Crack!
Thud!
The branch, not the strongest one on the tree, finally snapped under the weight of the three ponies. Braeburn snapped to consciousness as soon as he hit the ground, and immediately untied the rope from his neck and took a great, deep breath. He brushed dust off of his vest and picked up his old brown cowpony hat to keep the sun from his face. Then, he rushed to his brothers and shook them, but...
Being they were older and heavier, they were already dead, their necks broken instantly. Braeburn's was bruised, but he would be okay.
Tearing up, Braeburn collapsed to the ground, sobbing and roaring in grief and anger. He sat, his hoof to his face, bawling, as the sun beat down on him and the dust closed in on him. He sat as his body used up what moisture was left, and he began to get dehydrated. But still he sat, clutching on to the dead bodies of his kin.
And then came the next stage. Braeburn's vision became red with a blinding fury, an anger very unlike anything he had ever felt. He wanted to kill, to hurt, to maim. The thought scared him, but even deeper inside, it sparked a yearning, a raging desire... a goal. At that moment, Braeburn swore to himself and to Apple Bucker and Bushel... that he would avenge them. However, when he stood up, his legs were wobbly, his head was spinning, and he lost his balance and collapsed to the ground. Forcing himself up, he started trudging onward, almost dragging his drying body down the trail.
It took Braeburn a few more hours to reach Appleoosa, and by that time he was thoroughly exhausted. The sun was lingering on the horizon when he finally collapsed. Dust had caked in his nostrils and he was struggling to breathe, and combined with severe sun stroke and complete exhaustion, he was on the verge of death. He had passed out and was found by the bartender.
Braeburn awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. Albeit the bed he was laying in was much more comfortable than his straw bed back home, and the colorful painting for the walls was much nicer than Braeburn's dreary grey paint, he still panicked. There was a damp rag on his forehead and the dust had been wiped from his nostrils and eyes, and there was strength in his limbs. Also, he did not feel that subtle gagging sensation as he did right after the noose was on his neck. Braeburn cringed as the memories suddenly came back to him. He sat up, a little too quickly, and his stiff back popped and created a dull ache in his lower spine. Doing his best to ignore it, Braeburn shambled out of the bed and tripped on the covers, and ended up falling on his face. The door suddenly opened, and the bartender stepped in.
"Ah! You're awake!" he exclaimed, helping Braeburn to his hooves.
"Where am I? What happened?" Braeburn croaked.
"I found you passed out in the street. Figured I'd best get you up. I was assuming you were drunk, but then I noticed signs of a heat stroke and got you inside in a jiffy. I've been giving you water and keeping you cool these last few days."
"Days!?!"
"Reckon so. You've been feverish, in and out a few times, and delusional. It appears that you've finally woken up. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"
Braeburn sighed and told the story. The bartender listened thoughtfully but added no comment till the very end.
"A shame, that. Rattlesnake Canyon, you say? They've been there for a few days. I think it's time for a proper burial."
Braeburn teared up. "Thanks. I'm ashamed of leaving them out there, but I was barely strong enough to get myself here alive. I had no choice."
"I understand completely. The name's Absinthe, by the way." Absinthe turned to leave, but Braeburn called out to him.
"Absinthe? Do you know any of the ponies who did that?" Braeburn questioned, feeling that hatred flutter inside of him once more.
"I think one of them mentioned his name was Sombrero. The short one, with the brown coat and the hat with the damaged brim. Sounded like he was from out further West, out where there isn't much law and trouble runs rampant."
"Thanks, Absinthe. Could I get a glass of water, please? My throat's a mite dry," Braeburn muttered. Absinthe nodded and left the room. Moments later, he was back with some ice water. Braeburn took it and gulped it down in one big mouthful. He nodded in thanks. Absinthe took the glass and started for the door. Suddenly, he turned sharply around.
"Don't go hunting vengeance, boy. It'll consume your entire life and leave you with nothing at the end, if you don't get yourself killed along the way. Trust me. I've seen many a colt who drowned their sorrows in my bar, who were left with empty lives after spending theirs huntin' other ponies."
"Thanks for the advice, Absinthe, but I'm afraid my life is already empty. Now please, go and find my brothers. They deserve proper respects. I think Ah'll head out to my house and recover a bit," Braeburn remarked. Absinthe nodded "When's the next train out West?"
"Tomorrow, there'll be a train headed out to the far West. Maybe you can ask around once you're down there. I think I saw em' headed that-a-ways anyway. Tomorrow mornin', eleven o'clock."
Braeburn's head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes. A few minutes after Absinthe had gone, he got up and headed out of the bedroom. He was in Absinthe's house, a small yet cozy building just across the street from the Saloon. On an oak chair lay Braeburn's hat and vest, recently cleaned. He donned both and opened the door. Normally, Braeburn would've left a few bits for Absinthe's kindness, but Sombrero and his two pals had left him with nothing. Nothing but that old Indian coin, which Braeburn had kept with him unconsciously. It was that young, grey unicorn who put it in his mouth. That young grey unicorn will die soon. And it will be Braeburn's gun that fires the shot.
Braeburn stepped outside into the warm sunlight and saw Absinthe trotting back to the house. Puzzled, Braeburn went over to meet him.
"One last thing. In my bedroom is a dark wooden dresser. In the top shelf is a pair of six shooters and a belt. I think they'll help you in your... quest," Absinthe informed him.
"Thank you so much, Absinthe. Your kindness will be repayed," Braeburn responded.
Absinthe shook his head. "I don't want any payment. Just do what you feel like you need to do."
Braeburn nodded. Absinthe turned back and resumed his journey to Rattlesnake Gorge, and Braeburn returned to the house. It took him only a moment to locate the bedroom, and Braeburn entered. He located the dresser Absinthe spoke of and opened the top drawer. Inside were two beautifully crafted six shooter revolvers. The handles were ivory, and the rest was pure, shining steel. Beside them was a black leather belt, two custom holsters, and a box of one hundred bullets. Braeburn smiled and picked up the guns. They weren't just extremely deadly... they were works of art. There were intricate swerves and swirls and decorative gems. Braeburn instantly fell in love. He put the belt on, dropped the ammo box into a small satchel, loaded both guns, put them in their holsters, and loaded bullets into the cartridge slots. The guns were positioned so that they would be very easy to get to when needed.
Braeburn left and went back to his house, to retrieve some things. An old Winchester .44 with a worn old leather scabbard and strap, a shiny, sharp Bowie knife, and a small wooden box hidden under a loose plank, containing a few bits to fall back on in a financial emergency. All these would be helpful.
Braeburn stretched his arms and legs, and started to feel tired again. He decided to rest up. Tomorrow will be a long day.
Braeburn stepped off the train and instantly felt the heat waves. It was much hotter than it was in Appleoosa.
"How can these ponies stand this?" he muttered, surveying his surroundings and taking a few steps forward. Spotting a saloon, Braeburn decided that would be the best place to find information, and headed forward. Opening the door, the first thing he noticed was the ponies. It was early afternoon, so the saloon wasn't as populated as it usually is. The ones who were there were very rough looking ponies, and every one of them wore a gun. Dual wielding was rare, so most of them only packed one gun.
Braeburn held his breath to block out the acrid stench of the building and trotted up to the bar.
"What'll it be?" a large, burly pony, obviously the bartender, asked in a gruff voice.
"Uh, I'll have a rye," Braeburn ordered.
"Say, you new in town?" the bartender inquired.
"Ayup, I am indeed," answered Braeburn, accepting the drink and tossing two bits on the bar.
"Well, what brings ya 'round t'ese parts?" The stallion's Western accent would be impossible to understand if Braeburn hadn't grown up around Westerners.
"It's a personal matter. Possibly you could help me."
"Shoot, I hardly know ya'! My services aren' free, mizzah."
"I'll give you ten bits, but only if you're able to help me."
The bartender glared, but said, "sounds reasonable 'nuff. Watcha' need? Female comp'ny? You won't find many decent mares 'round here, no siree!"
Braeburn chuckled. "Nah, nothin' o' the sort. I just need help findin' somepony, an' I heard he was from somewhere out here. A big, brown stallion, heavily scarred, grey eyes, an' a sombrero with a damaged brim. Know any pony like that?"
The saloon went silent. "Mizzah, you aren' lookin' fer Sombrero, are ya?" the bartender asked, in a harsh whisper.
"I'm afraid I am," Braeburn responded, feeling kind of shy now that he had the attention of everypony in the saloon.
"You'll git yerself shot, Ah guarantee! But if you're really huntin' trouble, then that's yer business. I ain't gonna give out info like that fer' jus' ten bits. Ah's be puttin' mah life at risk for the price o' five drinks! Whadda ya t'ink I am, stupid? No, siree!"
"Twenty bits is as high as I can go."
The bartender shook his head. "Sorry, son, but Ah ain' suicidal."
Braeburn sighed and slid his hooves off the bar. Finishing his drink, he turned to leave, then suddenly turned back to the bartender.
"Now just who is he? Why are you so scared of him?" he questioned.
"Boy, are you stupid? Sombrero's the meanest bandit in the county!" somepony shouted. Braeburn rolled his eyes and left the saloon.
"Hey," somepony said behind Braeburn. He spun around to see a dull red stallion seated outside the saloon. Braeburn trotted up to him.
"So yer lookin' fer Sombrero, eh? I can help ya find him, but first, Ah need ya to do me a wee lil' favor, aight?"
"Sure, I guess," Braeburn responded hopefully yet cautiously.
"Right, good little colt. There's somepony that's gon' get hanged tonight, and he ain' done nothin' wrong. Some members o' Sombrero's outfit are actin' as Vigilantees, and they hangin' him 'cause o' some ol' grudge 'twixt 'em. You need tah go an' stop it. Then Ah'll let ya know where Sombrero is hidin' out."
Braeburn thought it over, then made up his mind. "Alright. Where's this lynchin' takin' place at?"
The stallion gestured at a hill about a mile away. "Top o' dat hill, there's a big tree. They call it tha hangin' tree. It'll be up there, 'round midnight."
"Right," Braeburn responded suspiciously. "And how'd you find out about this?"
"Simple. I overheard some hoods talkin' in the saloon. Little alcohol an' they go ramblin' on 'bout ever'ting! Fella got arrested las' week for braggin' 'bout robbin' a stagecoach after he drowned hisself in liquor."
"Alright. I'll do what I can."
It was about ten minutes until midnight. Braeburn sat in wait behind a large boulder, right by the tree the stranger had mentioned. He was starting to get impatient when he heard the sounds of ponies walking. Peeking over the rock, he spotted three ponies. It was hard to see in the dark, but one of them definitely had a rope around his neck. Braeburn shuddered at the memory of a rope tightening against his throat, making it impossible to draw that breath that you so desperately need. He picked up the rifle and aimed carefully.
"Howdy," he yelled, making himself known.
"Who's there?" one of the gangsters yelled. Braeburn answered the question with a shot from his rifle, and the pony fell, dead. The other tried to draw, but Braeburn aimed, levered the gun, and fired before the other pony had a chance.
Braeburn felt slightly sick at the thought of taking another pony's life, but he dismissed the thought. After all, he needed to get used to dealing with the bad guys. Violence was the route he chose, and it was the route he'd take. After all, they were riding with Sombrero.
The would-be victim cringed, as if he thought he'd be shot, too. Instead, Braeburn stepped into view and trotted over to him, rifle in teeth. He slid the weapon into the scabbard, and drew his Bowie knife, then proceeded to cut the victim's bonds and remove his gag and noose.
"T-t-thank you," the pony muttered gratefully.
"Let's just get you somewhere safe. It's mighty cold out tonight," Braeburn said, and picked the pony up.
"I can take care of myself," the colt said.
"Can you now? Is that why I found you with a rope around your neck?"
"That's not fair, they took me by surprise. If I had a gun-"
"Save your breath. Say, you don't sound like you're from around here."
"I'm from Fillydelphia. I came out here to get a sense of adventure... but instead it's just people killing each other! I wanna go back East."
"Quit your complainin'. I ain't from around here myself. In fact, I arrived just this morning. I came from Appleoosa."
The pony Braeburn had just saved made no comment. Braeburn took him to town (of which he still hadn't learned the name of yet) and took him towards the Saloon.
"I got it from here," the other pony said. Braeburn shrugged and headed into the Saloon, followed by the pony he just saved. His eyes caught those of the red stallion, and he nodded.
"Can I rent a room here? Stay fer' a few nights?" Braeburn asked the bartender.
"Well, sure. I'll give ya a room fer free," he replied.
Braeburn was puzzled. "Why do I get it for free?"
"Well, cuz' yer gon' rid us o' thet vermint Sombrero. Word 'round town is you're huntin' him down. So, yer welcome ta' stay as long as you need."
"Thank you," Braeburn said, bowing his head. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly exhausted. "Which room is it?"
"Firs' one up the stairs," the bartender said, gesturing at a carpeted staircase. He handed Braeburn a key, and Braeburn wearily trudged up the stairs. He barely managed to unlock the door and get to the bed before he passed out.
Braeburn was awoken by a knock on his door. Opening his eyes, he looked out a stained window and saw that the sun was just rising over the horizon. Getting up, Braeburn trudged over to the door and opened it. There stood the red stallion.
"Howdy," Braeburn muttered, stepping back to let him in. "I don't believe I got your name."
"I don't really have a name. I grew up in an orphanage and ran away when I was still very young. Folks 'round here call me Quick, 'cause I'm able to draw and fire a gun faster than anypony else here."
"Well howdy, Quick. I'm Braeburn. I helped your friend."
"Ah saw thet. Thet's why Ah'm here. To tell you the whereabouts o' Sombrero. A deal's a deal, right?"
"Ayep," Braeburn muttered, putting on his belt, rifle scabbard, Bowie knife, and hat. He was eager to know where Sombrero was, but tried to appear as calm and cool as possible, despite the fact that his mind was overcome by a burning desire to repay Sombrero for the rope he had helped to give to him and his brothers.
"They've got a hideout up in Cactus County. Sidewinder Canyon's the place. There's a few stallions there, all good with their iron, so you best watch yerself. And no matter what, never tell anypony it was me who told ya' about their hideout."
"How do you know about it?" Braeburn questioned.
"Used to run wid' him. Till he lef' me fer the buzzards out in the middle of the desert. Now I wanna see the life drain from his bullet-riddled body, but I'm fine wid' lettin' you do it."
Braeburn nodded. "Thank you, Quick. You're a good stallion."
Quick scoffed. "Of the many things I may be, good isn't one of them." Noticing the puzzled look on Braeburn's face, he added, "I jus' tol' ya, I used ta' run wid' Sombrero's gang." Braeburn nodded his head in understanding.
"Good luck, now. You're gonna need it."
"Thanks, Quick. Whether I die or Sombrero dies, it really doesn't matter to me. I won't be afraid of taking lead if it means sending Sombrero to hell."
Quick left the room, leaving Braeburn alone. Today was the day.
Braeburn asked for directions to Sidewinder Canyon. After finally receiving them, he set out to repay Sombrero. To his surprise, Braeburn didn't have to go far. In fact, he had just left town when somepony stopped him.
"Hey!" shouted somepony behind him. Braeburn recognized the voice. He spun around, muscles tense, ready to act.
Sombrero sat on the ground just ten yards away, his right hoof poised by his gun. "I hear yuh've been lookin' fer me!"
Braeburn nodded. "Ayep. Today's your last, Sombrero." He said that last word with obvious distaste, and he too sat on the ground, hoof poised for the draw.
Sombrero wasn't in the mood for idle talk. His hoof moved towards the gun with lightning speed, and Braeburn had just barely touched his own gun before Sombrero's bullet came spinning towards him. Braeburn couldn't even clear leather before the bullet struck him in the thigh. Braeburn fell backwards from the force of the bullet, feeling a sharp pain in his side and a strange burning sensation going through his body. His vision was slowly darkening. Sombrero chuckled and holstered his gun, leaving the area.
Braeburn woke up in his bed. His left thigh hurt like hell, and the memory of what happened came back to him. How had he been so slow in comparison? Braeburn had heard of the quickdraw duels from out West, but he had never really practiced. He always thought it would be easy to just grab the gun, pull it out, and shoot really fast. But he hadn't even had the chance to pull his gun out before Sombrero had fired.
Fortunately for Braeburn, the round had passed through his body, miraculously missing all his organs and arteries. It ripped nothing but flesh. However, it was as sore as an ulcerated back tooth...
Then another thought came to Braeburn. How did he end up here? The last thing he remembered was the ever-growing blackness obscuring his vision. Had he woken up and crawled back? Unlikely. Whoever brought him here had cleaned and bandaged his wound. Braeburn doubted that he would've been able to get back to town by himself. So who saved him? Quick? Maybe. Or was it that other pony that he had saved from being lynched? Or maybe just a random traveler who was passing by and found him lying there. Either way, he was alive, and so was Sombrero. Braeburn had never wanted something so badly. He wouldn't even dig Sombrero a grave once he was done.
Twice now was he hospitalized because of Sombrero. Braeburn got up- much more slowly and carefully this time- and opened the door. He walked down the stairs and approached the bar. The rough looking bartender looked up from a shot glass he was cleaning with a dirty was rag.
"Back in the land ah the livin', Ah see!" he exclaimed enthusiastically as Braeburn walked up.
"What happened?" Braeburn questioned nonchalantly.
"Quick found ya' outside ah town an' brought you in right quick. If'n I was you, I'd go by an' thank him."
Braeburn got directions and went to Quick's house. The door was answered shortly after he knocked. Quick gestured for him to come in, and Braeburn stepped inside.
"What do ya need?" Quick asked politely.
"I came to thank ya for savin' me," Braeburn responded.
"That isn't all of it, is it?"
Braeburn paused a moment, then shook his head. "You're the fastest one in town, right?" Quick nodded. "Even faster than Sombrero?"
"Much faster."
"Then I need your help. I couldn't even get my gun loose afore he shot me down."
Quick waited a moment before responding. Then, finally, he said, "I'll help ya. Jus' come on down to tha hills wit' me, every day for a week or so. I'll show ya the odds an' ends to tha quick draw."
Braeburn thanked him "When does trainin' start?"
"Right now, if'n you ain't busy."
"You know I ain't busy, Quick."
"Then follow me. We've got a lotta work to do."
That week passed by. Every day, Braeburn went to the hills and practiced with Quick. He learned the best stance, how to reach for the gun, and how to fire from the hip accurately. Even after his training, Braeburn went up to those hills to practice every day for another month. Each day, he progressively got better. After two weeks, Braeburn was able to hip shoot an old tin can from fifty-five yards only a second after drawing. He monitored his own progress. He was much faster than Sombrero now, and he knew it. The time was coming soon.
Sombrero knew he was alive. Braeburn had noticed Sombrero watching him from the saloon some nights. What Sombrero didn't know was that Braeburn had been working on his gun skills. He had no idea what was coming to him. He just assumed Braeburn had given up after his near-death experience.
Finally, the day came when Braeburn decided to end what he had started one month ago. His thigh had healed, leaving only a scar to remind him of his old self. Braeburn just left town at noon one day, taking with him all his weaponry. It was now or never. Everypony who saw him leaving knew where he was going. And they weren't quite sure how it would end.
Braeburn approached Sidewinder Canyon. There was a steep dirt slope, with sunbathed rock walls growing ever higher around you. There were fallen boulders everywhere. At the bottom of the slope was a large, round basin with rocks here and there, and small dirt trails heading up to vantage points on the sides of the cliff. Braeburn saw the bandits before they saw him. He positioned himself behind a rock midway down the slope, aimed his rifle, and squeezed off his shot. The bullet found it's mark; Braeburn had aimed for the pony's neck, and had hit him right where he wanted to.
The colt he just downed let out a choking noise. The others had heard the shot, and they heard the gurgles of the pony drowning in his own blood, and knew immediately that they were under attack. The bandits scurried about, taking cover behind boulders and firing randomly in Braeburn's direction. Braeburn looked over the boulder, aimed, and hit a pony who was running for the next bit of cover. He collapsed with a yelp and didn't get back up. Another bandit looked up to fire and got his hat shot off. He dropped to the ground immediately.
Braeburn sat back down and fed the missing shells into his Winchester. He dove for the next rock, and a passing bullet grazed his arm, leaving a small scratch. It was bleeding, but not very much. Braeburn landed behind the boulder, aimed around the side, and fired. The bullet kicked up dirt right in front of a bandit who was feeling a little too much bravado. He jumped and leaped for cover. Braeburn levered the gun and shot another bandit in the chest.
Sombrero only had twelve bandits in his gang, and Braeburn had just killed three. That left nine. Braeburn was well aware of his danger but wasn't afraid of death. He kept shooting downrange until two more bandits lay dead and at least one more was wounded. Then he moved to the next bit of cover. The bandits learned to keep their heads down, and only appeared occasionally to make a shot. One jumped up to shoot at Braeburn. He didn't know that Braeburn had moved, and sat waiting for Braeburn to poke his head up again. That gave Braeburn time to aim carefully, and his would-be killer got his head blown off.
Braeburn decided he was close enough to them and holstered his rifle. Drawing one six shooter, he peeked around cover and saw a little bit of a hiding bandit's head. Braeburn squeezed off a shot, and that pony fell, deceased. After another five minutes of gunplay, only two bandits remained.
"We surrenda! Don't shoot, we'll come quiet!" One of them yelled.
"Drop your guns and step into the open!" Braeburn ordered, keeping his six shooter at the ready. One of the bandits slowly walked around a rock and stood. Suddenly, he yelled "I ain't gonna hang!" and tried to draw, but was shot by Braeburn. The other jumped up, rifle in hoof, but was also gunned down. Braeburn slowly made his way to the basin. At the bottom of the slope was a dirty white tent. Braeburn reloaded his revolver and took a deep breath, then yelled at the top of his lungs, "Sombrero! I've come for ya!"
Sombrero stepped out of the tent and took a few lazy steps forward. "So Ah see. Look, boy, I didn't kill ya before, but I sure as hell will now!"
"Like hell you will!" Braeburn was furious. He holstered his gun. "It's time to settle this, once and for all!" He sat down, hoof poised for the draw. Sombrero did the same.
And there the two sat, fifteen yards apart. Braeburn took his measure with eyes like a rattlesnake, feeling his heart rate increase in anticipation. "Your move," Braeburn said. Sombrero hesitated only a moment before reaching for his gun. The wolfish snarl on his face turned from angry to scared, as he saw Braeburn's gun clear the holster before his. Braeburn waited a moment, and Sombrero finished his draw. Then Braeburn shot. The bullet struck Sombrero's gun, sending it flying off of his hoof.
Sombrero's heart skipped a beat. He was completely at Braeburn's mercy. And from the look in his eyes, Sombrero knew he was going to die right there. Braeburn grinned and fired. The bullet hit Sombrero in the gut, knocking him off balance. Sombrero knew what that meant. He had left a pony gut shot once, and it had taken him a long time to die. And it looked very painful.
"Alright Sombrero. Your time in Equestria is up. Once the shock wears off, you'll start to feel it. These next few hours will be agonizing, and there'll be nothin' you can do to stop it," Braeburn said. Sombrero started sobbing.
"I don't deserve this!" he whined, tears streaming down his face.
"My brothers didn't deserve to hang, but you left them there with me, laughing as you did. Celestia knows how many other ponies you did that to. I'd say you do deserve this. But, I'll cut a deal with ya. You tell me the names and whereabouts of the other two ponies you were with, and I'll end it early for you. Deal?"
"I don't know them!" Sombrero said. Braeburn shrugged and turned to leave. "Wait! I'm kidding! Don't leave me here! I'll tell you!" Braeburn turned back to face him.
"The tan one was from Dodge Junction. His name was Iron Hoof, or somethin' like thet! As for the grey one... Iron n' him were real close, but I had just met 'em. I don't know anythin' about that young 'un! But I'm sure Iron can help ya!" Sombrero was starting to feel the bullet now. It was a slow, dull, sickening feeling, but it stung at the same time.
"Mighty kind o' ya," Braeburn mocked, then turned to leave.
"Wait! What are you doin'? You promised me!"
Braeburn looked back at Sombrero. The former dangerous outlaw was completely helpless. He was almost begging Braeburn to end it quickly.
"Are you feelin' it yet?" Braeburn asked, his voice cold.
"Yes! I can't possibly stand this fer hours! Please! I'm beggin' ya!"
Braeburn chuckled and punched Sombrero's bullet wound. Sombrero howled in pain.
"You're right. A deal's a deal, and I won't disgrace mah family by bein' dishonest." Braeburn cocked the revolver and put the barrel right between Sombrero's eyes... and pulled the trigger.
"One down, two to go," Braeburn muttered, holstering his gun.
Author's Note
Lots of dialogue... I like that.
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I'll start Part 2 today but I probably won't finish it until tomorrow or even later.
It was quite a long trip to Dodge Junction. Almost a full week of sitting on an overcrowded train, full of unbathed cowpunchers wearing nothing but dusty rags, and eating stale hardtack with a sip of brackish water. Needless to say, Braeburn was immensely relieved when he stepped off the hot train and into the busy station. Wiping sweat from his brow, Braeburn pondered where to start, then decided to use the same approach he used for Sombrero. It took him a few moments to spot the town's social center, the Drunken Workhorse Saloon. Trotting up to it, he opened the doors and stepped inside. It was considerably cooler indoors than it was outside. Braeburn took off his hat and wiped sweat out of his eyes again before walking to the bar. One of the colts sitting at a Blackjack table turned and whistled, remarking, " Damn, that's a fine set o' guns!"
Braeburn took a seat at the bar and waited for the bartender to reach him. Finally, she came to him. Braeburn noted that she was a rather cute mare.
"What'll it be?" she asked, her Western drawl a little less strong than Braeburn had grown accustomed to. Ignoring his observation, he focused on his objective and slid forward twenty bits. Getting the wrong idea, the bartender said, "sorry mister, I don't do that stuff with customers. If you're lookin' fer entertainment, try Candy o'er there."
"That's not what Ah'm askin' fer, ma'am," Braeburn responded coolly, tipping his hat.
"Oh? And what'll it be then?"
"I want information," Braeburn said, his voice low and serious. "Tell me about Iron Hoof."
The mare's eyes widened for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Right back her, mister," she said, beckoning Braeburn to follow her into a back room. One of the cowponies behind Braeburn was outraged, and yelled out "How come he get's tah do ya an' we don'?!" Braeburn scowled at the pony and followed the bartender. She closed a door and turned to him.
"Why in the name o' all that's good would ya want to know 'bout that dreadful?" She asked.
"A personal matter tha' don' concern you," Braeburn responded casually, seating himself on the dusty wooden floor.
"Fair 'nuff... but you're either a bandit or suicidal if'n yer seekin' out the likes o' him."
"Ah'm fully aware o' the danger an' know full well what he's like. Tell me where tah find 'im an' Ah'll be outta yer mane."
The bartender looked Braeburn up and down. "Say, you wouldn't be the feller who took down Sombrero, would ya?"
Braeburn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mebbe Ah am."
"That changes things a bit, Ah reckon. He's outta town right now. Dunno where him an' his gang went or when they'll be back. Fer now, ya can have yerself a room an' a few drinks. Sound good?"
"Ayep. Sure."
The bartender gave Braeburn a rusty old key and motioned for him to go back into the main hub of the saloon. He followed her out of the back room.
"Well, tha' wuz mighty quick," a rough looking pony mumbled as the two stepped out. Braeburn sat back down at the bar and the bartender slid him a shot of Rye. Braeburn drank it down and tapped for another.
It was almost midnight. Braeburn was feeling very tired and his vision was extremely blurry. The saloon was surprisingly empty, save for two big, burly, mean-looking stallions with old Colt six-shooters at their belts. Braeburn's chin touched the bar and his eyes started drooping. Suddenly, the two stallions stood up and trotted over to him. One grabbed all of his weapons and ammo and the other one held him down. When Braeburn was completely disarmed, they grabbed him under both arms and hoisted him off of his seat. Braeburn, in his extremely drunken state, didn't even notice.
The bartender looked up at him and said, "sorry, babe, but Ah can' have ya goin' an' killin' my husband, now can Ah?" The two stallions dragged Braeburn out of the saloon and into the crisp night air. Outside were half a dozen armed colts and a stagecoach. Braeburn was roughly thrown into the back of the stagecoach, and the six ponies climbed in after him, all ready to shoot him the instant he tried to do something (not like Braeburn could do anything; he was wasted). The two stallions from the saloon started trotting on, and the stagecoach lurched. Braeburn threw up all over a colt's lap, and the colt hit Braeburn in the jaw, sending him flying back into the back of the stagecoach. The blow he took sobered him up a bit, just barely enough to realize that he was being taken somewhere by some very dangerous looking ponies.
Almost an hour later, the coach stopped. Braeburn was almost completely sober now, due to the punch to the face as well as the fresh desert night air. He did, however, have a pounding headache. He had also discovered that he was completely unarmed. Braeburn didn't remember much of what happened; he did vaguely remember the bartender saying something to him, but he couldn't remember what she had said.
One of the six ponies motioned for Braeburn to get out. He started to move out on his own, but was grabbed roughly and thrown out into the ground below. His left arm landed in a prickly pear cactus and searing hot pain shot up to his shoulder. Groaning, he picked himself up, yanking out cactus spines with his teeth. One of the ponies grabbed his gun and prodded Braeburn's shoulder, telling him to go on.
They were in the middle of a desert, with small plants and Saguaro Cacti everywhere. There was a huge, gnarled old tree that looked really out of place in the desert. There were large boulders everywhere. Braeburn saw one of the saloon stallions holding a rope and immediately knew where this was going. Why does everypony need to hang someone? he thought.
One of the ponies shoved him forward. Braeburn started walking to the tree. He racked his brain for ideas on how to escape, but nothing came to mind. The stallion with the rope tied it into a noose around Braeburn's neck, then tied it to a tree branch, high enough up to lift Braeburn several feet above the ground. The stallion grabbed Braeburn, letting him down very slowly.
"Ah wanna see you die mighty slow, hombre. Ah wanna watch you choke," he stated in a gruff voice. Finally, Braeburn was lowered to the point that the rope was taught. The all-too-familiar feeling of his windpipe closing greeted him. That's when he remembered what the bartender mare had said. Iron Hoof was her husband and this was her doing. Unintentionally, he began thrashing his legs about, struggling to breath yet recieving no air. Everything was growing dark, when suddenly...
A shot rang out, and the rope snapped in half. Braeburn took a deep breath, greedily gulping in Oxygen. The would-be lynchers stood there, shocked, not comprehending what had happened. Their reaction was all too slow, as another shot rang out, and a stallion fell to the ground, hoof to his throat, choking on his own blood. Braeburn dashed behind the tree. For what seemed like forever, the ponies shot it out with Braeburn's hidden savior. Then, finally, the shooting stopped. Braeburn peeked around the corner and saw all of the ponies were dead, laying in puddles of blood and empty bullet casings.
Braeburn watched as a stallion appeared from behind a boulder and stepped forward. "It's safe now, Ah reckon!"
Braeburn stepped out from behind the tree, the rope still around his neck. He saw his hat on the ground and put it on, then retrieved his weapons and ammo from the corpse of the second saloon stallion. Then he turned to his savior.
"Ah'm mighty thankful fer thet," he said, tipping his hat. The stallion, who Braeburn recognized from the saloon earlier that day, nodded.
"Twas nothin', mister. Ah saw them throw yer drunk ass inta the coach an' thought you looked like ya needed some help. So, Ah followed, an' sure 'nuff, there yu was, wit' a rope 'round yer neck," he responded. "Which ya still got round yer neck."
Braeburn pulled out his razor sharp knife and sliced the rope, letting it fall to the ground at his hooves. "Again, thankee. Ah would be buzzard food if you hadn't done what ya did."
"An' again, think nothin' of et. But Ah believe we got's some plannin' tah do. Ah got's me a shack jus' outta town; yer welcome to stay the night. Ah got somethin' important tah say to ya, but it'll wait till yer all rested up. After all, we got's a town tah shoot up tomorrow!"
Braeburn was a little confused at that; he was here to take out Iron Hoof, not a town of innocent ponies. However, his protests could wait until he was all rested up and fed. His neck was sore and his eyes were drooping, and he needed a bed soon. Nodding, he followed the pony to a trail.
"Name's Draw. Brother to tha one n' only Quick, if'n y'all heard o' him," Draw told Braeburn. Braeburn was surprised when he heard this.
"I knew your brother. He helped me take down Sombrero.. an' the name's Braeburn. Pleasure to meet ya!" he responded.
"Shit, son! Thet wuz yu who took down Sombrerah? No wunner them Iron Hoof folk wanted yu dead so bad... well, y'all will be mighty angry tah hear this: almost alla Dodge Junction fights fer Iron Hoof. Yu take him down an' the whole damn town'll be on yer ass like ants tah honey. Lucky fer you, alla us decent folk from Dodge 'ave been plannin' on fightin' back fer some time now. Call ourselves the Vigilantes. Yu in?"
Almost all of Dodge is with Iron Hoof? That explains why he wanted to shoot up the whole town...
"Ah'm in," Braeburn responded.
Finally, they reached Draw's shack. Draw opened the door. "Yu can take tha bed," he offered. Braeburn didn't need to hear any more; he was fast asleep on the bed immediately, and he hadn't even taken off his gun belt. Chuckling, Draw curled up on the ground and went to sleep.
Both ponies rose with the sun. Braeburn cleaned and reloaded all of his weapons, sharpened and oiled his knife, and readjusted his holsters before they set out to group up with the Vigilantes. The group of almost fifteen ponies strode into a town of almost fifty enemies. Braeburn bucked open the saloon door and stepped inside, while the rest of the Vigilantes strode about and took over several shops to use for cover in the upcoming shootout.
"Well howdy!" the bartender greeted Braeburn as he stepped inside. She was hiding her shock at seeing him alive rather poorly, but nopony else seemed to notice... or care.
Braeburn responded by drawing his beautiful six shooter and firing a round right between her eyes. Then, before anypony else could do anything, he kicked over a table and dived behind it, using it as cover.
There were maybe five or six ponies in the saloon, all Iron Hoof gangsters. They all jumped up when Braeburn shot, and unloaded into Braeburn's table. Most of the shots were stopped by the thick hardwood, but some went through. One bullet even pierced Braeburn's right shoulder, making him howl in agony. Most of the ponies stopped shooting to reload, and Braeburn took the opportunity to dive out of cover and fire back. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he ignored the searing pain and dispatched two more enemies. However, before he could kill another, he was forced back behind cover as a pony finished loading his gun and began firing at Braeburn.
Several gunshots sounded outside the saloon; the Vigilantes must have heard the fighting and began their attack. The whole town was up in arms, with Iron Hoof's gang shooting it out with Draw's Vigilantes. Braeburn waited for the ponies to start reloading again, and then started shooting them. He killed another two and mortally wounded the last. He dropped his gun and lay on the ground, blood squirting out and painting the floor a dark red. Braeburn finished him off with a quick shot to the head, and then galloped up the stairs. He ran out onto the outside walkway of the saloon on the second floor and switched to his Winchester. Picking his shots, Braeburn provided covering fire for the Vigilantes, until a barrage of bullets were fired in Braeburn's direction. The wooden railing splintered as rounds struck it, as well as the wall behind Braeburn. Only the Saloon sign was keeping him from being torn to shreds by the bullets.
Braeburn winced as splinters rained on him. He was quite effectively pinned. That is, until the Vigilantes laid down massive suppressive fire, giving Braeburn a window. He took it and jumped into the street below, holstering his Winchester and drawing his six guns. Every time somepony raised his head up to shoot, he would die, either by Braeburn's deadly accuracy or the Vigilantes' hellish rain of bullets. The street was littered with bloody corpses, riddled with bullets and bleeding into the dust. Every body had a gun in it's hoof; even the mares'.
Suddenly, a volley of rounds hit the Vigilantes from behind. Seven of the remaining twelve fell, dead or dying. Two rounds grazed Braeburn, knocking him down. Bullets kicked up dust around his head. Draw switched his fire to the rear attackers; a huge group that had been flanking the Vigilantes during the battle. With less fire on their position, the few remaining ponies that they were originally shooting at began to attack.
"This way!" Draw yelled, waving Braeburn into a General Store. The two dashed inside, bullets striking all around them. Suddenly, the shop owner leaped up with a small pistol in his hooves and shot Draw in the shoulder. The bullet sent him flying into a large shelf. Draw accidentally fired his gun off, and the bullet struck the store pony in the eye. His brains were splattered on the wall behind him. Draw rebounded off the shelf, landing on the ground hard. The shelf fell, landing on top of him with a crunching noise. Braeburn winced and rushed over to him.
"Go! Ah'll be fine! Ya gotta help tha Vigilantes!" he waved Braeburn on. He trotted to the back door of the shop, looked back at Draw, and said, "Ah'll come back fer ya, pardner!" Then, Braeburn opened the door and trotted outside.
The remaining Vigilantes had fought well. Most of the rear attackers were falling back, and all the frontal fighters were dead. There were only two Vigilantes left, but they were dug in with rifles, and Iron Hoof's ponies were having a hard time getting a shot at them before being forced back behind cover. Braeburn started shooting too, and pretty soon, the streets were quiet again. Buzzards swooped in circles overhead, and dead ponies covered the streets.
Braeburn found a gangster, slowly dying of internal injuries. He picked him up, shook him, and demanded the whereabouts of Iron Hoof.
"H-h-he went to th-the saloon... wife..." the pony stammered shakily. Braeburn fired a round into his skull, ending his torment.
Then he reloaded his guns and regrouped with the last two survivors of the Vigilantes outside the saloon. They all went in together.
"Ah wanna kill him," Braeburn said to the Vigilantes. "Y'all wait for me outside." They nodded and left.
Iron Hoof sat, his back turned to Braeburn. "You've come tah kill me?"
You'll earn a bullet, fair and square, pardner! Iron Hoof said, in the back of Braeburn's mind. "Yes. Y'all hung mah brother's in cold blood, an' Ah'm here to return the favor." Braeburn's voice was cold, and calm enough to send a chill through Iron Hoof's body. Yet, the bandit had years of experience in gunfighting; he wasn't afraid.
"Let's get to et, then."
Braeburn sat, hoof poised above his gun. His shoulder burned in utter agony, but he ignored it. It was time. Iron Hoof turned around and got into similar position. The two stared into each other's eyes; Braeburn saw the cruelty and evil in Iron Hoof's, whilst Iron Hoof saw the utter hatred in Braeburn's. "Your move," Braeburn taunted. Iron Hoof drew, and Braeburn followed suit. Iron Hoof was faster, but his shot went wide. Braeburn's found it's mark, and Iron Hoof fell. Blood was pulling around him. Braeburn walked towards him and sat besides him, kicking away his gun.
"Sombrero's dead. Who was the kid?" he asked.
"Ah ain't tellin' yu!" Iron Hoof spat. Braeburn drew his revolver and shot, then put the hot barrel inside of Iron Hoof's bullet hole. He screamed. "Ok! Ok! His name was Scar!! Please stop!"
Braeburn smiled, withdrew the gun, and shot Iron Hoof in the head.
Author's Note
The desert they were going to hang Braeburn in was supposed to be like Cholla Springs from Red Dead Redemption, and the tree was supposed to be The Hanging Rock. Search them on Google images if you want a clear picture of what it looked like and have never played Red Dead. I'll have a picture of the location in the comments.
I started to get really sleepy towards the end of the chapter there and ended up making tons of mistakes... I think I found most of them, but I apologize if I missed any.
Well, this has needed to be written for a while... but I finally got around to it! I hope you all enjoy.
Braeburn opened the doors to the Apploosa Saloon, the place where his story began, for the first time in thirty long years. Nostalgia flooded his aging mind as he drank in his surroundings. The place hadn't changed one bit; it still reeked of alcohol and sweaty workponies. He sighed... his quest still wasn't complete. He had traveled all around the Equestrian frontier, hopped from cowtown to cowtown, hunting down his nemesis, but now, thirty long, bloody years later, and still Scar drew breath.
Braeburn walked to the bar. He ignored the admiring glances as all the ponies saw his six shooters; even after a lifetime of use, they were the most beautiful guns in the West.
"Make mine a rye." The bits made a clink as they hit the table. The bartender poured the glass and slid it to him, then resumed cleaning dishes. Braeburn downed the liquor and turned to a poker table, the one he beat the bandits at long ago. There were three ponies sitting there, playing a friendly game of cards. One of them were Braeburn's age. Braeburn seated himself at the table.
"Buy-in fee is ten bits," the old one stated. Braeburn tossed the money onto the table and was given a hand of cards.
"So, old-timer, you been around these parts long?" Braeburn asked, nonchalantly.
"Nah. I used to live out by Rattlesnake Canyon, but that was around thirty or so years ago. Since then, I've lived in several places, all o' them Western. Seen jus' about everything a fella can see out there, an' done some things too. How 'bout you,cowpoke?"
"I used ta' live right here in Apploosa, 'bout the same time you lived out at Rattlesnake. Somethin' happened an' I found myself movin' around the territory. Finally, my age caught up to me, so Ah came back here to live out the rest of my days in peace."
"Haha, I can unnerstand thet. Life on the trail can be hard even on young colts. Ya get to thet age where ya jus' can't keep goin' out there. Ah lived a life that some fellers couldn't even imagine; been shot at more times than Ah could count, an' had some mighty close calls. Done things others wouldn't be strong enough to do. An' I'm not proud of most of it."
"Were you a bounty hunter?"
"Nah... Ah was usually the one bein' hunted."
"Oh... you were a bandit."
"Ah never liked the term, honestly, but Ah fit the description."
"Ah hunted bandits. Was a mighty dangerous job, goin' after ponies thet would shoot ya in the face an' never think twice about it. Ah got some scars from it, both mentally and physically, but I helped a lot o' ponies, so it was worth it to me."
"Any big names?"
"Ever heard'a Sombrero? Or Iron Hoof?"
"Both o' em."
"Were they fast?" One of the other players asked.
"Fastest I ever saw. Yet both were kill't in draws, as Ah heard," the old pony responded.
Braeburn stared at him. He seemed vaguely familiar... but from where? Was his old mind playing tricks on him? Braeburn knew he had seen him from somewhere, but where?
"In fact, Ah used to be real close to 'em."
Then it hit Braeburn. This was Scar. His blood ran cold, and he felt his jaw drop. Scar stared at him oddly, then collected his winnings. It was Braeburn's turn to toss in the small blind, but his mind wasn't on the game anymore.
Looking Scar in the eye, Braeburn said, "your name wouldn't happen to be Scar, would it?"
"Used to be. That was in a different time though," Scar responded.
Braeburn slid the old Indian coin towards Scar. "An' y'all know me, too, don't ya?"
Scar's eyes widened. He dropped his cards and almost fell out of his chair. The other two ponies at the table looked puzzled. Braeburn slid out one of his six shooters and slid it to Scar. "Ah won't have it said thet Ah left ya with nothin, boy."
Scar stared down at the beautiful pistol, then sighed and picked it up. "That's how you wan't it to be? So be it. I gave up that part of my life but you leave me no choice." Scar stood up, got in position, and holstered the gun. Braeburn did the same.
The entire saloon was dead silent now. Braeburn and Scar stared each other down, waiting for the moment. Braeburn had waited his entire life for this moment, but now that it was here, he didn't know what he felt. He just waited for the draw.
Scar drew his gun, but never fired. Braeburn's bullet had ripped a hole through his stomach, and without realizing it, Scar dropped the gun. He collapsed onto his side. Braeburn holstered the pistol and walked over to him.
"It was you, wasn't it? We killed your kin... an' ya killed Sombrero... and Iron Hoof... didn'cha?" Scar asked, weakly.
"Ayup. Spent thirty years huntin' ya down. An' I killed Celestia knows how many ponies to find ya. And here we are, now... Ah had to do it. Ah know ya unnerstand."
"Braeburn, isn't it? Ah know what'll happen. Any moment now, Ah'm gonna feel the lead."
"No, you ain't. Ah'll at least do thet fer ya." Braeburn grabbed his pistol off the ground, placed the barrel between Scar's eyes, and pulled the trigger.
Braeburn disappeared that day. Nopony ever saw or heard from him again. He had moved out to the hills around Rattlesnake Canyon, where he lived out the rest of his days in peace. He took his guns and buried them with his brothers, burying one in the grave of each of them, to finally show himself that that chapter of his life was over at long last. Finally, after another year, he passed on. His body was discovered by a carriage on their way to Canterlot. He was slumped against an old tree, with two graves beside it. He was holding an old Indian coin, and looked like he died peacefully.
