The Things We Do for Love

Mac was cantering down the path to Ponyville when he saw trouble headed his way. Trouble, in this case, came in the form of a soot-maned, tan-coated stallion and the palomino at his side. Mac didn’t recognize them from in town, and while they might be customers, their purposeful posture suggested they were hunting cowponies. The grin that near-about split the face of the tan stallion when he noticed Big Mac didn’t do anything to put the farmpony at ease. There was something just not quite right about that grin… two rows of even, white teeth, teeth that’d never bent a bit, or cut a chaw.

The teeth of some fancy pony, in the body of a workhorse.

“Well hello there!” White-teeth called out cheerfully, trotting up to Big Macintosh, slowing down as he realized just how large the farmpony was; nearly the size of Lead Belly, and with more lean muscle across his whole body, instead of just in the legs and shoulders. “My name’s Smokestack. My friend, Rock Braker, and I are looking for Sweet Apple Acres. Your cutie mark looks like an apple half to me; would you happen to be part of the family?”

“Eeeyup,” Mac said neutrally, slowing to a walk and coming up to the two of them. He paused, waiting and watching them. He didn’t need to get to town that quickly, if somepony else was going to be poking around for Braeburn. He just had to wait until…..

“Excellent,” Smokestack said after an awkward moment spent waiting for Macintosh to ask why they were on their way out. Mac had looked like he was in something of a hurry to get to town, but now he was calm enough… maybe he was making sure the path was clear for his cousin. “And your name is?”

“Big Mac,” the farmpony answered laconically, leaning over to bite off a bit of grass to chew, watching them carefully. Their eyes kept darting between him and the road, and then the sides of the road, like they were watching for somebody else coming down it. The only thing it made sense they were waiting for was Braeburn. But why would the Sheriff have sent them back out to look for Braeburn on the…..

Ah. That made sense. They didn’t believe the Sheriff, and probably wouldn’t believe him if he said Braeburn was gone. He’d have to come up with some other way around them… some way that kept them from finding Braeburn while he was finding the Sheriff.

“Ah, Big Macintosh, Braeburn’s told us about you!” Smokestack grinned. “We’re friends of his from Appleoosa.”

Mac stood there, giving them the half-lidded, mostly disinterested look that he’d perfected over long years of practice. That seemed to be the best way to get more information out of Smokestack, and Mac wasn’t about to complain.

“Well, we heard he’d had some difficulties back home and absconded to Ponyville,” Smokestack continued on, getting into his peculiar patter. “We were hoping to make sure he was all right, weren’t we Braker?”

“Right,” the palomino nodded. “Worried the Sheriff might find him before we did. You seen him?”

“Eeenope,” Mac shrugged, coming up with a plan on the spot. “Welcome t’come wait for ‘im back at the house, though.”

“We would be most grateful for the opportunity,” Smokestack grinned. “If you could just point the way for us, we’ll let you continue on into town for your business.”

“Better show you,” Mac decided after making a show of thinking about it. “T’ain’t right t’be unsociable, you bein’ Brae’s friends an’ all. Come on,” he said, turning around and starting back down the road he’d just come up at a steady canter, the two hard-running drays keeping up with him easily.

~~~===~~~

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try one? Just one little bite?” Pinkie Pie grinned broadly at Sheriff Silverstar and Big Iron, holding up a platter of distressingly bright pink deep-fried tortilla shells. “They’re chimicherrychangas, and they’re really tasty!”

“Chimi-what?” Silverstar asked, staring dubiously at the still-steaming… treats? He supposed that was the word for them, given that they were the sixth in an increasingly unusual line of baked (or, in this case, fried) goods the apprentice baker had tried foisting off on them.

“Chimicherrychangas! They’re rice and mashed up cherries, all mixed up and served in a fried tortilla! Go on, try them, they’re on the house! Or on the tray,” Pinkie trailed off, finally broken out of her sales pitch.

“Ah’d… love to, ma’mph!” Before Silverstar could finish speaking, he’d sealed his own fate. Pinkie had popped one of the freshly-fried, crunchy tubes of fruit and rice into his mouth, and was in the process of doing the same to Red.

“But I don’t like cherrmphle!”

“Silly, who doesn’t like cherries? Even Applejack likes cherries, and she’s always eating apples!” Pinkie rattled on. “Aren’t they super-scrumptiolicious?” She grinned broadly, looking at the two stallions with an expression not unlike a puppy standing proudly over a freshly-slain pair of slippers.

No matter how badly you wanted to smack it, it was just too innocently adorable to take any truly offensive action against.

Instead, Silverstar and Red started chewing, bright, fake smiles of their own on the whole time as they tried to work the massive ‘bites’ down to a size that wouldn’t choke them each.

Suddenly, Pinkie gasped and started bouncing in place. Well, bouncing more haphazardly than usual, as though her entire hind end were twitching up a storm.

“Duck and cover!” She shouted in warning. Silverstar, his reflexes honed by watching the pink party pony at work in the Battle of Appleoosa, did as he was told without question, diving under one of the tables outside the bakery. Red, more than a little distracted by the taste of hot cherries, and without the benefit of seeing Pinkie survive a stampede of buffalo being distracted by flying apple pies, looked at her as though she had finally lost it completely.

That was when a fifty-pound sack of sugar fell on him.

Red Caboose lay in an unconscious heap on the ground as Pinkie cautiously looked out into the air above the bakery.

A muscular little pegasus foal fluttered in the air, his unicorn sister looking out the window, both looking rather sheepishly down at Pinkie.

“Pumpkin Cake! Pound Cake! How many times do I have to tell you, you have to open the sack before you dump it on somepony’s head!”

“Sowwie,” Pound pouted.

“Pinkie,” Pumpkin continued.

“Pie,” Pound concluded.

“Oh… what am I gonna do with you two?” Pinkie sighed dramatically. “Get back inside before somepony gets hurt!”

“Ah reckon it’s a little late fer that, ma’am!” Silverstar said grimly as he crawled out to look at Red. “Well Ah’ll be… still breathin’!”

“Of course he is, silly!” Pinkie giggled. “You don’t think I’d teach little foals to pull dangerous pranks, do you?”

“But… they dropped a fifty pound sack of sugar! On his head! From the second story!” Silverstar sputtered disbelievingly.

“Well duh! I only let them use light sugar for these pranks!” Pinkie grinned. “You’d better hurry up and get back out to Sweet Apple Acres. Tail-twitch, left-hind-hoof shake, back itch! That means there’s something super-duper dramatic about to happen!”

“What?” Silverstar asked, staring at her as though he wasn’t sure which of them had just gone crazy.

“You’d better trust me!” Pinkie sing-songed. Then she pulled the upper half of the door to Sugarcube Corner closed, whistling as she went back to work, leaving the bewildered Sheriff with little other choice but to accept that, frankly, she was probably right.

~~~===~~~

“Comp’ny Granny,” Mac called out as he walked into the farmhouse. “Friends o’ Braeburn’s,” he added.

“Well, it’s good to hear he still has some,” Granny Smith called out from the kitchen. The oven slammed shut as she finished sliding in a dish of apple cobbler for dinner. “Come on back, I’ve just finished cooling some snacks!” She sat down at the table, breathing a sigh of relief and snagging one of the freshly-prepared treats for herself.

“With pleasure, ma’am!” Smokestack said smoothly, used to country hospitality from his years on the rails. “Name’s Smokestack, and this is my harness-mate, Rock Braker. Two humble railroad drays from Appleoosa way.”

“Don’t talk so humble,” Granny observed. “Macintosh, have a seat, you can stick around for this company at least!”

“Oh? You’ve had company today?” Smokestack asked, slipping a cookie into his hoof and taking a bite. They were surprisingly good; hearty and still soft, but with a bite of apple and cinnamon. “I don’t suppose it was Braeburn, was it?”

“No, young’in’, it wasn’t. It was the Sheriff,” Granny tsked. “Out looking for the poor colt.”

“Yes, we had heard he was in some trouble,” Smokestack said sympathetically. Big Mac sat down at his usual seat, and Braker took the one across from him, leaving Smokestack and Granny opposite each other on the other sides. Each took another cookie and settled in.

“Some trouble!” Granny snorted. “Sheriff thinks he did some poor feller in. Couldn’t have done it, of course.”

“Well, he is a sturdy applebucker,” Smokestack observed, indicating Macintosh. “I imagine your grandson here wouldn’t have much trouble doing such a thing, if he had a mind to.”

“Hah! Mac’s got a born stallion’s legs under ‘im, but he ain’t got the heart to do something like that.” Granny got up and worked her way over to the small icebox for a pitcher of milk to go with the cookies.

“Well, Braeburn’s the other way for half of that, perhaps he’s got the heart as well,” Smokestack said casually. Granny’s grip on the pitcher slipped, sending it crashing down to the floor to shatter.

“Oh my!” Granny gasped, holding a hoof to her chest, staggering back from the mess. “Mac, fetch a towel, and be careful! There may be glass down there!”

“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” Smokestack asked, darting up to his hooves to help Granny back into her seat as Mac followed orders. “Didn’t step on anything?”

“No, no… just startled,” Granny panted. “What was that, about Braeburn being the other way?”

“Dear, I thought you knew!” Smokestack frowned. “I shouldn’t have said anything, never mind. Let’s get this mess cleaned up. Braker, there’s a cloth by the sink, make yourself useful!” The palomino sprang into action, the two newcomers making themselves busy cleaning up the mess as best they could.

“Whippersnapper,” Granny said calmly, “Ah’ve spent most of my born years livin’ outside the Everfree Forest. Ah’ve seen things that’d turn even your mane white, whatever you meant, Ah kin take it.”

“Well, it’s just… I would have thought that Braeburn would have told his own family!” Smokestack protested. “If he didn’t, then I’m sure he meant to keep it a secret for a good reason, but… well, you do know that he was born a mare, don’t you?”

Just then, Mac came back into the room with a towel, which Granny snapped away from him and tossed down onto the remaining mess.

“Macintosh Apple, you go git some cider for us,” Granny told him evenly. “Since Ah’ve been so clumsy. Ah’ll finish cleaning this mess up here with these nice young colts.”

“I’m sure I can handle it, Granny,” Smokestack smiled uncomfortably, his face showing nothing but concern at having betrayed a secret. “Braker can help Macintosh with the cider, I’m sure it’s awkward bringing it up from the cellar.”

“Cellar? Bah, that’s too much trouble,” Granny said dismissively. “Mac, fetch it from the barrel by the woodshed, that one’s already tapped. Take Braeburn’s friend with you, if’n he likes.”

“Reckon I should, ma’am,” Braker said, tipping his bowler to her and following Mac out.

“Now… tell me everything you know about mah… niece,” Granny ordered Smokestack grimly.

Jackpot! Smokestack thought to himself. Always the elderly who’ll come to their senses first.

“I really hadn’t wanted to upset you, ma’am, but I suppose it’s for the best,” the tan stallion sighed before launching into his story.