he’ll likely request some kind of assistance once he finds out who you are and what you do for a living. But, just to make sure Delilah isn’t left entirely alone, you still spend a fair amount of time with her before you split off. Besides, it didn’t look like that man was going anywhere, so why would you just leave her?

After touching base with the barmaid, you say your goodbyes and then part ways, finally giving you enough space to see the stranger. At this point, you started to wonder if the man was actually just drunk or passed out; he had hardly moved during your entire chat with Delilah...

“Hey,” you say as you approach him. He shifts his gaze and clears his throat. “You look a little beat up.”

The man manages a smirk. His swollen eye twitches as he shifts his body upward. His dark suit is torn and dirtied. His brown hair, unkempt and caked with mud, makes it look like he was dragged through a field while being kicked and whacked by sticks. He doesn’t reply to your comment but instead asks a question in return.

“You wouldn’t happen to be a contractor, would you?” His smirk straightens, but his voice is shaking somewhat. Whoever (or whatever?) did this to him didn’t like him. His cheeks are cut - smudged blood on his hands indicates that he had performed medical attention to himself at one point. At least your last contract didn't leave you in this state. From what you could tell, the man was reasonably well-built. Broad shoulders, tall (even when sitting), and well-dressed - which meant he was probably from one of the wealthier towns nearby, if not a guard for some kind of caravan outfit.

“I am,” you reply. “You got a contract?”

“Not so much me. It's more like my employers... How much is it for your services?”

“Depends on the work. How much can you pay upfront?” Your question makes him grunt.

“Not much. I can do 150 credits upfront, but I can get you 200 more once you complete said contract.” He leans to his left, digging out his billfold. All the slots are empty, and there is no cash. You wonder how **** he is until he hands you a roll of '20s from the same pocket. After the money is handed over, he fishes out a card. It’s black or was at one point. Now it has dirt caked into it, and all the letters are fading. You rub the card with your thumb, eventually allowing you to read: Red Tie Enterprise. Protect what's yours. Anywhere. Anytime. McKinley Class B.

"You're a bit short on the upfront payment."

"The extra might take a little longer," he sighs and brushes back his hair. "But, I'll make sure you're paid and treated right."

"McKinley? Where's your outfit work out of?" You hand the card back. He takes it and shakes his head.

"We're from the Washington pre-state, mostly from Clark, but I came from a branch out of Garfield."

"You're a long way from Garfield," you watch him put away his card. You weigh the money in your hand. It's new print, nothing like the pre-war stuff you were used to. This person does have connections, and his company rings a faint bell in your memory, just nothing from your time spent here in Montana. "So, what's the work you got planned out?"

McKinley shifts in his seat, looking somewhat surprised. "Well, I wasn't expecting to get this far when I told you I wasn't from around here."

"I'm not a local to this district either, don't worry."

He exhales, clearly relieved. "Right. Well, tell you what. How do we meet each other in the morning? Same place, and we'll talk about the details and get the paperwork all done. It won't be anything official, but--"

"Nothing this far north is done officially. I'm glad that half the stuff I've done here recently isn't on the record." You cut off McKinley, who seems to know what you are talking about. "I'll be up early. Let's meet here at 8 o'clock."

He agrees. "8 o'clock."