Protecting the Line
The rusty shackles rub small, red circles into my fur as I bounce around in the back of the wagon, and the lonely darkness of the location seems to only intensify it more. I was picked up from the rail line holding cell what seems like ages ago, yet, I have no idea for certain how long I’ve been on the trail into town. I sigh a little chuckle as the irony of this whole moment slowly comes to mind, because before all of this, I was the one who usually did all the chaining, transporting, and when the foreman had made his inevitable decision- the executing. Though now it seems that I’m on the opposite end of this ordeal, and that I will be the one who will ultimately pay the price for what they say I did, because if I know law in the frontier, there is none. There’s only the word of the foreman, and if he says you were the one who ultimately conspired with a group of rogue workers to murder his little foal, you’ll get real comfortable wearing a rope necktie.
The wagon continues along the path, and as the sun gets higher into the sky, the smell of the container gets worse. The smell of dozens of prisoners that had been transported in this wooden box is unbearable. The stench of despair is what I smell, and it irradiates from every plank in that carriage. Though, I don’t have to worry about it for long, as the caravan halts in its long journey, and the bouncing comes to a slow stop, my breaths become heavier. I hear the deputies talking to somepony unfamiliar outside. The slow rhythm of hooves approach as the nameless voice makes his way around to the backside of the wagon, and unlocks the heavy, wooden doors. My eyes are blinded as bright sunlight streams into the cell; light was something I was longing, yet dreading to see. I was longing because it meant that I’d be out of my wooden prison and frankly because I’m not too fond of the dark, yet dreading because it would mean I’m that much closer to my end. The unfamiliar stallion pokes his head into my newly illuminated prison and gave a questionable grin. “Howdy there,” he says with a slight southern accent. “It seems like you’re in a bit of a bind.”
I nod duly, trying not to mock at his unamusing joke. “Yes, I suppose I am; how ‘bout you give me a hand with that?” I replied, presenting the chains I was wearing around my hooves.
The officer sighs a sigh of fake sorrow, “Unfortunately that’s a no-can-do compadre. You see, the sheriff seems to believe you a’ dangerous murder, so I’ll have to respectfully decline that offer and take you inside all chained up and the like.”
I nod as if it was merely a formality for ponies to be chained up when entering a building, and hop out of the prison wagon, legs almost giving out from such a long time laying down. My steps are short and slow, taking in all my surroundings.
The town is as you would picture a common western town, businesses aligned on either side with a long, fat, dusty road carving its way down the center. The people and buildings followed the same storybook theme; all of them wearing traditional western clothing down to the buttons on their britches. The building all looked as if they were hoof-made, nothing like the symmetricality the newer cities that I’d visited in past years. All of it has a very homey sense to it; the aura in itself is calming, though, this enjoyment is short lived, for I’m being pushed into the jail from behind. As I walk through the door I am able to catch a glimpse of the name of the town; the sign reads, “Welcome to Goldenmane: Leading the race in taming the wild frontier”.
The inside of the jail house is much larger than the outside would initially suggest. There are three cells- one of them already filled with a scraggly old coot of a pony-, a large oak desk more than likely assigned to the sheriff- who I’ve yet to see-, and a weapons locker, locked up tight with an assortment of chains and bolts. To my left is an old beat up oak table, built for holding prisoners, and I get the horrible feeling that I’ll be spending many hours locked to that contraption- I was right. The deputy that I’d talked to near the wagon nudges me toward my fated imprisonment, and orders me to sit there on the chair while he attaches me to the tabletop. I then receive a new set of chains; two separate iron cuffs which keep me stiffly restricted to moving my hooves barely a foot away from the wooden structure. It’s not what I’d call an improvement to my previous arrangement, but it is certainly better than the inside of that oven they call the transport wagon. “I’m glad you see to make your guests feel as if they were at home. The hard chairs and rusty cuffs really set the mood.” I snapped sarcastically as the deputy sits in the sheriff’s chair and props his back hooves up on the desk.
“We do our best to make the worst of Goldenmane feel comfortable.” The deputy jests, flashing his crooked little teeth at me.
I sigh, getting back to the matter at hand, “So what exactly am I doin’ here? If you’re gunna’ to hang me, might as well get it over with. I was never the type to drag things along.”
The Deputy shrugs indifferently and adjusts himself in the chair, “The sheriff assured Mr. Foreman and his family that they’d get a full and “unedited” testimony from ya’ before you went all limp. Wouldn’t worry ‘bout it too much though, ‘cause sure enough you’ll be hangin’ tonight.”
“That’s reassuring…” I mutter and prop my head against my shoulder.
Within moments the door slams open once again to reveal a gruff, older looking stallion, followed by the other two deputies that had drove me here. The older one had a worn out, old brass star on his vest with the words “sheriff” inscribed in block letters. He took in a deep breath and reared back to attention, looking around the room. I halfway expected him to dramatically look toward me and chid some insult, but to my surprise that didn’t happen. No, his old, weary pupils landed on the foolish deputy sitting in his seat, hooves propped up on his desk. He takes a moment to glare at him, soaking up the mistake the sheriff-in-training had made, and then, with a voice as coarse and scratchy as sandpaper, he says, “What in Celestia’s name do you think you’re doin’, boy?”
The deputy looks surprised, and scans the room to make sure he was the target of the sheriff’s scolding. “M-Me?” he questions timidly.
“Yes you,” the sheriff says condescendingly. “You’re in my damn seat.” and the two other deputies crack a chuckle at his comment.
The one in the “hot seat” suddenly becomes aware at his mistake and shoots up out of the chair faster than a bullet out of hell. “I am so sorry Mr. Sheriff I didn’t realise-!”
“Realise what exactly?! That your discustin’ booty was on my chair?” The sheriff scolds as the traumatised stallion hurries as far across the room as he can get from the law man. “I swear boy…” he trails off and his murderous eyes float their way over to me.
“You sure know how to handle your boys sheriff; you must be like a father to them.” I say with a bemused smirk on my face.
The sheriff doesn’t share my feelings, yet humors me with a response, “Well, Easy over there is a special kind of stupid. He ain’t too right up top if you know what I mean.” He nods to the two who’d followed him in there.
I glance over to the deputy, who was now muttering in the corner. “Ya, I suppose I can see how you’d think that.”
The sheriff pops back the chair in front of me and slowly sits himself down in the chair. He begins his speech slowly, “Them two boys over there are Poncho and Rush, and you know who I am. Now, if you haven’t already heard from my loud mouth trainees, the only reason you ‘aint hangin’ outside in my gallows is because I was told by some suits to interrog- interview you on your… “experiences”, in the C&R Railroad Camp. You were designated to be the security overseer, correct?”
I give a slight nod, and then respond in words, “Technically on paper I was labeled as an “Equipment Manager”, seeing as a hired mercenary working on your rail line ain’t exactly the best thing for customers to find out about.”
“Understandable, and as I’ve heard you’ve done this type of thing before right?”
“Ya, Ya.” I say with a proud smile. “Before all this mess I’d helped with the big dam near Los Pegasus. It was a heck of a job but..” My smile fades and I zone out for a bit. “It uh… It didn’t turn out well.”
The sheriff leans back, making the chair let out a long moan. “We’re not here for that story though, so if you could please begin, Mr. Cobalt, we could get right on to your imminent death.”
Now at this point I could say no; I could say I refuse or that I won't cooperate. Though, as I see it, if I was going to die in some town in the middle of nowhere, somepony might as well know my story, so I sit up straight, suck in a long breath, and begin.
