The Things We Do for Love

Meanwhile, Macintosh led Braker out to the woodshed, more certain than ever of the necessity of his plan. He’d hoped it would go a bit more smoothly than this, but Granny seemed to realize it was necessary to keep her cool as well, keep them thinking they didn’t know everything.

Mac’s plan was just a bit different.

“Ah knew about Braeburn,” he confided in the palomino at his side. “About his not bein’ like other colts.”

“You did, huh?” Braker asked him gruffly. “Reckon she’s not too popular out here.”

“Actually, he’s still mah favorite cousin,” Mac observed. “Ah know what it’s like, keepin’ secrets from ponies y’love,” he added pointedly as they reached the shed. Inside, firewood was stacked up, across from a number of shelves with various implements for the day’s work, including four weathered wooden mugs.

“What’s that s’posed t’mean?” Braker frowned as Mac sat the mugs on a tray.

“Ah saw th’way y’winced when Smokestack called ya his harness-mate,” Mac shrugged. “Reckon y’all’re out a long time atween towns , bein’ rail-drays an’ all. Don’t judge y’for it,” he added, looking back over his shoulder and meeting Braker’s eyes. “After all, ah’m head over hooves fer m’own cousin. Just got one question though.”

“Y’can shove it, if it’s about Smokestack,” Braker muttered, looking over at the sharp axe that was embedded in a nearby stump.

“It’s not,” Big Mac said easily, taking advantage of Braker’s distraction to reach back to the collection of loose herbs for first aid. He snagged a dark black root out of the pile, crushing it under hoof and sweeping part of the fresh powder into a mug. “It’s about Braeburn,” he clarified, taking the spiked mug and one other in his forehooves to walk around the shed to the cider barrel that was stored beneath it, buried part-way into the hill to keep cool even on the hottest summer’s day.

“G’on,” Braker said, returning to watching the scarlet stallion.

“Ah was wonderin’,” Mac said as he drew two full cups of cider, “if’n he bucked somepony’s head open, why didn’t y’all follow his tracks right there?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Braker shrugged. “Wasn’t there when they found ‘im. Don’t like t’think about it much. Y’can ask Smokey when we get back up t’the house.”

“Fair enough,” Mac nodded, offering Braker the mug he’d spiked. “Ah meant what Ah said, Rock. Ah don’t judge. Had me a coltfriend mahself a while back, tryin’ t’git over Brae.”

“Huh… guess y’wouldn’t then,” Braker mused, looking at the sediment floating in the cider. “What’s this crap floating in it?” He asked with a scowl.

“Heh, that’s what proves y’ain’t ever really had cider,” Mac chuckled. “If it ain’t cloudy, it’s just juice. Look at mine,” he pointed out, holding the mug out for Braker’s inspection.

“Think I prefer the look of that one,” Braker decided. “Mind switching?”

“…Why not,” Mac shrugged after a moment, rolling his eyes to hide his fresh panic at having to find some plausible reason to swap back before they drank. The two of them switched mugs, and Mac raised his to his lips, thinking fast.

“Just how far would you go fer Braeburn?” Rock asked him, taking a drink from his new mug.

“How far’d you go fer Smokestack?” Mac asked him, privately grateful for the delay. Rock scowled at the question he’d gotten back.

“Farther’n he’d be grateful for,” the palomino answered grimly.

“Sounds like y’got some regrets,” Mac observed.

“Who doesn’t?” Braker shrugged. “Smokey’s a pompous ass who chases more tail than a kennel… but ah reckon he’s mah pompous ass. Least until he went an’ knocked up Sundancer.”

“Sundancer?”

“Lead’s filly… Lead Belly, used t’be our lead dray. Up ‘til your cousin busted his head open.” Another deep drink of cider, tasting the bite of the well-fermented juice pouring down his throat, loosening his tongue.

“Sounds like Smokestack got lucky,” Mac observed.

“You shut yer damned trap!” Braker snapped. “He didn’t… damned Sheriff thought the same thing, but Smokey didn’t do it! Ah know that much!” Mac nodded, putting the last of the pieces together.

“Here’s t’doin’ stupid shit fer the ponies we love,” he said, raising his still-full mug in a toast. Braker snorted, lifting his own up before tipping it back to drain it.

That was when Mac swung his mug, putting his full strength behind the blow that landed against the side of Braker’s head. The dray staggered, stunned by the blow as Mac lunged to tackle him.

“Y’did it, didn’t you?” Mac demanded, rolling on top of Braker and trying to pin him down. “Knew he’d find out… about Smokestack?”

“Fuck you!” Braker snarled, pulling his own powerful legs up under Mac and kicking out hard. Mac was startled for a moment; he’d been in fights before, but in Ponyville, even a pony like Snowflake couldn’t out-muscle him. But ponies like Snowflake weren’t used to hauling tons of rolling wood, iron, and steel behind them, with nothing but a primitive steam engine to lighten the load. Braker was, and while he was small for a dray, that just meant he packed more strength into a smaller package. His four hooves lifted Mac up, sending the farmpony flying through the air while Braker staggered to all fours… and made a break for the wood axe nearby.

Macintosh’s head was reeling after he landed. He was fairly accustomed to the ground being beneath him, the air above him, and dangerous ponies who needed to be held down were between him and the ground. For a stomach-lurching split second, the natural order had been completely inverted by said dangerous pony, sending Mac spinning through the air. His impact with the ground, back-first, hadn’t especially helped to fix things. Unless, of course, by ‘fixing’ things you meant asserting that the ground and sky had not changed places, but rather Mac’s head and hooves. Mac had known that, academically, during his brief flight, but the forceful confirmation on his landing drove the point home.

And, he couldn’t help but note, probably into several rather important bits and pieces inside of him.

He was just getting his bearings again when he heard a creaking from the old wood-splitting log. Twisting towards the sound, he realized his biggest mistake yet.

He’d gone and taken a mug full of cider to an axe fight.

Mac rolled out of the way just as Braker shifted the axe into his hooves and threw it. The blade bit deeply into the earth just where Mac had been a moment before, but the palomino didn’t wait to confirm the miss before leaping into the farmpony.

Solid, steel-shod hooves crashed into Mac’s sturdy body, a hail of blows that kept him staggering. It was only by Celestia’s good graces that he managed to keep his head from getting hit, twisting to keep his powerful torso the part that was exposed. His opening came when Braker had to pause for a heaving breath, but one opening was all he needed. Mac finished twisting around, leaning forward and collecting all of his strength in his hind legs. His body tightened, compacting together as all that lean, thick, corded muscle gathered into a motion that was as natural to Big Mac as breathing.

His body exploded backwards, erupting into Braker with enough force to splinter a full-grown oak, or to drag a house off of its foundation without breaking a sweat.

The palomino realized what was coming at him and fell backwards, making no effort to resist the blow, going limp and letting all of that force push him harder into the fall. He skidded backwards, ripping up grass as he slid into the stump behind him, but he knew the gamble had paid off; he was still in once piece.

Mostly in one piece, he mentally corrected himself as he tasted blood flowing down his throat, twisting to spit out some teeth that had been knocked loose by the hit. He saw the axe, just two or three lengths away from him, and saw Macintosh moving to get it under control, much closer. Braker twisted around, leaping for the weapon, and reached it at the same moment Mac did.

The two stallions snorted and grunted as they fought over the axe. Mac knocked it out of the ground, then Braker knocked it out of his hooves. It fell to the ground as they traded blows to the face, Braker’s steel horseshoes making up the difference in force that Mac’s greater strength gave him.

Mac staggered back, stepping onto the axe and feeling the haft break beneath his hoof. He kicked the blade away, and Braker grinned, slipping around Mac and snagging the handle in his mouth. Looking at the insane, bloodthirsty gleam in Braker’s eyes as he gripped the axe handle, matching his cutie mark, Mac knew he was looking into the eyes of a pony who not only wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

He hadn’t hesitated to kill a pony who’d counted him as a friend, either.

“Y’know,” Braker panted, “Br’b’rn… m’de it d’mned easy! Lead didn’t even put up a fight…. Not like you!”

Suddenly, two apples came rocketing out of nowhere, splattering against the side of Braker’s head. He dropped the handle; Mac didn’t even bother to look to see if it was Braeburn, Applejack, or Apple Bloom who’d come to his rescue, he just leaped towards the palomino. He landed in front of the dray, and reared up. All his strength came down in a carefully controlled blow to the back of the murderer’s head, and Braker dropped like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

“What in tarnation’s goin’ on?” Applejack demanded as she galloped up to the scene of the fight. Mac’s sides heaved, slick with sweat as he staggered over to the woodshed.

“He’s th’killer,” Mac explained gruffly, snagging the remaining half of the root of Everfree’s Mercy and chomping down on it, letting the bitter juices flow down his throat, rapidly taking the aching pain away. “Lock ‘im in here. Friend of his… in th’house with Granny!”

“Aw horseapples,” Applejack breathed. She and her brother hurried to drag Braker into the shed, bolting the door with the broken axe handle before they both started towards the house at a run. They burst through the back door, and then came to a dead stop, seeing Smokestack seated casually across from Granny Smith.

The tan stallion had a pistol looped around his leg, the exposed trigger just waiting for a twitch of the hoof to fire on the elderly mare who was sitting, glaring defiantly at her captor.

“Well well, so I take it that that little fracas outside didn’t work out so well for Braker. Of course, two on one, I suppose it makes sense. So he figured out where you’re keeping the little freak?”

“Ah keep tellin’ ya, we ain’t keepin’ him!” Granny muttered. The oven timer went off, and she stood up from her seat.

“Sit back down, Granny,” Smokestack warned her.

“Fiddlesticks! If y’all’re gonna shoot me, I’ll spit that bullet right back atcha!” She snapped at him. “What harm’s an old biddy checkin’ on her cobbler an’ makin’ sure the place don’t burn down gonna do ya?”

Smokestack scowled; she’d called his bluff on that count. He shifted the gun to point at Applejack.

“Fine, but one false move from any of you and the lovely young filly’s not so lovely anymore.”

“Sidewindin’ son of a mule,” Granny groused as she made her way over to the oven slowly.

“Now,” Smokestack demanded again, ignoring the green-coated old mare, “where’s Braeburn? And what’d you do with Braker?”

“Yer friend’s takin’ a nap in the woodshed,” Mac told him. “Tried t’take an axe handle to me, after tellin’ me he’d done the same t’yer friend in Appleoosa.”

“Bullshit,” Smokestack snorted, keeping his eyes on Applejack, ignoring Granny as she opened up the oven. “Why would Braker do something like that?”

“Because,” Mac replied evenly, “for some damn-fool reason, he went an’ got hisself a crush on you.”

Smokestack’s eyes snapped over to meet Macintosh’s, deep brown meeting bright green. A snarled twisted Smokestack’s handsome face into an ugly mask as he started bringing the pistol to bear on Macintosh. The huge farmpony dropped to the floor, just before he heard the gun go off. The bullet ripped through the air above Mac, punching a hole through the door behind him.

Everypony’s ears were ringing from the explosion of gunpowder in the confined space, but Granny didn’t hesitate. While Smokestack was trying to recock his gun, she curled her lips back behind her hotpad and bit down on the tray beneath her cobbler, yanking her head back with all her strength and hurling the steaming, bubbling evening meal at him.

Smokestack’s eyes widened as he realized what was coming at him, and he threw his hooves up in front of his face, the pistol clacking against a hoof. The ceramic dish shattered as he tried desperately to knock it away, but the mostly-liquid contents carried on, coating his legs, splashing onto his face and chest, covering him with boiling sugar and caramelized slices of apple. The surface cooled quickly, trapping in the heat against Smokestack’s body, where hair scorched and skin blistered.

Ears ringing or not, there was no shutting out the scream that erupted from Smokestack’s scalded, scarring muzzle. Applejack and Macintosh moved quickly, darting into the nearby bathroom to get some water to throw over him, but Granny just sat there with a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

“That’s what you get for thinkin’ Ah’m just a harmless old biddy!” She snapped at him, letting Mac and Applejack worry about trying to stop the damage from getting any worse.