Chapter 1: Alive and Kickin'
Chapter 1: Alive and Kickin’
The Kickin’ Mule was alive with the sounds of laughing patrons and jazzy piano tunes. Tonight the tavern was especially busy, with dozens of Appleloosans forking over bits to spend the night eating and drinking their problems away. A pony could hardly stand anywhere in the place and not be overwhelmed by the smell of hay whiskey from another pony’s breath. But nopony seemed to care about the odor as the night went on and the merriment only grew merrier.
Among the tavern’s patrons was Braeburn, sitting uncomfortably at the bar with an untouched glass of ale. He was exhausted and wasn’t much of a drinker, but his friends had insisted that tonight he come to the Kickin’ Mule. After all, the Zap Apple season was finally over. What better way to celebrate their hard work by getting drunk on their rumps? Braeburn didn’t share this sentiment, but went anyway. Even now as he sat at the bar with drunken ponies all around him, he was still questioning whether or not he should have come. But his friends weren’t having any of it.
“Hey, Braeburn,” one of them, a fat unicorn named Pumpkin Patch called from a nearby table. “Why the long face?”
The others roared in laughter, and Braeburn smiled sheepishly. They then returned to laughing at each other and swallowing pint after pint of ale, with their cheeks turning red and eyes growing glossy.
The night went on and Braeburn was getting fed up, his glass still untouched. He enjoyed a good party as much as the next pony, but he was tired and just wanted to get some rest. His friends were either passed out or flirting with some of the sultry tavern mares. He was about to get up and leave when two stallions sat down next to him, one on each side. The one on his left was a very big puce-colored brute with bloodshot eyes and muscles bigger than his head. The one on his right wore a dark duster coat over his whole body, and he had his head down with his face partially concealed by a black wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
Now Braeburn felt more uncomfortable than ever.
The bartender approached the big pony and frowned. “Hello, Golden Grain.”
“Shaddup, keep, ‘n git me a bottle o’ beer.”
The bartender’s brow furrowed as he got the drink. “There you go.”
“Finally. Now git.”
Braeburn fidgeted in his seat as the hulking stallion threw his head back and guzzled his beer in one go, slamming it back down on the countertop and hiccuping before ordering another one. Five beers later and his eyes were almost completely red as he swayed in his seat. The bartender sighed.
“I’ve gotta cut you off, Golden Grain. I think you’ve had enough.”
Golden Grain, still halfway through his sixth drink, put his cup down and stared angrily at the bartender with his piggy red eyes. “Y’all don’t tell me when I had enough. I know when I had enough.”
“Well, maybe if you actually paid your tab…”
“Jus’ shaddup,” Golden Grain hiccuped. “I told ya I’d pay, an’ I’m gonna.”
“When, Grain? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? I’m getting really tired of your excuses.”
“Now listen here, you li’l piece of…”
At that moment, Braeburn finally decided to get up and leave. Unfortunately, as he stood, he accidentally knocked over Golden Grain’s bottle with his elbow, spilling the remaining contents onto the giant stallion’s leg. Golden Grain cried out in surprise, and then turned his piggy eyes on Braeburn, who gulped nervously.
“Terribly sorry, mister, lemme just—”
Before he knew what was happening, Braeburn felt himself leave the ground as Golden Grain hoisted him by his collar and slammed him against the countertop. The tavern went silent as Braeburn wriggled helplessly in the giant stallion’s iron grip.
“You knocked mah drink, boy!”
“I’m…I’m sorry…”
“Sorry?” Golden Grain raged, his piggy eyes brimming with booze-fueled rage. “You sorry? Sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, boy! Sorry ain’t buyin’ me anotha one!”
“I’ll…buy…”
“Shaddup!” he screamed as he wrapped his hooves around Braeburn’s neck, choking him. “Shaddup, shaddup!”
Braeburn wheezed as his neck was squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. “Agh…gugh…”
“You ain’t messin’ with me! Nopony evah messin’ with Golden Grain, ya hear?!”
Other than Grain’s ranting and Braeburn’s feeble gasps, there was silence. The bartender stood with his back against the wall, suddenly terrified by the out-of-control stallion. Braeburn began to turn blue as Grain giggled.
“Yea, thas right, you messed with th’ wrong pony, an’ now you gonna—”
Click.
Golden Grain felt something cold and metallic press against his temple.
“Let him go, please,” said a voice next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Grain could see what was pressing against his head: the cold steel barrel of a magnum revolver, cocked and held by the pony in the duster coat next to him. The pony didn’t even look at Grain as he casually sipped his whiskey and held the gun steady.
“Let him go,” he repeated, his face still shadowed by his cowboy hat. Grain gritted his yellow teeth as Braeburn struggled for air.
“Mister, you gon’ regret this.”
“If you don’t let him go in the next five seconds, I will paint the walls with your brains,” the duster pony said coolly. “Five, four, three…”
Golden Grain growled as a vein in his forehead began to throb, but he finally released Braeburn from his death grip. Braeburn gasped and fell to the ground, choking and coughing, sucking up as much air as he could. The duster pony did not lower his revolver.
“Now say you’re sorry.”
Grain’s eyes grew wide. “Whatchu say?”
“You heard me. Apologize to this young stallion.” He still would not spare the hulking stallion even the slightest glance.
“I ain’t apologizin’ to nopony,” Golden Grain snarled. “You gotta lotta nerve comin’ up t’ me with a—”
BANG!
Golden Grain cried out, and the other tavern-goers ducked for cover. Braeburn gasped as he looked up at Golden Grain, who was holding his head and howling in pain. But there was no blood dripping down his face. As the gunsmoke cleared, Braeburn saw a small bullet hole in the far window. The glass was completely cracked. Grain continued to howl.
“Mah ears! I can’t hear anythin’, dangit! Ya broke mah ears!”
“Consider yourself lucky, then,” the duster pony remarked, putting away his revolver and taking a small bag of bits out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing the bag to the bartender. “Sorry about the mess. That should buy you a new window.”
With that, the duster pony rose from his barstool and walked out of the tavern, giving nopony a second look, not even Braeburn. The eerie quiet was only broken by Golden Grain’s soft whimpering.
Braeburn slowly got up and felt a dozen eyes drill into him. Looking around uncomfortably, he finally made a break for the door, emerging into the cool night air. The duster pony was nowhere in sight, and Braeburn let loose a sigh of relief.
All he had to do now was get home.
* * *
“Never were one for the tavern scene, were you?”
The voice surprised Braeburn as he stepped onto his front porch, and when he looked around he spied a familiar pony sitting on the porch swing: the duster-wearing stallion. The brim of his hat still shadowed his face, even in the light of the hanging oil lamp above him. Smoke wafted from the cigarette tucked between his lips.
Braeburn shifted nervously on his hooves. “Can I help you, mister?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
The stallion’s blunt manner of speaking made Braeburn even more uneasy. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Well, um…can I at least ask why you’re on my front porch?”
The duster pony took the cigarette from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “You can. And I can answer. I’ve been looking for you, Braeburn.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Why would I not know my cousin’s name?”
“Cousin? You ain’t my—”
Suddenly the duster stallion stood up, dropped his cigarette, and removed his hat, revealing his face. Braeburn’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“No…it…it can’t be…”
The duster pony cracked a mirthless smile. His skin was dark sandy beige in color, and his unruly mane was brown as mud. He would have been handsome, had it not been for his horribly disfigured face. A lattice of scars criss-crossed his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Just above his left eye was a deep scabbed-over wound surrounded by rough, dead skin, with another ugly scar running jaggedly down from the wound through his left eye. When Braeburn got a good look at the stallion’s eyes, his stomach lurched. The right eye was normal and colored in a beautiful shade of green. The other, however, was anything but beautiful. The iris and pupil of his left eye were both milky white and jagged, and the sclera was bloody red. The longer Braeburn stared at the eye, the more nauseous he became. But he could not look away, for this was the face of a pony he never thought he’d see again in his life.
“…Hawkeye?”
“In the flesh,” Hawkeye Delicious said, adjusting the collar of his duster coat.
“But I thought you were—”
“Dead?” Hawkeye sneered. “No, unfortunately. Not yet.”
Braeburn didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t believe it. After all this time…
“What…” he stammered, “What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“So many questions,” Hawkeye said dismissively. “So little time.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Hawkeye sighed. “Nevermind. How are you, Braeburn?”
Braeburn could not help but gawk. “Uhh…”
“What’s the matter? Buffalo got your tongue?”
“Hawkeye…” Braeburn stammered. “They told me you died.”
“Who told you?” Hawkeye said, his eyes narrowing.
“Everypony.”
“Really? How interesting. I suppose they also concocted some fantastic tale about my demise. Tell me, cousin, what did they tell you? How did I die?”
Braeburn gulped. “Uhh…stampede. They said you got killed in a stampede.”
“Stampede? Pathetic,” Hawkeye grunted. “How uncreative.”
“Hawkeye…” Braeburn said, trying to swallow his discomfort. “That was six months ago. What happened to you? Where have you been?”
Hawkeye pulled another cigarette and a match from his pocket, striking the match and lighting up before finally looking Braeburn in the eye.
“There was no stampede, Braeburn. I was shot.”
“What? Shot?!”
“What, the scars didn’t give it away? Yes, I was shot. Left for dead in the desert by the Caracaras.”
All the color drained from Braeburn’s face. The Caracara Gang was one of the most notorious and infamous group of outlaws in all of Equestria. Anypony who ran afoul of them often didn’t live to see their next birthday. Thankfully they usually left Appleloosa alone, but their crimes and exploits made them feared across the entire region.
“The Caracaras…”
“They found where me and my boys were hiding,” Hawkeye continued. “Those damn bastards burned everything to the ground and killed my friends before they put a bullet in my head. But that ain’t the worst part.”
Braeburn gulped again. “It’s…It’s not?
“No,” Hawkeye growled. “You see, Braeburn, I’d have bled to death in the sand if a buffalo witch doctor hadn’t come along and got me back to the land of the living. But that whole time I spent in a coma, the only thing floating around in my brain, besides a few bullet fragments, was a single word: betrayed.”
Sweat rolled down Braeburn’s neck. “B-Betrayed? Hawkeye, I don’t…”
“Somepony betrayed me, cousin. Somebody got my friends killed. They were the only friends I’d ever had, and they burned to death at the hooves of the Caracaras. All because somepony sold us out. And you know who that pony was?”
Braeburn shook his head. Hawkeye gritted his teeth as his eyes filled with rage. “One of us.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“One of us, Braeburn. An Apple. A member of the family sold me out.”
Braeburn gasped. “What?! How do you know…”
“I know,” Hawkeye interrupted. “What I don’t know is which Apple did it. Now, I’d like nothing more than to find those Caracara bastards and make them pay, but going up against them alone would be a death sentence. So first things first: I find the son of a parasprite that betrayed me. Who did this to me.” He pointed angrily at his bloody red eye.
Braeburn gulped, pulling at his collar. Hawkeye cocked his head.
“Why so nervous, cousin?” he asked.
“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Braeburn managed. “It’s just…I didn’t…I don’t…”
“Oh for the love of Celestia, just spit it out!”
After a moment, Braeburn composed himself and looked his cousin in the eye. “Okay, Hawkeye. If what you’re saying is true, then…well, how are you gonna find out which Apple it was that did you in?”
At this, Hawkeye smiled. “I’m glad you asked. I’m going to find every single Apple that I can, and get one of them to confess by any means necessary. And I mean by any means necessary.”
“You’re gonna go after every family member? Just to interrogate them?”
“Yes…”
Suddenly Hawkeye whipped out his gun faster than the blink of an eye and pressed the barrel against Braeburn’s forehead.
“...and I think I’ll start with you.”
Chapter 2: Marshal Law
Braeburn lived alone in a two-story antiquated farmhouse. The furniture was outdated, the lamps still ran on kerosene, and the whole place smelled of dust and dew. But to him this house was an Apple family heirloom, still standing tall since its construction, back when Appleloosa was little more than a seedling of a town in the desert. It was old, it was dusty, and it was rickety, but Braeburn wouldn’t have it any other way.
But perhaps if he were to have it another way, it would not include the pony holding him at gunpoint in his living room.
Hawkeye forced him to sit on the old overstuffed couch, his aim never wavering. Braeburn was sweating more than ever, and could not stop fidgeting even as he sat down. The two of them said nothing for a while, until Braeburn finally worked up the courage to speak.
“Hawkeye…” he managed. “Please…what are you doing?”
Hawkeye did not answer him. Rather, he kept the gun trained on Braeburn’s forehead, all the while glaring at him with eyes as hard as stone. Braeburn did not speak again for nearly half an hour, too afraid to do anything. During that time, Hawkeye never blinked. His eyes twitched, but he never once broke eye contact with Braeburn.
Finally, Hawkeye spoke. “So was it you?”
Braeburn shivered. “W-What are you talking about?”
“Did you tell Juan Potro? Did you sell me out?”
“Who? What? Hawk, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Juan Potro Vaquero,” Hawkeye growled. “Did you tell him?”
“Hawk, I honestly don’t know who that is! Please, just put the gun down!”
Hawkeye clenched his teeth. “Somepony sold me out, Braeburn. Somepony told him where we were, somepony in our family. I’m sorry, cousin, but I can’t take the chance that you might be the one.”
“But…how do you know? Can you just…sit down? Just sit down and talk, we can do that, right? No need for rash decisions, Hawk. Please…”
At first Hawkeye looked about ready to blow Braeburn’s head off, but after a moment his grip on the gun softened and his eyes drooped. Slowly he holstered the weapon and sat down on the armchair by the couch, removing his hat and holding his head in his hooves. For the next ten minutes, there was only silence. Braeburn didn’t dare move or speak, until finally Hawkeye lifted his head and looked him straight in the eye.
“Hawkeye Delicious.”
Braeburn couldn’t help but cock his head in confusion. “What?”
“That’s what they called me. Hawkeye Delicious. Right before they killed my best friends and burned my home to the ground. Right before they shot me and left me to die in that damn desert. Hawkeye Delicious.”
“B-But what does that—”
“All that time I was running with my gang, I never told anypony my last name. Never. ‘Cause contrary to what the good ol’ Apple family might have told you, I did give a damn about y’all’s safety.”
His expression softened. “I didn’t want any of you to suffer because of me. So I never let them know I was an Apple. And for the longest time, they didn’t know, until Juan Potro Vaquero put a bullet in my head."
“Juan Potro Vaquero…”
“The big boss of the Caracaras,” Hawkeye answered. “An ugly son of a parasprite.”
“I know him,” Braeburn said. “I mean, they typically leave Appleloosa alone, but…”
He trailed off, and for what seemed like forever they sat in awkward silence, until Hawkeye decided to speak up.
“I’m sorry, cousin. I’m sorry for the gun. It’s just that…well, there ain’t many ponies I can trust nowadays. Can’t take many chances, y’know?”
Braeburn, though still uneasy, nodded. “Yeah, Hawk, I understand. I mean, I sort of do, but…yeah. But…”
“But you’re wondering if I still think it was you,” Hawkeye interrupted. “No, I don’t. I came in here thinking it could be anypony, but that just ain’t true. You don’t seem like the type o’ stallion that would walk the bad road, Braeburn. We never had beef between each other, so I can’t imagine why you’d do something like that to me.”
Though relieved, Braeburn still couldn’t help but be confused. “But Hawk…why would somepony in our family betray you?”
“One bad apple ruins the bunch. None of them wanted me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my mother. She can’t tell the difference between a top and a toaster, and even she hates me.”
“Hawk…Goldie passed away a few months ago.”
Hawkeye said nothing at first, but then smirked. “Really? I thought crazy cat ladies had nine lives…or is that just cats? Thought maybe it rubbed off…”
“You’re making fun of her?” Braeburn said indignantly, not caring that Hawkeye could easily shoot him if he got offended. “What the heck is wrong with you?”
“Might as well. If she’s dead, it’s not like I’ll be hurting her feelings.”
Braeburn’s stomach churned. He sighed. “I just think it’s in bad taste.”
“Bad taste?” Hawkeye growled, leaping to his hooves. “You wanna talk about bad taste?! How about the taste of blood? Ash? Smoke? Gunpowder?! You wanna talk about bad taste, you…”
“Hawk, please!” Braeburn pleaded. “I didn’t mean—”
“If I wanna speak ill of the mare who kicked me out when I was ten years old, then I will damn well do that!”
“Okay! Okay, Hawk, I’m sorry. Just…please, keep your voice down.”
Hawkeye panted heavily, sweat rolling down his forehead and collecting in the lid of his dead, scarred eye. He sighed and sat back down in the chair, removing his hat.
“I’m sorry, Braeburn,” he said. “I’m tired. Can’t think straight without sleep, y’know? I need a place to bunk down for the night, and tomorrow I’ll be out of your mane. You wanna turn me away, kick me out for what I did, that’s fine, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
Even Braeburn could tell that was a blatant lie, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He sighed again, frowning. “No, it’s…it’s alright, Hawk. You can stay here for tonight.”
Hawkeye smiled, but it was more like a smirk. “Thanks, cousin. You always were my favorite, y’know?”
Braeburn wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that statement.
* * *
Morning came, and with it another bout of restless sleep that left Hawkeye with a parched throat, heavy eyes, and cold sweat all over his body. He sat up on the couch as sunlight streamed through the window blinds. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and holding his head in his hooves. Outside, the sky was a bright shade of azure blue, cloudless and unending. Hawkeye could hear the desert wind rattling the window panes, scattering sand across the porch. Yawning, he put on his hat and stared out the window. He wondered if he should tell Braeburn where he’d be going next. He doubted it would be a good idea. Still, it would be rude to just up and leave without at least saying some form of goodbye. And despite all that had happened, Hawkeye didn’t want to be rude to his cousin.
He wondered if—
SMASH!
Hawkeye cried out in pain as something small and hot seared the side of his head and shattered the window, sending shards of glass everywhere. He fell to the ground, clutching his head. A thin line of blood formed from where the bullet had grazed him. He went for his gun, only to realize that he had hung up his holster on the hat rack by the stairs—directly in line of sight of the now-broken window.
Someone cursed violently outside, and Hawkeye heard the clattering of hooves on the stairs. Braeburn burst into the living room, still in his pajamas.
“What in tarnation is all that racket?!” he demanded, before seeing the shattered glass and his cousin lying on the ground.
“Braeburn!” Hawkeye snapped. “Get my gun, now!”
“Hawk, what the heck is goin’ on?”
“Someone shot through the window. Get my gun!”
Braeburn turned his head toward the window, then toward the door, and finally toward his cousin. “Hawk, what’s goin’ on? What d’ya mean, someone shot through the window?”
“I mean exactly what I said. Now get my gun out of the holster and give it to me. Then get out of sight of the window!”
Outside, the cursing continued. Loud voices carried on an argument that Hawkeye couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like multiple ponies, one of whom was very angry and another whose speech was slurred.
His eyes widened. He knew those voices. But before he could say anything else, Braeburn stormed out the front door in a very angry huff.
“Now just what in Equestria is goin’ on here? Which o’ y’all shot out mah window? Huh? Who did it?”
Hawkeye kept his head down, surprised at his cousin’s rage. Then again, he reasoned, a rude awakening and a bullet-riddled window was enough to make anypony angry.
Taking a deep breath, Hawkeye got down on his belly and slowly crawled across the wooden floor toward the hat rack. He could hear Braeburn outside exchanging heated words with somepony, but still couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. As he reached the stairs he carefully grabbed his belt and his hat from the rack, finally getting his hooves on his gun.
Now to see just what the heck was going on.
He crawled back to the broken window, feeling the desert wind blow through and beat against his bloody face. The voices were clearer now, and even more familiar. Taking another deep breath, he carefully peeked out the window, just enough to see what was going on, but not enough for him to be seen.
When he finally got a good look out the window, his eyes widened and he nearly gasped.
Braeburn stood on the front porch in front of a large group of ponies, some of whom were carrying rifles and revolvers. Leading the mob were two stallions. One was the drunk from the previous night. The other was somepony Hawkeye had hoped he would never see again in his life.
Beside the drunkard stood a grizzled old stallion with a rough gray mane and skin the color of jaundice. He sported an ashen-gray beard, sandpaper eyes, and a brow that seemed permanently furrowed. Atop his head he wore a pure-white ten gallon hat, and pinned to his vest was a faded silver badge, engraved with a single word: MARSHAL.
Hawkeye’s breath caught in his chest. He tightened his grip on his gun. Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
“Marshal Law!” Braeburn yelled indignantly. “What in the blazes is happenin’ here? Did y’all shoot my window?”
Marshal Law spat on the ground and glared angrily at Golden Grain. “My apologies, Braeburn. Seems that this drunk son of a parasprite thought he saw something in the window, and shot at it. Like any intelligent, rational, not boozed-off-his-rump pony would do.”
Golden Grain hiccuped. “I saw ‘im! I saw ‘im, Marshal! He’s in there!”
“Shut up,” growled the marshal. “You do that again, I’ll get my deputies and lock you up. Understand?” He then turned to Braeburn. “Now then…Braeburn…well, I must say this is a bit awkward…”
“Awkward?” Braeburn said. “Awkward? Y’all shot up mah house! What in tarnation is wrong with y’all?”
The commotion had attracted a crowd, and Hawkeye cursed under his breath. More ponies would only further complicate things. He needed to get out of there, and fast.
“Well, Braeburn, the thing is that Golden Grain here claims you’ve got somepony in your house that he had an, er, altercation with last night. Is that true?”
Braeburn’s breath caught in his throat. “W-What? Marshal, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“See, the thing is, Braeburn, I’d be inclined to believe you,” the marshal said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But Grain ain’t the only fella who says you’ve got somepony holed up in there. And as much as this drunk fool gets on my nerves to no end…” He growled again at Grain, who just stared at the house with his piggy eyes. “…he’s got rights as much as anypony here in Appleloosa. If he ain’t the only one who says you’ve got a fella in there…”
“But I don’t!” Braeburn said desperately.
“Liar!” Golden Grain screamed, clenching his yellow teeth in anger.
Hawkeye cursed again. The situation was quickly getting out of hand, and he needed to do something. He could simply sneak out the back, but he couldn’t let Braeburn get in trouble for what happened the previous night. He owed his cousin that much. But what then could he do?
Maybe, if he walked out the front…
Would the marshal remember him? Probably. Would Golden Grain hold his fire? Probably not. But in that moment, with the crowd growing bigger and Braeburn sweating like a pig, he couldn’t think of any other choice.
Hawkeye sighed. He knew he would regret this decision later. Even as he stood up and walked to the front door, he could hear a voice in his head reprimanding him, calling him the stupidest pony alive…
He opened the door, blinked away the sun in his eyes, and stepped out onto the porch.
The crowd had grown even bigger, and as soon as the door closed behind him, Hawkeye knew that he had made a mistake. But it was too late. The crowd gasped, and Marshal Law’s eyes grew as big as tumbleweeds.
“Can’t be…”
The old pony’s hoof hovered over his holster, and Hawkeye gulped.
“Can’t be…”
Hawkeye slowly put his hooves up. “Hey now, let’s all just—”
BANG!
A single shot, and then all hell broke loose. Lead flew through the air as ponies ran for their lives. Hawkeye knocked over a bench on the porch and took cover behind it. He didn’t know who had fired that first shot, though he had his suspicions. But now it didn’t matter. He had a gunfight on his hooves.
He cursed to himself. Braeburn had rushed back into the house with his tail between his legs, and Hawkeye was now alone on the other porch with nothing but his gun for comfort. He had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he raised his head out from behind the bench and started shooting.
All four of Hawkeye’s bullets missed, though not due to poor marksmanship. He didn’t want blood on his hooves right now, and yet that damned fool Golden Grain had made a right mess of things. The marshal was screaming, demanding a cease-fire, but Golden Grain just kept shooting. The drunken bastard wasn’t even shooting at him. He just fired at anything that moved.
Hawkeye made a decision. He squeezed the trigger of his revolver and watched as his bullet pierced Grain’s leg. A flower of blood blossomed from the pony’s calf, and he howled in pain, dropping his gun. The shooting stopped. Deafening silence settled over the town, broken only by the soft sobbing of Golden Grain.
Hawkeye leapt back behind cover. He opened the barrel of his gun and cursed. Only one bullet left. As he snapped it back into place, he heard Marshal Law call out.
“Hawkeye Delicious! Back from the dead! Or never dead at all?”
Hawkeye hesitated, then sighed.
“I’ll be honest, Marshal,” he shouted from behind the bench. “I’m still trying to figure that one out myself!”
The marshal could not help but chuckle, and then turned to his deputies. “Fellas, get this drunken fool outta here,” he spat, pointing at Golden Grain.
Nodding, the deputies hoisted Golden Grain to his hooves and took him away as he continued to bleed and cry. Smirking, the marshal then turned back to the house.
“So then, Hawkeye, you’re the one that dear Grain was blubbering about? The one who caused a ruckus at the bar last night?”
Hawkeye clenched his teeth. “I didn’t want trouble, Marshal. That overgrown idiot caused the ruckus, not me.”
Marshal Law spat on the ground. “Hawk, in all my years, I never thought I’d hear an outlaw like you say he didn’t want trouble. You’re supposed to be dead, and you’re not. That’s a little troubling.”
“What are you saying?” Hawkeye shouted back. “You’re going to kill me?”
“Not if I don’t have to.” The marshal looked around. “Look, Grain’s an idiot and he’ll get what’s coming to him. But you, Hawk, you’re not going anywhere. Not until you and I have a long talk.”
“Can’t do that, Marshal. Sorry.”
The marshal smirked. “If I remember, you’ve got quite a long list of achievements on your wanted poster in my office. Armed robbery, cattle rustling, murder…”
Hawkeye cringed.
“…so you give me one good reason why I should let you go.”
A few moments of silence passed, and the marshal smiled.
“That’s what I thought. Now come on out, before we have to deal with any more unpleasantness.”
Hawkeye gulped. No. It couldn’t end like this. But he had no choice. The marshal was right.
“Okay, Marshal,” he shouted. “Okay. But you gotta promise me to leave Braeburn out of this. You can have me, but he didn’t do anything. Alright?”
Marshal Law smiled. “Fair enough. Wasn’t planning on it in the first place. Braeburn’s a good, respectable citizen. Not a scumbag like you.”
Hawkeye gritted his teeth. “Okay then. I’m coming out.”
“Good. Keep your hooves where I can see them and don’t try anything funny.”
Sighing one last time, Hawkeye began to stand up, raising his hooves in the air. This was it. All his effort had gone to waste. He would never find who betrayed him, never avenge the death of his friends, never…
As his head poked out from behind the bench, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the marshal’s face, but rather a lit swinging lamp hanging from the awning of the Salt Lick Saloon.
His gun still had a bullet in the chamber.
“Alright, Hawk,” the marshal said, “now I want you to—”
Faster than Law could blink, Hawkeye drew and pulled the trigger. For a split second, he thought he had missed. But then…
“Fire!”
Hawkeye ducked back behind cover, but nopony was shooting. He smelled smoke.
His plan had worked.
The bullet had smashed through the lantern, sending oil and licks of flame everywhere. The saloon, baked dry from the sun, went up like tinder. Black, choking smoke filled the air, and suddenly ponies were running and screaming. Marshal Law looked dumbfounded, unsure of what to do. He drew his gun, but Hawkeye was already running.
“Get him! After him!” the marshal screamed.
“But boss,” his deputies said, “the fire…”
“NOW!”
They gulped, but obeyed, giving chase as Hawkeye bolted from the porch. Marshal Law then turned his attention to the fire, which was quickly getting out of control. Several ponies were guiding the bar-goers out of the burning building, while others brought buckets of water to battle the blaze. Ponies kept running up to Law, asking what to do, how they could help. But the marshal, his eyes brimming with anger and his teeth clenched, would only answer with:
“Hawkeye Delicious.”
