The Frontier was calm tonight, most of its critters fast asleep on this cloudless night. The howl of a coyote pierced the otherwise quiet veil of night that hung over the desert. Clouds of dust moved silently across the dry ground as the wind lightly blew. Tumbleweeds tumbled across the plain, hitting the occassional cactus as they moseyed to wherever the wind was blowing them. The full moon hung low, illuminating the lone group of ponies that gathered around a crackling fire with an iron pot suspended above, its contents bubbling. They were young ponies, barely even old enough to not be called foals. Their tired expressions and the size of their bags showed they had traveled far. Their clothes were caked with dust and stained with sweat. They were no doubt thankful for the cool and breezy night.
As the trio ladled the contents of the pot into dirty bowls, licking their lips in anticipation, they spotted something in the dark making its way slowly towards them. The figure took on the shape of a pony as it grew closer, an old and disheveled pony with a face like worn leather, unshaven and covered in wrinkles that told his advanced years. He seemed to approach them cautiously, as if unsure of how they might react.
The stranger wore a smile on that wrinkled face as he stepped into the glow of the fire and removed his hat.
“Beggin’ your pardon younguns,” he spoke, “But would you mind if this tired old stallion joined you on this fine night?”
The three young ponies glanced at each other briefly, at first unsure and wondering where the stallion had come from, before smiling at the old stranger.
“O’course,” one of them responded, “pull up a seat old-timer.”
“Thank ya kindly.” The stranger graciously pulled a wooden stool, more of a stump really, up close to the fire, sitting opposite of the trio. He sniffed the air and licked his lips at the intoxicating aroma that permeated the campfire. “Mighty fine stew I smell. How much for a bowl?” He began to reach into his coat to find some bits.
One of the three, the lone filly of the group, poured a bowl and handed it to the stranger. “No charge sir. Enjoy.”
“Why that’s mighty neighborly of ya. Thank ya young miss.”
He devoured the stew in a flash, licking the bowl cleaner than it had been before holdng the stew before the young trio had managed a few spoonfulls, and patting his stomach in contentment. As the trio continued to eat, the stranger eyed them with a curious gaze, noticing their supplies and tired appearance.
“If’n you don’t mind my askin’,” he spoke, “what’re three younguns like you doin’ all the way out here? Closest town ain’t for a couple score miles, and it ain’t exactly the friendliest town in the Frontier. Might be safer if y'all headed back the way ya came."
“We ain't goin' back. No way no how. We’re followin’ our dream mister,” spoke one.
“We came all the way from Hoofston to explore the Frontier and make a name for ourselves. We wanna be heroes. We want stories to be written about us. That ain't gonna happen if we turn tail and head back east. If anything, we need to head straight toward that unfriendly town and show 'em what we're made of," spoke another.
“Ever since we were foals, we’ve wanted to come out here and fight Buffalo and outlaws like the heroes we used to hear stories and play games about,” said he filly. "This is our chance to do exactly that."
A chuckle escaped from the stranger. “Heroes huh?”
“That’s right,” she continued. “We wanna be like Sheriff Silver Spurs, or Six-Shot, or Marshal Valor!”
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “And what do y’all know about Marshal Valor?”
“He’s only the greatest hero and the deadliest shot the West has ever seen!” The oldest-looking one, probably no more than twenty, spoke.
“He took out sixty outlaws at the town of Herradura de Oro by himself.”
“He drove the Thunder Mountain tribe out of Colt Canyon after beating their chief in a wrestling match,” spoke the younger stallion.
“He even stopped a train with his bare hooves,” said the filly.
The old stallion let out a bellowing laugh, slapping his knee and rocking on his stool.
“Y’all really believe that?” he asked as his laughter subsided. “I don’t know what fool’s been spreadin’ those tales, but there’s hardly even a lick of truth to any of what you just said! Sixty outlaws? A wrestling match? His bare hooves? HA!"
“And how would you know Geezer?” the younger stallion asked with a frown.
“Trust me youngun, a ‘geezer’ like me has seen heroics and story-worthy folk aplenty, so I know what’s the truth and what’s a load a mud pies.” The stranger scratched his unshaven chin before clapping his hooves together, as if he had come to some great decision. “Matter a fact, why don’t I tell you younguns a true Marshal Valor story? Since y’all were kind enough to give me a warm fire and warm food, seems only fittin’ I give somethin’ back, and nothin’s better than a good story. Maybe it'll even teach ya a lesson and keep ya from gettin' killed out here."
“And you swear that this is a true story?”
The stranger crossed his heart. “May Celestia herself burn me to a crisp should I tell a lie.”
“So which Valor story are you gonna tell?”
“The best one,” the stranger answered. “His last one.” The three youths set their stools closer to the old stallion, getting as comfortable as they could as they leaned in to listen. “It all began in the small town of Mare Mesa.”
