The Desert Trance

The sun was shining brightly over the Great Paradise Desert that morning. The shifting sands burned as a  lonely tumble weed passed along the polished edge of the steel tracks that lay near the base of the mountain. A moment later, from out of the deep chasm of the mountain side, a thundering roar and a strident squeal could be heard as a bellowing steam engine emerged from the dark recesses. It was quickly on its way through the plateau – hissing and chugging as it issued forth a huge plume of black smoke behind it as it sped through the arid desert.

Inside the coach car located second from the back, Inky Beaker lazily leaned his head on the windowsill as he watched the barren scenery go by. He yawned, then propped himself on his chair, listening to the monotonous “click clack” of the rails as he adjusted his glasses that lay precariously perched on the end of his snout.

From his seat in the back, he could make out the forms of several of his fellow passengers. To his left, two average looking mares sat together, chatting idly about this and that. In front of them was an elderly lady sitting by herself, studiously crocheting what appeared to be a scarf or a garment of some sort. And in front of her, on the opposite aisle, a well-to-do gentlecolt sat reading a book.

Inky sighed. He was bored out of his mind. He had boarded the train that morning in Canterlot with high expectations of seeing the “mighty frontiers” and “endless treks of untouched beauty” as the brochure had promised. What he got, instead, were vast expanses of desolate rock formations and crevasses in an uninhabitable wasteland. He moaned to himself. Had he known this trip would have been so tedious, he would have brought his sketchpad with him to draw something – instead of leaving it in his luggage.

It was then that the door opened in the front of the car and a tall, yellow mare appeared, wearing a neatly pressed, blue uniform. “Mares and Gentlecolts,” she announced, “Dinner is now being served in the dinning car.”

The attendant proceeded to the next car where she announced the same. Soon, the passengers languidly started getting up from their seats and headed for the front of the train where the dining car was. Inky hesitated. Whether by pure laziness or by the fact that he really didn't feel that hungry, he just decided to wait behind as the others made their way by. Inky looked up at the ceiling and rested his eyes as the exodus continued. It was not until the passengers from the car behind them appeared that something caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a vibrant glisten of yellow and orange that appeared against the light and then disappeared. Who was that? Inky wondered.

At last, compelled by his own curiosity, he rose from his seat and made his way to the dining car – eager to see that figure which had passed by him before he could get a second glance. He cautiously trekked down the aisles, passing each seat and car with a growing sense of expectation. When he at last pulled back the door of the dinning car, he entered with bated breath. He proceeded to examine everypony who was sitting around the tables and standing in line in front of the galley. He looked them over tediously to see any feature was familiar – none of them did. The figure wasn't there.

Inky let himself breathe a sigh of disappointment. Was it a hallucination? Inky didn't know, but he mentally kicked himself for allowing himself to follow on such a silly intuition. He didn't even know what he expected to find. An angel? A goddess? Whatever his imagination could have fancied. Inky felt a sense of shame wash over him as he compared his reaction to how a rat might respond to a shiny object.

Inky thought about going back and sitting down, but he shrugged it off. He figured that he might as well eat while he was here. He stood in line and received an entree of vegetable soup before sitting down at a small table in the corner of the car. He ate his soup carefully – biding his time – waiting for phantom he knew would never appear.

As he continued to eat, a young mare came up to his table. “Excuse me,” she said, “Mind if I sit here?” She was collected and talked in a southern draw.

Inky didn't take his eyes off his soup. “No, not at all.” he said.

The mare sat down across from him. “Thanks. All the other seats are taken.”

“You don't say?” Inky slurped on his spoon.

“Yeah, I had to use the bathroom, so I was late getting here. Soup any good?”

“Excellent.”

“But you look like you've barely touched it.”

Inky chuckled. “Merely savoring the flavor, though it could do with some salt.” He reached for the salt across the table, but at the same time, he got a glance at the mare sitting in front of him for the first time. It was the same orange and yellow figure he had seen pass by his seat! Inky started to choke on his soup, which caused him to spill the salt.

“You okay?” The orange mare came behind him and gave him a good pat on the back, which relieved his coughing.

Inky gasped for breath. “I'm sorry,” he said wheezing. “You caught me by surprise.”

“Here, let me help you with that.” She helped wipe up some of the soup he had spilled on the table. but hesitated at the salt.

“What?” Inky asked, “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. It's just...you'll think it silly. I was always taught to throw salt over my shoulder to prevent bad luck.”

Inky chuckled. “Bad luck? Well, I say I must be having some extremely good luck for you to be here when you were.”

“I reckon so. By the way, name's Applejack.”

“Inky Beaker, nice to meet you.”

For the next hour they chatted away in the dining car over every subject imaginable. Applejack told Inky about herself – about the apple farm she tended with her brother and sister in Ponyville and the difficulties of apple farming. In turn, Inky told her about his job as a chemist in Canterlot, and how he was taking a well deserved sabbatical. He also told her about his interests and hobbies– but especially his love for drawing.

“I also have knack for art,” he said finishing up his soup. “I'm very creative.”

“Never was much into art myself. But what do you like to draw most?”

“Portraits, mostly. I find drawing ponies is a great joy. So many emotions, so many forms of expression – painting a pony's face is like trying to capture their personality. But I find the eyes the most telling. Looking into somepony's eyes, I believe, you can see the essence of their soul.”

“What do you see in my eyes?” She said as she leaned closer over the table.

He paused for a moment, as if to think. “I see a beautiful flame burning – delicate and demur. A soul that's caring and compassionate,yet virtuous and strong.”

She blushed. “Why, aren't you the flatterer?”

“If it is flattery, it is made only more sincere by the fact that it's true. There's something unique about you that I can't quite peg – something that caught my eye the very moment I saw you.”

“And what is that?”

“I don't know, but it is compelling. I wish I could put it into words – or drawing.”

“Why don't you give it a shot?” she winked and smiled.

Now it was Inky's turn to blush. “ It seems I've underestimated you, Ms. Apple. My sketchpad is in the luggage, though.”

“Why don't you go fetch it and meet me in my room?” She got up from the table and started to head down the hallway. “Number 23,” she whispered as she passed him.

Inky felt his heart skip a beat. He felt his tongue dry up in his mouth as he watched the door close behind her. Had she just offered what he thought she did?

A moment passed before he got out of his seat and returned his tray and bowl, and then started to make his way to the front of the train. It was, of course, strictly illegal for passengers to enter the baggage car at any point during transit, but was he really going to pass up an opportunity like this? Not in a million years!

He waited patiently until he noticed the conductor leave his post by the entrance and casually made his way inside where he found a hodgepodge of suitcases and traveling bags. “Now where is mine?”

He searched up and down the great isles of belongings – looking for his rather generic black bag. In retrospect, he wondered if he shouldn't have gotten a bag with a more noticeable color. As the minutes passed, though, he started to become more anxious. Where could it possibly be? Inky could begin to feel his mind racing. What if Applejack was growing impatient? What if he couldn't find it? Maybe he should just forget about it and go on to her room. But why admit defeat now when there was still so much to be won? He searched on.

After another ten minutes of fruitless rummaging he stood in the middle of a darkened room, no closer to his objective than the moment he started. He sighed to himself. Maybe he would have to go on without it.

Just as he was leaving, though, he noticed something: sitting in the corner, close by a green safe, was an embankment of luggage. “Have I looked through those?” he asked himself as he turned back around. He scanned through the bags and suddenly his eye fell upon it. There it was! He slowly pulled his bag out– wiggling it from underneath the hefty weight of the countless others.

After a moment of fumbling, Inky had retrieved his sketchpad. “At last!” Inky felt a sense of triumph wash over him as he held it over his head. “Now, Applejack, here I come.” Just as he spoke those words, however, the train violently lurched forward, causing Inky to loose his balance and fall to the ground. As he lay stunned on the floor, Inky could hear as squeal of the breaks against the steel as the train began to slowly come to a halt.

Inky cursed underneath his breath. “We can't have arrived already, could we?” He knew from what he had seen earlier that they weren't remotely close to their destination – they were still in the middle of the desert. Inky pulled out his ticket and examined the label which read in bright-red letters: “EXPRESS”. That was right, they were riding the express straight to Ponyville, so there was no need to stop. So why were they? Inky raced to the door and tried to open it but the handle wouldn't budge – it was locked. Something was terribly wrong.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and Inky felt his heart sink as he heard muffled screams from the other car. He peered through the porthole and saw a masked figure coming in his direction. He instantly ducked for cover. The handle started to rattle as the figure tried to force his way in. Inky's mind raced. What did he do? Where did go? At the last moment he delved behind the row of baggage where he had retrieved his sketchpad – hiding himself beneath the great mass and praying that he would not be seen.

A moment later the door was knocked open and the masked figure walked in. This pony was tall and well built – obviously a stallion, but that was the only thing that Inky could discern about him besides his vanilla coat. The figure paused in the doorway and examined the room. After a moment, he started to make his way toward him.

Inky's mind raced as the dull thud of the figure's steps rang in his ears. He ducked his head, sure he was about to be caught, but to his great surprise, the footsteps stopped. He squinted between the narrow opening between the bags and saw as the figure stooped over and put his face up again the safe that was no less than five feet away from him.

As the figure appeared to tinker with the lock he noticed something flash in the darkness. As he looked closer, he noticed that around the figure's waist there was a pistol suspended on his belt. Inky's mind raced as to what to do. He thought about making a run for it – try to escape, but he would be gunned down before he got to the doorway. There was only one option left.

The figure's pistol bobbed temptingly his holster – its ivory engraved handle beckoning to be seized. Inky's hoof trembled as he slowly extended. He knew he only had one shot at this – any mistake could be fatal.

Just as he had his hoof on the handle, though, he leaned too far forward and caused one of the bags to give way. The figure reacted immediately and before Inky could blink he was looking down the barrel of a forty-five. “Hooves up!'

Inky carefully stood up, both hooves over his head. The figure kept the pistol centered on him as he patted him down, looking for weapons. He then motioned with his hoof for him to move toward the door. Inky didn't budge. He knew what it usually meant. If he was going to shoot him, he'd force him to do it now. He wasn't going to give him any sense of satisfaction. When Inky didn't move, the figure forcefully grabbed him by the mane and pulled him towards the door.

It was then that Inky spied another masked stallion who was also toting a pistol. “Deal with him” the first one said as he turned his attention back to the safe. The second nodded compliantly and lead Inky down the stairs and off the train.

“Hooves against the wall, no talking!”  the second commanded as he cocked his gun and chambered a new round.

“Look, if you're going to shoot me – do it. Don't torture me like this.” Inky suddenly felt an excruciating pain as he was struck upside the head, and for moment, everything went black.

“Shut it!”

Inky didn't speak after that. He tried to kept what he felt was a dignified posture as he endeavored to hold back the tears that were welling in his eyes. After a long time, the first emerged from the baggage car.

“You got it?” the second one asked.

“No,  it's useless.”

“What do you we do now?”

“Prepare to move – we have to get out of here before the authorities get here.”

“And what about him?”

“Take him. Hostages never go to waste. I'll go retrieve our get-away.”

“You, move.” Inky did as he was told. He moved away from the train car with the masked stallion leading him by the end of his pistol.

When they had reached some distance off, a strange object appeared coming from around the end of the train. It was a large car of sorts with treads mounted on an armored chassis. On this top, near the back, there was a canopied platform, on which the other figure steered the great contraption as it jetted towards them.

“Get on.”

Inky climbed the up the later where the first figure stood – with the second following close behind him. “Drive on,” the second one said. The first threw a lever next to the wheel into action which caused the car to jolt forward and begin to move.

Inky watched in despair as the train became a sliver on the horizon and then faded from view. He thought about Applejack who was still waiting for him. Would she ever figure out what happened to him? Would anyone know? Inky didn't have any associates or colleagues who were waiting for confirmation of when he arrived, so it was doubtful they would care about him until he didn't show up for work in a week or two; and by that time, who knows what could happen? He suddenly found himself a hostage of two train-robbers who could kill him at any moment. His chances of survival were slim, and even though the sun was still shining overhead, everything was now mired in the dim of hopelessness.

After they had been driving for a while, Inky's captors took off their masks. Inky was surprised, for when the disguises were lifted, he saw the faces of two extremely well-groomed and suave looking young colts. The first one, the one Inky had seen when had hidden in the baggage, was had a small frame with no facial hair to speak of, while his partner, the older of the two, was a little more well-built, and sported a thick handle-bar mustache.

“What's our haul this time?” the first asked.

“Hold on,” the second answered as he counted out some coins out of a burlap bag. “Not sure exactly, but if I had to guess from what I've counted so far, there must be at least 10,000 bits here!”

“10,000 bits! Though, we may have gotten more if I had gotten the safe open.”

“What went wrong?”

“Think that number that conductor gave us was bogus. Even so, I couldn't crack it. It must have had a three block, rolling-tumbler system. It was one hard nut to crack.”

“Did you try the explosive putty?”

“Didn't want to risk it. Might have damaged the currency inside.”

“Well, we made up for it enough, I think.”

“Yes, brother, I think this is out best take yet.”

The mustachioed stallion paused and looked at Inky. “And how are you, friend?”

“I'm not your friend!” Inky spat back. The two brothers snickered.

“Don't be like that,” the other joined in. “No need for rudeness. After all, can't we be civil?”

Inky felt his blood boil. “You're nothing but a bunch of low-life thieves!The lowest type of scum on the earth. I don't owe you any sort of civility.”

“Such harsh words!” the younger said.

“Biting even.”

“You're lucky, stranger, we're the nice sort of crooks you meet. Otherwise, we might have killed you already.”

“Do your worst,” Inky snapped.

“Such gall!”

“I like it,” the other commented coolly.

“He does have some flare, doesn't he?”

“Enough! I'm you're hostage. What do you want, money? I got plenty. If you'll allow me to send a wire back to Canterlot and I'll pay your ransom – whatever the price. And we can all go on our merry ways.”

The older stallion chuckled. “And allow you to send a message back for help? Not a chance. You are our prisoner – leverage if you will – for lack of a better word, sir. Besides, extorting a ransom from a stow-away? I very much doubt you could meet our demands. No, no deal. Allow me though, to introduce you to you new abode.

As you can may have noticed aboard our little vessel here, we have no chains, no cages, no barbed wire, nor any type of restraint. They are completely unnecessary. As you can clearly see, we are surrounded by an ocean of sand. I don't think I have to tell you what this implies.

But to give you some specifics – we are are at least one hundred leagues, in any direction, from any source of civilization. The water sources are few and far between.” He pulled out his gun and cocked it. “I needn't tell you then that any attempt at escape will not require us to use these. Escape is death. Period. Have I made myself clear?”

Inky nodded.

“Good. Now, that being said, let us do away with these needless hostilities – they are quite irksome and not at all conducive to what either of us want. But allow me to be the first to extend an introduction – so we may all become a little more acquainted. My brother over there at the helm, he is Number One and I am Number Two.”

“One and Two?”

“Precisely. Names are so...identifiable. We like to keep things on a need-to-know basis. And your name?”

“Inky,” he said shortly.

“Well, Inky,” One said “Make yourself useful. Take the mop and start swabbing the deck.”

For the next hour, Inky spent his time working the deck, slowly biding his time as he thought of a way to escape the perilous situation he found himself in. He didn't know what he was going to do, but one thing was clear: he had to escape at any cost. Inky figured he had a better chance of being found the sooner he was off this transport that was carrying him in the opposite direction of the crime scene. However, there was the very real danger of dying of thirst in the desert. Inky had to consider his next move carefully.

To that end, Inky began to deliberately take note of his surroundings – the layout of the ship, where the two brothers went, and where everything was. He occasionally noticed that one of the brothers, usually Number Two, would open a latch below the platform and go below. Inky didn't know what was down there, but he could guess it had to be important to warrant such punctual attention. He had to find  pretext to see it for himself. That opportunity came sooner than expected. While Inky continued to scrub the deck, he overheard the two brothers conversing:

“One of the gaskets is going bad,” Number Two said as he emerged from the opening.

“Which one?”

“The third.”

“It's always given us trouble. Do we have any spares?”

“No, it's in pretty bad shape.”

“Is it holding?”

“Barely. I'd give it another day or two before it breaks.”

“Damn. Well, that throws a monkey-wrench in our plans. We'll have to return to base to be refitted and we'll miss our other appointments.”

“What gaskets are you talking about?” Inky asked.

One looked at him apprehensively. “And what business is it of yours?”

“I use to be a mechanic. I did on-sight repairs all the time. I could help.”  Inky was lying through his teeth. He had never been anywhere near a a repair-shop in his life – he only prayed that they didn't realize that also.

“What did he say, Number One?”

“He's worked on engines, Number Two.”

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely,” Inky answered emphatically.

“I don't believe you,” Number Two said. “Prove it.”

Inky gulped. “How?”

“Tell us about gaskets.”

Inky didn't know what to say – but he kept an even head and didn't allow himself to panic. He went on an impulse. “I know if you don't fix that gasket – you're going to have some major problems.”

“What kind?”

“Over...heating?” Inky said, trying to mask his insecurity by acting as if it was second grade knowledge.

“Huh, well Number One, he seems to know something.”

“I'm not entirely convinced.”

“Look,” Inky said throwing up his hooves, “I've had a change of heart. There's no need to be hostile. We can all be civil, right? Besides, I see there's much profit for the taking – why not try to help?”

“There's always a catch, Number One.”

“Always.”

“He wants to help us rob people. But what was that you said earlier – about us being the lowest type of scum on the earth?”

“We all have our misconceptions,” Inky said. “But I asked myself: what does it profit a man to gain the entire world but loose his soul? The answer is: money!”

The two brothers chuckled. “You see?” Number Two said, “We're not that different.”

“Not at all.”

“Now, what do you know about engines?”

“Lots! Actually, would you mind if I go look at that gasket? I may be able to do something with it.”

“Should we let him, Number One?”

“Keep an eye on him, Number Two.”

“Alright,” Number Two said taking out his pistol. “This way.” He motioned to Inky to where the latch was. Inky walked over to it and descended the stairs into the murky chamber below.

Inside the depths of the great machine was a huge engine that whirred and hummed as it trekked through the desert. The room was sweltering hot. The smell of oil overwhelmed everything and made staying in the room almost unbearable. Inky coughed as he made his way past the gyrating pistons. “Where is it?” he asked.

“Forwards, near the back, on the right.” Number Two said.

Inky scaled through the machinery – being sure not to touch any of the blistering surfaces. When he had made his way as far as he could, he pointed into a dark spot hidden behind the motor.“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't see anything. It's too dark.”

“What do you mean you can't see anything? It's right there!”

“I don't see it.” Inky was telling the truth. The sweat was getting in his eyes and blocking up the lenses of his glasses – he could hardly make out anything. It didn't help, either, that he had no clue what he was looking for. “Do you have a flash-light?”

“Here,” Number Two threw him that one he had gotten from an iron case that was hanging on the wall.

Inky clicked the button and shone the beam into the darkness, searching around. He felt an uneasiness rising. He knew he couldn't keep up this charade forever. He'd have to act soon, but what could he do? He decided to keep playing dumb. “Where? I don't see it?”

“Are you blind! It's right there!”

“I'm not seeing anything.”

“What kind of mechanic are you?”

“I'm sorry! I've never seen an engine like this before!”

Number Two was now visibly agitated. “Good Googly Moogly! Do I have do everything myself?” He came over to where Inky was and pointed to some place inside the machine. “There!”

“Where?”

“There!”

“On the left?”

“No, on the right?”

“How far away from your hoof?”

“It's right there!”

“I don't see it it.”

Number Two's face was now turning a crimson red, “Here, damn you! Hold this!” He handed Inky the flash-light and reached into the machine. “There! You see! Right-” Before he could say another word Inky had struck him upside the head with the flash-light and knocked him unconscious.

Inky took the pistol out of his limp hoof and ran over to the entrance – bearing himself so he had the gun trained on the door. “Quick! He needs help! He's been hurt!” He heard the frantic thud of hoof-steps on the deck above and then the clang of metal as Number One descended the stairs. As soon as his darkened figure came into view, Inky yelled out as loud as he could, “Hooves up!”

Number One instantly went for him. He grabbed the pistol in Inky's hoof and turned it to the side before Inky could react. The two of them were then in close quarters, struggling with each other over its possession. The both of them grunted and strained as they each tried to overcome the other. Number One though, despite his determination, was quickly loosing his grip. At last, Inky managed to pin him down and  launch him across the room. Number One recovered though and reached for the pistol on his belt – but Inky was faster. A shot rang out and the young stallion slumped over and collapsed on the floor next to his brother.

Inky gasped in horror. He went over to where Number One lay but hesistated. He prodded him, to see if he were faking it. When he did not respond, he pressed his ear against his chest – his heart was still beating. Inky breathed a sigh of temporary relief. The killing of another pony was something he didn't want on his conscience. He then looked him over – not a single wound was to be found. At last, Inky concluded, he must have fainted from shock. Inky propped him up against the wall and elevated his legs on those of his brother's. “There, no reason we can't be civil, right?”

Inky retrieved some supplies from the ship's storage, and a map of the water-sources which he had found in the main cabin. Then he embarked on his way – with the bag of stolen money in tow. He followed the sinking sun to the west. There, if the map was correct, he would find Fall's Creek – a river where he could replenish his water. From there, he could make his way north along the Waloon Trail until he came to Dodge City. If his luck held, he estimated he would be back to civilization in a week. But in the meantime, Inky wanted to put as many leagues between him and the brothers as he could. To insure this, he sabotaged their machine as best he could by shooting holes into the engine and breaking a few pipes and wires.. “There, that should keep them busy for awhile. By the time they fix that, I'll be well out of reach.”

He then set off in the fading light of the desert sun – trekking across the vast expanses of wilderness until he had come to a small, secluded cave on the face of a craggy rock formation. By this point, Inky was exhausted and tired. “I'll need to get to Fall's Creek by tomorrow or I'm in trouble,” he said, noticing there was less than a liter of water left in his canteen.

Inky didn't know much about the desert, but he knew that water was important for survival. He had to get to a water-source soon or else he'd perish beneath the blazing desert sun. As his mind began to realize the grim possibilities, another thought came to mind: “Has anyone realized I'm gone yet?” He didn't know. Surely someone, somewhere was wondering where he was. That's when he began to think back to Applejack. Had she realize what had happened to him?

As he laid down on his sleeping mat which he had taken from the brother's belongings, he began to feel something stir inside of him at the reminiscent memory of the mare he met this morning on the express. Would he ever see her again? Maybe one day. That's when he remember what she had said earlier – she had a farm in Ponyville. He'd go to her. Yes, that's what he'd do. He'd go and find her and tell her exactly what had happened, and they could all have a good laugh about this.

That night, Inky slept uneasily. He tossed and turned on the hard, rocky ground. He was occasionally stirred by the sound of a coyote or some other animal. Out here in the wilderness there were predators. Inky had to keep his guard up, which is why the pistol was never too far from his side.

It was not until a few hours later, when Inky had finally allowed himself to drift into a state of semiconscious repose, that he heard another sound.  Outside, he heard the soft rustle of dirt and the snap of gravel under what he thought sounded like hoof-steps. He sprang up immediately and listened closer. The wind sighed softly against the mountainside and everything was silent until the sound of something rapping against the basin reverberated in the cave.

Inky quickly pulled himself up and pressed himself against the cave wall behind a small rock formation. It was them – the brothers. Inky knew it had to be. They had come after him. They knew the terrain – they knew where he'd be – and they had followed him. Inky made ready to fire. He pressed the back of his hoof against the safety and aimed towards the cave entrance.

Moments passed and the sound of the rustling got louder. Inky could feel his heart in the bottom of his throat as the gun trembled in his hand. It was then that the sound suddenly stopped and was replaced by an eerie silence. Inky listened closer to see if he could hear anything. A moment or two passed and still nothing.

Inky mitigated in the darkness. Was it his imagination? Or had he just been hearing things? He wished to venture forth from the cave to investigate, but he dared not to. What waited outside?  He did not know. One false move now would be his downfall.

Inky waited another moment and was about to let his guard down when he heard the noise again. It was louder now – right at the entrance of the cave. He watched as a looming shadow appeared in the pale-moonlight and filled the entire cave. His mind was racing. What could he do? He had only escaped by sheer luck last time without having to kill anybody. Had it really come down to this now? Inky was prepared to do what he had to do to survive – but the thought of murder made his blood run cold. No, he would not stoop to shooting someone in the dark. He at last took the solemn decision, and whispered in a low voice into the cavern: “Who is it?”

The shadow stopped and whispered voice returned: “It's me.” Inky tried to identify the voice, but he couldn't tell. He at last threw down the gun and put his hands in the air as stood from behind the earthen formation.

“You've got me.”

He suddenly felt a beam of light on his face. Inky, stunned by the brightness, couldn't make out the holder. “Inky, is that you?”

He recognized that voice. “Applejack?”

The orange figure stepped into view. “Inky!” she proclaimed.

“Applejack!” Inky said as they embraced one another. “How in Celestia's name did you find me?”

For the next half-hour, Applejack told Inky about what had happened – about the train-robbery and how she had found him.

“When the shooting started, I was still in my room. The crooks came and robbed everybody blind. I would have tried to stop them, but they were armed to the teeth. When they had left, I tried to find you – but you were gone. We assumed you had been kidnapped. The authorities arrived sometime later, but by that time, we thought our chances of finding them were slim-to-none. It was lucky, though, we found a local buffalo who knew this terrain; he lead us straight to them. That's where found them in their machine. We also noticed some footsteps heading out into the wilderness – so I volunteered to trek ahead.”

“Well, it seems I've underestimated you again, Ms. Apple.” Inky said smiling.

“I'm just happy to see you're unharmed.”

“Who were those robbers, by the way?”

“The infamous Flim-Flam brothers. After they tried to run my family's farm out of business selling cider, they apparently turned to train-robbing to make a living. Luckily, those scoundrels are going to jail for a long time.”

“Huh, I never would have guessed that.”

“So, Inky, you and I never did get around to that drawing.”

Inky recoiled realizing that he had no supplies. “Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my sketchpad.”

Applejack smiled coyly.“Then it seems we'll have to skip it,” she said as she moved closer to him.

Inky smiled as she pressed her hoof near his flank. “What past-time do you suggest then?”

She licked her lips. “I'm sure we'll think of something.”

All of a sudden, Inky felt everything around him fall. The earth seemed to shake with a rumble and he lurched forward. In his seat, Inky was jerked awake as the train came to a stop outside of a sleepy little green town – somewhere far away from the desert. The conductor suddenly emerged from the other car. “Last stop, Ponyville”, he announced.

Inky rubbed his eyes. Was it all just a dream? He sat in his seat bewildered as the ponies made their way to the either end of the car and disembarked. Surely, Inky thought to himself, he didn't imagine it all.

He yawned as he got up himself – making his way to the station that lay beyond. He couldn't have made it up, he thought, he couldn't have; otherwise, where would he have come up with a name like Applejack? Inky suddenly remembered a letter he was carrying with him. He unfolded and began to read it aloud.

“Dear Mr. Beaker...you are cordially invited...honored guest...you will be escorted by Applejack, a representative of the town...” Inky folded the paper, unable to believe it. He had made it all up. He had fantasized the entire thing. He had taken a name and ascribed a face to it – like a surreal delusion. He marveled in a momentary rejection unable to wrap his mind around the complexity of it all. It had all seemed so real.

As he climbed down the stairs and disembarked on the station platform, he looked around for a familiar face. That's when, in the midst of the crowd, he saw an orange blur our the corner of his eyes.“Howdy there, partner.”