Spectrology

Braeburn stepped outside. Glaring sun above, leather stetson upon his head. The weight on his back was nothing to speak of, and still the heaviest he'd ever worn. He took a seething breath and shook of the last of his doubts. He was ready, as ready as he'd ever be.

Coming down the edge of town, he met a stallion.

“Braeburn,” The stallion greeted, and then did at a double-take at Braeburn's back. His eyes went wide. “Is that for...”

“Yeah. You know where I can find him?”

“This time of day? Probably in the saloon.”

“Figures. Thanks.” Braeburn walked past the stallion, his gaze turned toward the centre of town.

“Hey, Brae?”

He stopped, and turned his head to look at the stallion.

“Good luck.”

Braeburn nodded, and kept walking.

*******

Appleloosa: his home, his town, his pride. The product of many years of hard labour under the burning sun, shaped by him and his fellow settlers with nothing but sweat and determination. After a brief trot along the main street, he arrived at the saloon. He knew it was crowded, yet only one single, rowdy voice sailed past the batwing door and out into the hot air.

Braeburn took a breath, muttered “No stepping back now,” and walked inside.

Sitting at a table in the middle of the place, as Braeburn had known he'd be, was Buck. The dark brown stallion wore a grey cape across his back and flanks, just barely covering his cutie mark of a revolver backdropped by a dollar sign. He wore a red handkerchief, and a wide‐brimmed hat hung down the back of his neck. His dirty, orange mane sprawled in each direction, and he waved a half-empty bottle of whiskey around in a recounting of yet another one of his made-up adventures.

Buck had arrived in Appleloosa just a week ago, conveniently while Sheriff Silverstar was out of town. Within the hour, everypony had known his name. There were whispers about him being a bank‐robber or the likes, but the last pony who'd been prying had promptly received a hard forehead to his muzzle. The stallion never paid for the countless drinks he downed at the saloon, and nopony dared protest any longer. Something had to be done.

As Braeburn approached the stallion, a whisper traversed the room. Buck looked over his shoulder.

“Braeburn!” Buck's rugged features morphed into a jeering grin, his eyes pausing only briefly at the weapon upon Braeburn's back. “Here, come on, take a seat. And somebody get my favourite drinking buddy something to –”

“You ain't no compadre of mine, Buck,” Braeburn cut him off, narrowing his eyes on the outlaw.

Buck raised an eyebrow and chuckled, before settling into a smirk. “That so?”

Braeburn didn't answer.

“Well that's too bad.” Buck took a deep sip, then waved a hoof across the room as he continued. “I mean your precious sheriff ain't here, and ain't like any of y'all have the guts to step up. So you don't like my company, well, scram.”

“If Sheriff Silverstar ain't here to throw you out of Appleloosa, I guess I'm gonna have to do it myself.”

Everything went quiet.

“Is that so,” Buck deadpanned. “Let's continue outside.”

He swept his drink, tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder, and promptly trotted out of the bar. Braeburn stared after Buck a few moments, before giving a shaky breath and following him. He felt the eyes of the whole emplacement on him, and several of the patrons gave him grave nods as he pushed the doors open and stood in the midday sun.

Buck was standing a short length down the road, his cape billowing in a hot wind from behind him. His hat now rested upon his dust‐red mane.

Braeburn regarded him carefully as he trotted out to face him.

“So you don't want me 'round here no more?” Buck stated, matter of factly.

“Sure as hay I don't, Buck.” Braeburn spat the name out. “Nopony does.”

“Well, then, we're gonna have a problem.” Buck's voice grew hard, loud. “'Cause I happen to like it here.”

There was a pause.

“But let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Buck said, just slightly more quiet. “You just turn around and trot away, and ain't nopony gonna get hurt.”

Braeburn shook his head. “This ends today, Buck.”

Buck threw his cape backwards and exposed a weapon of his own, placed upon his back in a similar fashion to Braeburn's.

“Seems this town ain't big enough for the both of us,” Buck warned. His voice was lower now, trembling, and his eyes bore straight into Braeburn's. “Get outta here.”

“It's my town, Buck, and you won't have it.” Braeburn slowly raised a front hoof towards his own weapon, and his eyes turned cold.

Silence.

A nervous twitch.

Sudden movement, and Braeburn threw his pie. Buck did the same.

And when the dust had settled, only one of them remained standing.