The Mare With No Name

by Heavyhauler75622

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Applejack
Length: 2264

Applejack as a gunpony.

Applejack is the Element of Honesty.
What could she be like if she was something else?

Published 2014-05-23 02:20:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-05-23 02:20:03 UTC

The Mare With No Name...

As the train crested the hill, its whistle sounded, a forlorn sound out there on the pradera. With nothing there to catch and reflect the noise, it sounded even more solitary and alone than normal. There was an object a couple more miles ahead, the water tank and the windmill operating the water pump for refilling the water tender on the locomotive, replacing what was lost making steam for the long pull up the slope; and the usual ubiquitous telegraph poles running alongside the track.

Otherwise, it was a great big empty filled to the brim with nothing.

She had a window seat facing forward, sitting oddly with her back against the bench, her rump on the horizontal part, and both her rear legs propped up on the bench opposite. Most other ponies laid down on them, like the older, smaller stallion across from her. He had his head pointed at the aisle, and had let her keep the small space she took up when he came aboard and laid down three stops ago.

He had the usual look of a goods peddler; a grimy black suit dusted liberally with mile upon mile of travel, a bowler tightly affixed to the top of a graying, balding mane, and small, wire frame glasses. He had set a leather-bound carpet bag down, then nudged it under his bench with a hoof before sitting. Once settled, the peddler pulled out a hoofkerchief and mopped a light sweat off his sallow colored face and fur.

She gave him a cursory once-over, then went back to her book.

He also gave her a look-see. She was an interesting orange color with blond mane and tail, both restrained by ponytail ties in black. Black frock coat and ivory shirt, black and dark gold brocade silk shawl collared vest with gold watch chain, black silk tie with a collar pin, also in gold. Black pants, and all covered with a black plainspony duster. She also wore black rear high-top boots, like those favored in the cavalry, which were highly polished. For a hat, black felt gambler with a wide brim and stampede string worn low on the brow. She was chewing on the end of a barley stalk.

Between stops, he had thought about striking up a conversation, but thought better of it each time the opportunity presented itself. The outfit was more in line with a wealthy traveler, but something about it and the mare was foreboding as well.

The train slowed to a halt at the well for the water stop. As the crew loaded water into the tender, the mare shifted around slightly, trying to get comfortable. The butt of a long-barreled single-action Colt in a cross barrel draw belt peeked out, satin black bluing with polished brass trim, and applewood grips. The grip had three apples carved into it and fill painted red, with green leaves.

The peddler decided to leave her be.

The train pulled out of the water stop and bore down onto Lamy. Lamy was a big stop in the territory, with the usual off and on loads; ponies, freight, and a couple bags of mail. It took a few minutes.

The mare kept reading.

The train pulled out of the station after a bit with the usual powerful chugging sound of a heavy steam loco trying to develop some momentum. Only one fast spin of wheels from a slip, and the engineer was quick to catch it. He put some sand down from the sand dome as added insurance. She didn’t bother looking up from her book.

“Tickets, please.”

The conductor came by, efficiently punching tickets for the new passengers. Both the peddler and the mare presented theirs.

The mare spoke up. “Is it far to Santo Domingo?” she asked perfunctorily, flatly, without looking up from her reading.

“We should pass there in about three or four minutes.”

“Thanks.” she said, as she focused back on the book. The conductor moved on to the other passengers.

“Excuse me, but you’ve made a mistake, Miss…” came a soft voice nearby.

She peeked over the top of the book, green irised gunbarrels picking him up as they narrowed slightly.

“I couldn’t help hearing you’re going to Santo Domingo,” the peddler said, slightly nervously.

The book came down a bit more, and an unemotional face was revealed.

“You see, I peddle goods around here, and I better tell you, you’re on the wrong train…” he continued. “I think the nearest stop to Santo Domingo is Bernalillo. By getting off at Albuquerque, and returning by way of Las Vegas…you should be able to get right where you’re going.”

She quickly glanced out the window with the same unemotional face. When she set back into her seat, a thin, wan smile was on her lips. She pulled the barley stalk out with a hoof.

He tried again. “You see, the train doesn’t stop at Santo Domingo.”

“This train’ll stop at Santo Domingo,” she said, as she put the book away in her own leather travel bag, black in color, like the rest of her rig. The peddler stared at it. An oilcloth roll joined it shortly.

Then she put the stalk back in her mouth, braced herself, and pulled the emergency cord.

There was an almost immediate shrieking and squealing of railcar brakes as the crew started turning the car brake wheels and the engineer started venting steam on the engine. Ponies and luggage were tossed about as the train lurched and shuddered to a stop at the Santo Domingo station, barely bigger than the water stop they had passed on the way to Lamy.

The conductor came charging forward along the small station platform toward the engine. “Why’d we stop? Something gone wrong?”

“Somepony pulled the emergency cord!” the engineer yelled, flustered. He’d have to start building pressure again.

The conductor glanced up the train; saw the black-suited mare stepping off the first passenger car. He ran up to the mare as she started walking away.

“Hey, you! You just can’t pull the emergency cord and jump off…”

She glanced up at him from over her left shoulder.

“Why’d you stop the train? If you want to get off, you…”

The mare whirled around, the duster and frockcoat pulled away from the holster as her right hoof dropped near the Colt. The left one held the travel bag and an oilcloth roll balanced on her shoulders.

He froze to a stop, fear in his eyes.

“Well, the railroad company’d be mighty pleased to make any arrangements…” as his voice began to falter.

“…for any passenger if you want to get off here, ma’am…” he finished lamely in a very quiet voice.

She smiled thinly, staring at the conductor with narrowed eyes. “I did get off. Thanks.”

“Sure, lady. Okay.” The conductor backed up, then ran toward the train. “All right, let’s go! Go ahead!” he shouted at the engineer, as he ran up the stairs into the nearest passenger car, peering at her in fright from a window as the train started to pull away.

She nodded slightly, knowingly as it left.

Walking a short distance, she came into the town. As she came upon the Sherriff’s office, she stopped, the wanted poster board catching her eye; one poster in particular. She stared at it, chewing thoughtfully on the stalk.

“Call Wild. 1000 bits. Dead or Alive.”

The thin smile was back, as she pulled the poster down, rolled it up.

She shifted the stalk to the other side of her mouth. Time to go to work.

She buttonholed the Sherriff inside. “What do you know about Wild?” she asked, a trace of a Southern accent evident, as she gestured to the other poster on his wall. He looked up at her from the desk.

“Word is he’s been seen up at White Rock. Nopony wants to take that killer on; he’s been pretty much running free up there."

The thin smile came back. “Thanks,” she said, coldly, as she left.

“Well…at leastways ‘till now…” the Sherriff finished, after she'd gone.

A day later, she stepped off the stagecoach in White Rock. She walked across the street toward the saloon.

It was fairly empty; a few ponies playing cards, two nursing whiskey at the bar itself. Three or four turned toward the door when she walked in, and two followed her with their eyes as she went to the bar.

The bartender set a bottle and glass on the bar as she pulled up at it and set her gear down on the bar top. She glanced at them, then pushed them aside gently.

“Later.”

She unrolled the poster on the bar top, showing it to the bartender, as one of the two watching from the bar left. She had a hint of a tin star on the vest of that one as he pushed the saloon doors open. He was followed closely by another from one of the poker tables nearby.

The bartender glanced at the poster. His eyebrows twitched upward for a second in surprise, then he caught it and composed his face.

He shook his head as his nose wrinkled, moved down the bar for a second. She tipped her hat back slightly with a little sigh.

As he moved back, wiping the bar down, she reached out with her left fore hoof and snatched him by his collar, half dragging him across the bar, his eyes wide in fear. She smoothed the poster slightly with her right.

“Look again,” she rumbled behind narrow eyes.

The bartender glanced down, then looked back up into her face. Then slowly, notably, he looked over her left shoulder at one particular poker table. He stared for a bit, then looked back at her as he relaxed appreciably.

“I have no idea where he’d be today,” he said calmly and significantly. She let go of him, stared in the saloon mirror on the wall behind the bar.

The table held one pony, wearing a gunbelt for a right hoof draw. There wasn’t any…

“You.”

She slid her eyes left. Three ponies. One pony that had left now among them. Hooves clear for the draw.

The stupid idiots were standing in the doorframe, unable to move around, the saloon doors pinning two of them. One reached for his gun on his play…

Her right hoof moved like lightning as she twisted to her left and crouched, her entire body moving in her draw, the Colt moving smoothly up and on target…

The Colt she called “Lil’ Macintosh” barked three times. The one pony drawing had just managed to clear the holster, far too late to help, while the other two had barely started to skin leather, the left hooved idiot fouling himself in the saloon door. All three fell where they were.

She continued to spin, swinging on the poker table…

Wild had barely managed to get the gun out and moving up, as she let the Colt speak again. The surprise on his face was evident as the .45 cal. slug buried itself in his chest.

He slumped to the floor, tumbling down the short pair of steps.

Her narrowed eyes swung around quickly to see if anypony else wanted a part of this fight.

There were no takers.

She carefully let the hammer down to the half-cock, pulled open the cylinder gate, and then used the ejector to push the spent shells from the cylinder as she re-loaded the bores. Her eyes watched the ponies in the saloon assiduously for any sign of intent, careful to keep the wall to her back. Finished, she put the hammer down on an empty bore of the cylinder, and then hoof-spun the Colt as she holstered it. She pulled out a coin, flipped it to the bartender, as she picked up her case, slipped the bottle into it, putting the poster and oilcloth on top.

“Thanks,” she said, as she left for the local Deputy Sheriff’s office. Time to collect.

The payout proved to be better than just the 1,000 bits for Wild. The others of his gang put a few bits more in her saddlebag. A good day.

“Take me more’n a year to earn that much,” the Deputy said complainingly, as he handed over the bits on the bounties.

She remembered him. The yellow-belly that ran out along with the gunpony. She detested cowards.

She glared unemotionally at him as she raked the money into her moneybag. “Aren’t you the law ‘round here?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.”

"And ain't a Deputy Sheriff s'posed to be courageous, loyal...and above all, honest?" she asked dispassionately, fixing him with that gunbarrel stare of hers.

"Yeah, that he is," said the Deputy quietly, head down.

She reached over, tugged the tin star off his vest. As she walked out, she tossed it at a pony sitting on a bench.

“Y’all need a new Deputy Sheriff,” she said quietly, as she left.

Author's Note

I'm having a hard time grasping AJ to write for her...so I did a little case study...an almost scene by scene writeup of "For a Few Dollars More", combining Col. Douglas Mortimer and Manco into Applejack...

I also tweaked the stops for the train; the ones in the movie didn't take into account how the train actually moves through New Mexico, so my concession to realism...

My rationale for this? Just like Col. Mortimer in the movie; what would AJ do if somepony gunned Big Mac? Probably something just like this....