TALES OF THE DESERT RAT

by anarchywolf18

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other, Profanity, Adventure, Violence
Length: 10940

After the Equestria civil war between the two sisters most pony's did not want to follow the laws of the solar empire others want their old lives back before the war. But some few chose the life of a gunfighter author's note first time writing

Tales of a half breed gunfighter that was born in the Equestria badlands raised on war and violence. He roams the Equestria frontier hunting down bounties
author's note first time writing

Published 2018-09-24 01:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-08-31 13:56:23 UTC

the stranger

A pony walked into the town of Hell's Gate. The last so-called civilized town on the border of Equestria. The pony looked around, trying to find someone or something. What he found was a building called The Rusty Tap Saloon.

When the pony walked in the saloon he meet a barrel of a scatter gun a blue unicorn was levitating.
"Nice welcome,” the pony grumbled.

The unicorn smirked and spat to the ground, before greeting the stranger.
“Half of the time somepony’s trying to rob me. Other half they have no money. Either way, they ain’t welcome here,” the unicorn explained.

“I got money. And if I wanted to rob you, I would have done it,” the stranger said.

“Hmf,” the unicorn scoffed, sounding somewhat amused as he lowered his weapon. “All you drifters think you’re the baddest horse apples out there. “But, I ain’t one to turn away a paying customer. What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey. In a clean glass, if ya got one,” the stranger requested.

The bartender stopped himself from pouring the whiskey in a grimey glass, spat into it, they wiped it out with a clean cloth. Once the glass was sparkling clean, he poured in the drink.
“It’s a silver bit for the drink. That all you want?” the bartender asked.

“Know where to find a good game of poker?” the stranger requested.

“There’s a game going in the back. Head through there, if you wanna play a hoof or two,” the bartender said, motioning to the door at the other end of the room.
In less than a second, the stranger downed his entire drink, and placed a gold bit on the bar.

“I said silver. What kind of posh ambrosia do you think you just drank?” the bartender said.

“The extra’s for cleaning the glass. Customer service pays, you know,” The stranger answered as he left for the back room.

The back room was clouded with smoke. Sitting around a table were three ponies staring at their cards when the stranger entered the room.
The two ponies facing the stranger looked up for second, then back to their cards. The one with his back to the door, a black unicorn stallion, did not look until the newcomer sat down next to him. The black unicorn turn his his head, and saw the stranger was a brown earth pony who wore a dusty, royal blue cavalry hat. On his chest were two holsters. One held a six-shooter. The other, a sawed-off rifle. Most distinctive and identifying of all were the markings beneath his eyes. He had come. The pony the unicorn had spent weeks trying to lose had found him once again. Without thinking, the black unicorn magically retrieved his gun. There was a loud bang as the stranger’s revolver lifted from its holster and shot the black unicorn dead. Across the table, the other ponies magically grasped their guns. Two loud clicks, and the stranger pointed both of his weapons at the others.

“You join him, or you boys split your winnings. Either way, this head’s mine,” the stranger said.

The two ponies looked to the stranger, then to the dead pony. Thinking it wise to keep their lives, both slowly sat down as they released their magical hold on their guns.

“Alright. You got it,” one pony said.

“Something before you leave, though: how’s an earth pony like you levitate a gun like that?” the other said, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Buffalo magic. It’s a trick I picked up from one of their shaman. Now, you boys better skedaddle. I got some work to do,” the stranger said, as he magically levitated a large knife and a burlap sack caked with dried blood from his pack.

Putting the two together, the ponies could both infer what was going to happen next. Wanting to spare themselves the gruesome sight, they both left through the door, never taking their eyes from the stranger. With three clean, powerful strokes of his blade, the stranger finished by placing the severed head in his sack.

There came a noise beyond the door. The sound of a hoof softly setting on the floor, and the silent click of a hammer. Quick as a diamondback, the stranger shot three holes through the door. Silence followed. Then, the sound of a body dropping. Holstering his weapons, the stranger casually placed the severed head in his saddlebag, then sauntered out to the saloon. There on the floor, the bartender laid holding his bloodied chest. Beside him, his scatter gun laid in a pool of his own blood. To prevent any further violence against himself, the stranger unloaded each shell from the scatter gun and placed them in his saddlebag.

With a sigh, he magically lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. The dying bartender saw the stranger's horns.
“Two horns…” he gasped. “I should have known. You’re the devil himself!”

The stranger chuckled at the aspersion. “I'm no devil. What I am is a half breed,” the stranger said.

When the bartender heard that, his eyes slowly widened. The stranger levitated his revolver once more, and placed it against the bartender’s forehead. Slowly, he pulled back the hammer.

“When the devil asks who sent you on the night train to the infernal gates, tell him Desert Rat stamped your ticket,” the stranger said.

Outside, a loud bang shattered the silence of the town.
Desert Rat left the saloon, and headed out into the dusty wilderness.

Weeks passed, and Desert Rat found himself walking into the town of Deadrock. A diamond dog settlement with next to no ponies. The dogs all stared at him as he passed, until Desert Rat reached his destination at an old house. On the porch was a old one legged diamond dog in a rocking chair. The old dog looked at Desert Rat, then to the bloody saddlebag at his side.

“Is the bastard dead?" the old dog asked.

Desert Rat tossed the bloody sack onto to the porch. "Your son’s killer was easy to track. Gamblers like him always are. But, it’s always a pain checking every gambling den and saloon in the county. Enough about my troubles. Wheres my pay?” Desert Rat said.

The old dog produced a small bag from behind his rocking chair, and tossed it to Desert Rat. Desert Rat inspected the bag’s contents, and found it was filled with gems. Just as they agreed. While Desert Rat was counting the gems, the old dog picked up the bloody sack and started walking towards his front door.

“Hold it, Pilgrim. Your payment’s ten gems light of our agreement,” Desert Rat said.

“The agreement was twenty if you brought him in alive,” the old dog said, as he stopped in his door. “If you brought him in with everything else attached, you would’ve gotten that twenty.”

“We agreed on twenty, dead or alive. Now, pony up the rest of the gems,” Desert Rat growled.

The old dog turned and saw Desert Rat magically pulling the hammer on his revolver. “Are you really the type to shoot an unarmed old dog?”

“I’m not killing an old dog. I’m killing a welcher that owes me money.”

Looking into the eyes of Desert Rat, the old dog knew this could only end one of two ways. “A stallion with principles. You don’t see that much these days. Here,” the old dog said, as he tossed a second bag to Desert Rat.

Desert Rat holstered his gun and picked up the second bag.

"That's a good boy. Now that our business is done. Goodbye," the old dog said.

Desert Rat walked backwards, making sure the old dog didn't do anything funny. When he walked far enough, he turn around and continued to walk back to the merciless desert he called home.

Desert Rat walked for weeks when he reached his next destination. The home of a gunsmith. "Hey! Gunsmoke! You still breathing, you oversized lizard?" Desert Rat yelled.

“Come in and see!” a deep, gruff voice shouted. With the voice, flames shot out of the doors and windows.

Desert Rat walked inside, and was greeted by the usual sight in Gunsmoke’s home. A blazing furnace, a rack of finished weapons, a shelf full of tools that were never used, and the familiar grey, ten foot dragon who ran the shop. Gunsmoke puffed violently on his cigarillo, and his eyes blazed as his fists and claws pounded on the red hot metal.

“You’re still working on that?” Desert Rat said.

“A request like yours takes time! And I always take extra care of my best customers!” Gunsmoke said, as he shaped the piece of metal.

“I’m your only customer. But, whether you’re finished or not, I got your payment,” Desert Rat said, as he tossed the gems to the nearby chair.

“Fantastic!” Gunsmoke said.

With a fury that burned his cigarillo to a stub, he finished the piece he was working on and quenched it in a vat of oil. “That’s the last piece. I’ll show you the rest of it while it cools off,” Gunsmoke said.

He and Desert Rat walked over to a rack of guns. What Gunsmoke presented was a revolver unlike any Desert Rat had seen. That is, all but the cylinder.
“Here. Custom dragoon, just like you asked. Fires .44 and .45 slugs. Made by dragons to take down dragons,” Gunsmoke said.

“Did you do the grip like I asked?” Desert Rat asked.

Gunsmoke took a bite out of a ruby like it was an apple. "Heft it and see,” the dragon answered, as he offered the gun.
Desert Rat took his new gun, and magically hefted it.

“Good. You cut the weight like I wanted,” he said. A closer inspection, and he saw the grip now had an engraving that was identical to the markings under his eyes.

Gunsmoke retrieved the last piece of the gun from his oil vat, and clicked it into place on Desert Rat’s revolver.
Without a word, Desert Rat tossed away his old revolver, and placed the dragoon in his now empty holster.

His business concluded, Desert Rat left the smithy, and continued his long walk to his next adventure.

Author's Note

edit by wingdingaling

THE SICK AND THE DEAD

"I had gotten a taste of death and found it palatable to the extent that I could never again eat the fruits of a normal civilization"

--Mickey Spillane

It had been raining for weeks. Long enough to make anyone's mood go foul. In Desert Rat's case, his was worse, because he was going into the town of Orida. To make matters worse, he went without his guns. Not because he was a prisoner, but because of a promise he made to his present company. A mare named Mage Meadowbrook.

It was after he fell ill that Miss Meadowbrook helped Desert Rat to get better. For as much as the drifter offered payment, she did not want his money. Instead, he offered his services. He became her bodyguard.

Miss Meadowbrook saw there was no deterring the insistent drifter, but only accepted the offer on one condition: Desert Rat was not to carry his guns.

As they neared Orida, they were hit by a strange smell. A smell Desert Rat knew all too well. The putrid stench of burning corpses.

Past the edge of town, the smell grew stronger. Meadowbrook had to cover her nose the nearer they walked to the center of the small settlement. In only a matter of steps, Desert Rat sighed at the sight before them.

A five-foot pile of corpses was mounted up in plain view, burning with magical flames that flared brightly in the pouring rain.

Miss Meadowbrook’s stomach lurched as she averted her eyes from the horrible sight.

Desert Rat stared in silence, motionless. In the light of the fire, his eyes caught sight of a filly dragging the dead body of a mare behind her.

The filly struggled to haul the larger body, until she reached the pyre. Soon, she was joined by a colt, who took hold of they corpse, and helped her heave it onto the flames.

More foals arrived, dragging the dead bodies of more ponies behind them. None were spared. Young or old. Mare or stallion. They all fed the flames.

“Hrm…” Desert Rat sighed.

The sound of Miss Meadowbrook’s labored breathing diverted his attention from the pyre.

Meadowbrook jumped when she felt Desert Rat nudge her side. She saw the drifter walk ahead of her, and saw his mouth moving beneath his hat. Whatever he was saying, his words were muted by the constant pattering of the rain, and the roar of the flames.

Desert Rat motioned with his head toward the direction of the nearest building. A dismal heap of splintered wood and broken windows, which hardly seemed fit shelter from the rain.

The mare followed the drifter to the shelter. She saw a sign above the door, the word ‘TAVERN’ written in what she hoped was red paint.

The inside was just as uninviting as the outside. The tables and chairs had rotten away from years of neglect, and the floorboards were loose with rusty nails half stuck in them.
The only hint of welcome was the faint scent of cornbread baking in a pan over a tiny fire. Seated near the fire was an elderly war horse, fast asleep.

Miss Meadowbrook watched as Desert Rat magically retrieved a gold bit from his pocket, and levitated it over the counter.

The drifter glanced to the sleeping war horse.

Meadowbrook saw him briefly twitch an eyebrow at her, before he loudly slammed the coin down onto the counter.

“Huh--wh--Damn you for living, you plague dog!!” the old stallion said, as he jolted from his seat, wobbling to stay on his hooves.

“Actually, it’s a Desert Rat. And we need us some rooms for the night,” the drifter said.

“Desert--?”

The old stallion staggered forward, and fell onto his side.

Meadowbrook gasped, and rushed to help the fallen stallion. Before she took the first step, she was stopped by Desert Rat’s hoof.

The old pony’s whole side ached from the fall. From his fallen position, he turned his head, and saw two pairs of hooves before him. One belonged to an unfamiliar mare. The other was owned by a stallion he once recalled from his days on the battlefield.

“Is that you, Ke-Woh-No-Tay?” the old stallion asked.

“Who else has a face this pretty?” Desert Rat said, flashing the markings on his face.

Both chuckled heartily at the exchange, as the drifter stepped forward to help his elderly friend. No sooner did he start moving, did Miss Meadowbrook go to the fallen pony’s aid.

“I thought you said your name was Desert Rat,” Meadowbrook said, as she helped the stallion to his hooves.

“Only to you ponies,” Desert Rat said.

Meadowbrook steadied the old stallion.

“What does that mean?” she wondered.

“Nothing. At least, nothing that would mean anything to you or me,” the old stallion said, before he hobbled over to the fire. “Pull up a chair. I’ll get us some cornbread. Sorry that I don’t have any plates, though.”

Meadowbrook tried to grab a chair, only for Desert Rat to magically pull it away for himself first. Instead, she grabbed a different seat, and took her place by the tiny fire.

The old stallion took a knife in his teeth and sliced the bread three ways.

“So, are you going to tell me your friend’s name, or do I have to guess?” he said.

“I’m Mage Meadowbrook. And may I ask your name?” the mare said.

The old stallion pulled up a slice of cornbread, and served it to Meadowbrook.

“Ponies call me One Ear. Because of this,” the stallion said, removing his hat to show the source of his namesake.

Even though he had both ears, Meadowbrook gasped at the sight of how his right ear had been sliced almost completely in two down the middle, leaving a huge scar that ran alongside his mane.

“Goodness! How did that happen?” the mare asked.

“That?” One Ear said, as he served cornbread to Desert Rat. “Just an old war injury. Our so-called doctor offered treatment for me, but I turned the bastard down.”
“Treatment?” Meadowbrook wondered.

“That’s what that quack calls it,” One Ear said, as he took a massive bite of his cornbread. “In his fractured little brain, ponies that can’t be treated just need to be put down. Try as you can, you won’t find a bigger load of bullshit. He just ain’t competent enough to treat so much as a sore throat.”

“That’s terrible!” Meadowbrook said.

“That ain’t the half of it. He charges the families of the folks he puts down for the bullets he shoots.”

Meadowbrook clenched her teeth. Never before had she heard such an inhumane, unjust practice.

“Do you know what ills these ponies? Maybe, I can help them,” the mare offered.

Her ire rose when she heard One Ear scoff at her.

“Who are you supposed to be, who can cure a plague like this?” the war horse asked.

box beneath his hat. Magically, he levitated it to light on the fire, before taking a small puff.

“Miss Meadowbrook here’s a famed healer. I don’t know just how good she is, but she cured me pretty good,” the drifter answered.

The words billowed from his mouth like the puff of smoke he exhaled.

Meadowbrook looked to her company, as her mind traveled back to the pyre in the middle of town. It seemed like all odds were against her in the endeavor.

“If I can just find out what’s wrong with them, I know I can help everypony. I don’t care how long it takes, I won’t give up on them until the plague is wiped out,” the mare resolved.
A cloud of smoke blew from Desert Rat’s mouth, and into Meadowbrook’s face as he scoffed at the mare.

“And what happens if the plague wipes them out first? That little barbecue out there’s going to have to get bigger. Pony and foal, everypony here’s going to feed that fire,” the drifter said.

Meadowbrook waved the smoke out of her face, and glared at her company.

“I know it’s going to be hard! But, lives are at stake! You just said that everypony here is going to die, if nothing’s done! I have to try, don’t I?” the mare said. “First thing’s first: that doctor’s got to be brought to justice.”

For as resolute as she felt, her heart wavered when she heard her company laugh quietly at her.

“There’s no justice for ponies like him. Not the kind that lawponies dole out, anyway,” One Ear said.

Meadowbrook saw the war horse glance to Desert Rat, and looked to the drifter. Desert Rat’s eyes glinted in the faint glow of his cigarillo’s embers. The tiniest of smirks twitched on the corner of his mouth, as another cloud of smoke billowed forth.

Steps were heard outside the door.

“Speak of the devil--”

“--And the devil shall come.”

One Ear and Desert Rat said one after the other.

The front door opened, and in walked three stallions. Two of them were obviously nothing more than dumb, hired muscle. It was the third who truly stood out.

He was a tall unicorn stallion, with a grayish-yellow mane, and stark white fur. He was clad in a white longcoat, a sure testament to his profession. On the right of his collar, a single daisy was pinned. On his waist, he carried a holster with a single pistol in it.

What truly was disturbing about his appearance were the cutie mark of a skull with a top hat, and the necklace with a noble’s coat of arms on full display.

“Random follow up, One Ear! Ready to pay your tab yet?” the doctor said, as he and his bodyguards rapidly approached.

“I told you already that you’re not getting a red bit from me!” One Ear said.

“Not a red bit, huh? Well--” the pistol on the doctor’s waist was magically drawn, and placed against the war horse’s forehead, “--I’d still settle for red lead.”

“You don’t scare me, you quack.”

Meadowbrook bit her lip as she watched the scene unfold before her. Her heart stopped when she saw one of the bodyguards glance at her.

“Hey,” Desert Rat chimed in. “You want to keep that shit to a minimum? There’s a lady here.”

The doctor turned his gaze to the strangers in the room. Without taking his gun from One Ear’s head, he addressed the newcomers.

“Oh, goodness, oh my! I didn’t know One Ear was entertaining guests. Forgive my ill manners, sir and ma’am,” the doctor said.

Meadowbrook wished to run, as the doctor approached her and Desert Rat.

“You’ll forgive the gruesome sight outside, but it’s what has to be done around here to wipe out any disease. You didn’t get near those foals, did you? Chances are, those little nippers will be my next patients.”

Meadowbrook wished to strike the doctor, but feared retaliation from his goons.

A loud exhale and a cloud of smoke dre attention to the drifter.

“What’s your deal here, doc?” Desert Rat said.

“What do you mean?” the doctor asked.

“You got kids out there doing your dirty work, when it should be the medical professional taking care of the corpses. The only reason I can think of for that is that you fear this plague. And the only reason to fear it is the inability to cure it. So, what strings did you pull to get this cushy, do-nothing job?”

“Sir, if you’re insinuating what I think you are…” the doctor said, as he started toward the drifter.

Desert Rat magically levitated his cigarillo in front of the doctor’s face, stopping the unicorn in his tracks.

“Buddy,” Desert Rat began, “I’m nastier than any of you three.”

And the point was driven home, as the lit embers of the cigarillo were jammed into the eye of the doctor.

The doctor shouted loudly, as his gun fell to the floor. He thrashed violently back and forth, knocking over the chairs and tables around him.

One bodyguard tackled Desert Rat and pinned him to the floor, while the other rushed to the doctor’s aid.

“Master Moravagine! Are you okay?” the bodyguard asked, as he helped the doctor up.

The doctor answered by magically picking up a bar stool, and breaking it over his bodyguard’s head. With a blind fury, he picked up every piece of the broken stool and bludgeoned the guard with the seat, and stabbed him with the broken legs.

“Worthless! Stupid! Incompetent! You let this L.R.E. piece of shit assault me!” Doctor Moravagine shouted at the corpse.

Desert Rat smiled at the assumption that was made of him.

With one last powerful burst, Doctor Moravagine threw every piece of the broken stool at the dead bodyguard.

With a furious exhale, the doctor fixed his coat and collected his gun, before addressing his remaining bodyguard.

“I’m going to go take care of this eye! Take this dead weight to the pyre, after you’ve taught that fucker some manners!”

The remaining bodyguard simply nodded, and decided to get the message across quickly and messily by stomping Desert Rat’s muzzle, breaking his nose.

Desert Rat did nothing. He did not even wince at the blow. The bodyguard felt slightly disturbed by the altercation, and quickly left after Doctor Moravagine. But, not before dragging along his dead companion.

“Hmph. And they call me Desert Rat,” the drifter, said, as he stood up and wiped the blood from his face.

“Why did you do that?” Meadowbrook said.

“Think what you will of me, but I can’t stand ass hat’s like that doctor, and his entourage.”

Meadowbrook sighed, and set to work cleaning the drifter’s face with a cloth from her pocket.

One Ear offered his help by providing alcoholic spirits to sanitize the wound.

“If I’m going to help anypony here, I’m going to need certain herbs and flowers. Those can help suppress the symptoms, while I try to figure out what ails these ponies,” Meadowbrook said.

“In the morning. After what just happened, we all need some rest. Let me show you to your rooms,” One Ear said.

The two guests were led upstairs, and found their rooms were as dismal as the rest of the building. Only, they were smaller, and more cramped.

Meadowbrook warily eyed the beds made of straw, and the ragged blankets beside them. She was surprised to see Desert Rat smirking at the sight. Knowing him, it was the first bed he had seen in months.

Readily, the drifter fell onto the bed, and was asleep almost as soon as he hit the hay.

Morning came, and the sun fought to appear behind the dark clouds. The wind blew violently, as Meadowbrook and Desert Rat picked through a patch of wild herbs on the outskirts of town.

Hours passed, and the two ponies returned with a saddlebag full of medicinal plants.

Since she met him, Meadowbrook could not figure out Desert Rat as a pony. Now, as she trailed behind him, she began to observe him in detail.

His body was muscular, and covered in scars. Testament to the rough and intense physicality he was sure to have been in. Curiously, for a stallion his age, his flank was blank.

“It’s not polite to stare,” Desert Rat said, without turning around.

“Uh--Sorry,” Meadowbrook said. She glanced just once more at his muscular flank, “Why do they call you Desert Rat?”
The drifter was silent a moment, before answering.

“My tribe’s from the Badlands. Nothing but desert there. We lived off of anything that crawled or flew. Sometimes, we’d raid griffin or aks territory for food,” he answered. He took off his hat, revealing two long feathers tied to his mane. “See those? They’re from my first kill. Griffin the size of a minotaur tried gouging me with his talons. But, I gouged him first.”

Meadowbrook turned a slightly paler shade when the drifter touched his hoof to his pair of horns.

“Took forever to get that bird’s blood out of my eyes. But, after that, I was considered a man. Even if I was just a colt. The tribe elders gave me these marks under my eyes, and taught me the secrets of their buffalo magic. Then, after the years passed, I got sent on my warrior pilgrimage. That’s when I came to Equestria, and enlisted in the army as a scout. I was still just a colt then, so the vets all called me Desert Rat. That’s why the call me that.”

Meadowbrook said nothing, but nodded after hearing the story. It was enlightening to hear about her present company, but she felt it was more than she wanted to know.

Back in town, the pyre of corpses had grown another foot taller.

Meadowbrook quickly averted her gaze from the gruesome sight. Her mind raced to remember the recipe to make the medicine.
“Something on your mind?” Desert Rat asked.

“No. Just...What’s with that doctor? He just gave up trying to cure ponies, and now he’s killing them!” the mare answered.

Desert Rat huffed. He knew there was more to the doctor than met the eye. He knew there was another reason the doctor had for not curing ponies, and he was going to find out.
They returned to the tavern in silence, only to meet with another gruesome sight. Meadowbrook shrieked at the sight, and turned away.

Desert Rat glowered at the sight of One Ear nailed to the door of his own tavern. It did not take a closer look to seen his entrails hanging out of his open stomach cavity. That would not have been so bad, if not for the way his intestines were strung about like streamers at a party.

A ragged breath was heard. One Ear was still alive.

“Mark my grave with the saber that sliced my ear…” the war horse quietly said. “Under my bed...with the bastard’s hat...Piss on them both...It’s all he deserves…”
With one last breath, One Ear passed away.

Meadowbrook had only glanced over her shoulder when she heard the old stallion’s voice. The next thing she heard was the click of a hammer.

Desert Rat had magically drawn his two guns from his saddlebag, and readied them at his sides.

“You said you weren’t taking those,” Meadowbrook said.

“Welcome to the real world. Ponies don’t always mean what they say here,” Desert Rat answered. “Do what One Ear asked, will you? But, leave the pissing to me. First, I got some business with that doctor.”

Meadowbrook warily eyed the drifter’s guns, before Desert Rat turned to leave.

“Just wait here for me, until I get back.”

It did not take long to find the doctor. In the only building that looked well-kept, Desert Rat saw the Doctor Moravagine and his bodyguard through the second story window, which overlooked the pyre.

He checked the front door.

Unlocked.

He walked inside, and climbed the stairs. Down a hall, he knocked loudly on a door at the end.

“Answer that,” the doctor said, as he sipped his tea.

The bodyguard stomped to the door, and nearly opened it, when a volley of bullets broke through the door.

Whole chunks of the pony were blown off, and scattered around the room. Flecks of the bodyguard’s blood landed in the doctor’s teacup, which he grimaced at.
The bullets stopped, and the broken door slowly swung open, allowing Desert Rat in.

“Who says you can’t find good help these days? Of course, he did inadvertently ruin my drink,” Doctor Moravagine said, as he poured out the contents of his teacup onto the floor.
“Should have guessed you’d have your goon answer the door,” Desert Rat said, as he deliberately reloaded his weapon.

Doctor Moravagine saw what the drifter was doing, and grasped his own revolver in a thin aura.

“You know why I’m here,” Desert Rat said, more telling than asking.

“That I do. Sorry about your old friend. He’d been suffering from stomach pains, see. Unfortunately, he didn’t take to surgery too well,” the doctor said, as he produced a scalpel from his coat, and spun it on his hoof.

“Hrm…” Desert Rat grumbled at the sight of the fresh blood on the instrument. He loaded the last bullet into his revolver, and set to work on his shotgun. “What you got there’s supposed to be an instrument of healing. You’re just giving all medical folk a bad name the way you use that thing.”

“Medicine? That’s got nothing to do with my job. I just do what the Order wants,” the doctor said, as he levitated the scalpel, and mimicked dragging it across Desert Rat’s neck.
There were two loud clicks as the drifter finished loading his shotgun.

“I’m guessing that order of yours isn’t some medical board,” Desert Rat said.

“Hmph,” Doctor Moravagine huffed, as he stood up with his pistol drawn. “Tell you what: you seem like the inquisitie type, so if you beat me here, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about the Order of Death.”

“No need,” Desert Rat aimed his guns, “The name says it all.”

There was only a moment’s notice as the doctor twitched his eyebrow. In the next instant, a volley of scalpels magically flew from his coat.

Desert Rat rolled to the side, as the blades stuck into the wall behind him.

He fired both guns at where he last saw the doctor, only to see he was gone.

Doctor Moravagine had already moved to parallel his opponent, and fired his pistol.

Desert Rat rolled again, and charged forward, keeping just to the side of the doctor’s shots.

They were face to face.

Desert Rat places his shotgun on the doctor’s nose.

Doctor Moravagine leaned his neck out of the way, just as the shot was fired. He shouted loudly, as the shot rang in his ear.

The doctor fired back, just as Desert Rat dodged. He drew another scalpel from his coat, and sliced at every major artery he knew.

A point blank fight against a pony who knew the ins and outs of the body was proving disadvantageous for the drifter.

Desert Rat jumped back, and fired both his guns.

The scalpel was shot out of the air, and only the doctor’s leg was hit.

Desert Rat eyed the scalpels stuck in the wall, and quickly used his magic to pull them out.

The crippled doctor saw only a flash of metal for a second, before the many blades sliced into him. Over and over they cut into him like a swarm of angry bees, slicing off every piece of meat on him inch by inch.

As Doctor Moravagine was flayed alive, Desert Rat aimed his revolver. He carefully placed his shot, and let fly a bullet that pierced the doctor’s forehead, along with the many blades.

The force of the combined hits was enough to send him flying out the window, and onto the pyre he had reserved for everypony else.
His work was done. Now, Desert Rat had only to honor the wish of his fallen friend.

One Ear’s grave was dug, filled and marked with the saber and hat. Meadowbrook took the extra step to add a plank of wood. Only a makeshift headstone, but more proper than a weapon and a hat.

Desert Rat took his knife from his saddlebag, and carved one last goodbye.

Here lies One Ear

One tough bastard

The funeral was over. Without even taking the time to mourn, Desert Rat was done saying his farewells.

“Miss Meadowbrook,” he began, “I paid you back what I owe, so I’m heading on my way. Thanks for your help.”
And that was all he said, before leaving.

Meadowbrook said nothing, as she watched him leave. There was nothing she could think to say. All she could think was that wherever that stallion went, death was sure to follow close behind.

Author's Note

Edit by wingdingaling

MANEHATTAN GOLD PART 1

Manehattan was like a dead dog in desert heat. Full of maggots and shit. If it was up to Desert Rat he would have avoided Manehattan like the rotting carcass it was. But the bits promised for going there were too good to pass up.

When Desert Rat got off the train, he saw the half built skyscraper jutting up in the distance. Never before had he seen such a large building, and wondered why anypony needed anything more than the home-sized structures of the towns and outposts he had been to before.

As he walked through the crowded streets, the ponies around him stared curiously at him, as though they had never seen a pony from the frontier before. The drifter huffed under his breath at their sheltered nature. Beneath their ornate gowns and top hats were nothing more than a body of fluff, not fit for survival.

During his commute, Desert Rat mentally reviewed the assignment he was instructed. Find the Hoofbeat Hotel, and meet with Clear Skies. The so-called ‘noble’ who owned the very railway the drifter rode, and dozens of others. Other than that, he had no clear instruction of what to do.

After asking directions from a pair of socialites, the drifter plodded his way along to his destination.

The first thing he noticed was the overly ornate exterior, fit for only artsy types and pigeons with bowel problems. Not bothering anymore with the architecture, Desert Rat walked through the revolving glass doors.

Inside, the carpet felt of red velvet beneath the drifter’s hooves, and the walls were garishly colored with white wallpaper. So greatly did the colors clash that Desert Rat was surprised nopony needed to put on sun specs as soon as they walked in.

Desert Rat walked to the empty desk, and looked around for a clerk or a concierge. After seeing nopony of the sort, he raised his hoof and was about to slam it on the bell, before it was magically pulled away from him.

“No need for that. I’m right here,” said a green unicorn stallion, who wore a pressed suit and a well-groomed mustache. The moment he saw Desert Rat, his face changed to a disgusted grimace.

“Got a room for a tired traveler?” Desert Rat asked.

“Yes,” the concierge said. He pulled the guest book off the desk. “But, not for a half-breed.”

“How about a half-breed with a wad of cash?” the drifter said, as he levitated a roll of coins onto the counter from his pack.

“I’m afraid your money is not good here,” the clerk said, pushing away the coins.

“My money’s as good as the next pony’s. But, since you seem to be set in your ways: how about telling me which room Clear Skies is staying in?”

“There is no Clear Skies here. Good day,” the clerk said, dismissively waving off the drifter.

“Horse apples and hay seeds. Let me see that reading material of yours,” Desert Rat said, as he magically retrieved the guest book.

The clerk tried to take the book back with his own magic.

“Why, you impudent little--”

And that was all the clerk had time to say, before Desert Rat grabbed the clerk by his horn and held his head against the desk.
The drifter paid no attention to the protests of the stallion as his eyes scanned the page. There was Clear Skies, room 803. With a destination to go to, Desert Rat pushed the stallion against the wall, and walked to the lift.

“Eighth floor,” Desert Rat told the bellhop in the lift.
The teenaged colt attending the buttons looked warily at the drifter.

“Come on, kid. I never had any formal schooling, but even I can count to eight.”

Not wanting to press his luck with the rough-looking stranger, the bellhop pushed the button for the eighth floor, the doors closed, and the drifter was on his way up.

When Desert Rat reached eight floor, he walked down the carpeted hallway toward the third room from the end.

The moment he reached the door, something was amiss. The door itself was opened slightly, as though somepony had intentionally left it so. Warily, he approached the door and softly opened it.

Nothing was heard inside. Either somepony inside was expecting him, or they already left, and anypony still inside was dead.

The drifter slowly walked into the room, and found nothing at all amiss. The bed was made. The floor was spotless. And there were no dead bodies to be found.

On a nearby table, there was the only thing that seemed out of place. A briefcase that was placed wide open, revealing the contents within.
Desert Rat investigated the case, and found only papers inside. Each paper was a series of dates and times, followed by a brief text describing what happened that day. Likely, it was somepony’s business log.

“Awful rude, lookin’ through somepony’s belongings, don’t you think?” said a hoarse, smokey voice behind Desert Rat.

The drifter turned his head, and saw that three more ponies had entered the room. Two of them were solar empire guards. The third was a much older business pony. A pegasus whose noble attire was greatly contrasted by his rough worker’s face.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m just cleaning up. Management hasn’t got me my uniform yet” Desert Rat said.

“Don’t be smart with me, boy! You better have a damn good reason for bustin’ into my room,” the pegasus said, as the guards behind him readied to draw their weapons.

“You saying this is your room? Then, you must be Clear Skies,” the drifter said.

For a moment, the pegasus was silent as he registered what was said to him.

“And I guess you’re Desert Rat,” he said.

“You got it,” the drifter answered.

With that revelation, the guards released their hold on their weapons.

“Sorry for busting in like this, but the door was open. Thought you might have met with a sour business deal,”Desert Rat said.

“Can’t say there’s any shortage of ponies lookin’ to off me. But, no. I just stepped out to get some ice,” Clear Skies chuckled, as he revealed the large bucket of ice on his back. “Pull up a chair, son. Let’s talk business while the wine cools.”

One of the guards magically retrieved a chair for Clear Skies to sit on at the nearby table. The other took the bucket of ice and placed the bottle of wine he was carrying into it.

Desert Rat used his own magic to pull up his own seat to the table. Once he was seated, he magically retrieved a cigarillo from his pocket.

Clear Skies watched, as a match magically levitated from Desert Rat’s pocket, struck, and applied to the smoke.

“Know what’s funny: the books say you’re a unicorn,” the pegasus said.

“I didn’t know I was wanted,” the drifter said.

“Not law books. Literature. Here,” Clear Skies said, as he retrieved a small, hundred page novella from inside his coat.

Desert Rat puffed on his cigarillo as he eyed the cover. The title was Equestria Frontier Tales, and the cover illustration depicted a brown unicorn who was levitating a smoking gun over a dead stallion.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” the drifter said, before he started flipping through the pages of the book.

“Flattered? Most stallions would kill to have their name remembered in a book of folk tales. Shame nopony will ever remember me fifty years from now,” Clear Skies chuckled. “‘Course, the stallions in these books are all the adventurin’ types. Outlaws and cow punchers. Who wants to hear about an old business stallion like me?”

Desert Rat glanced up from his book. The tone of the older stallion rang to him like a bell. Everything about the look of the pegasus was a contradiction, from his cleanly combed mane, to his rough, chipped hooves.

“You’re not just a business stallion, are you?” the drifter asked.
“You got me,” Clear Skies conceded. “There was a time when I was a lot like you. Going from town to town, trying to find my place in the world. Except, I was no gun for hire. I was a prospector.”

“Tomb raider?” Desert Rat asked, as he blew forth another cloud of smoke onto the pages of his book.

“I prefer ‘treasure hunter,’ myself,” Clear Skies chuckled. “Regardless of what you call me, I ended up findin’ my fortune and used it to build me my railroad empire.”

Desert Rat chuckled in turn.

“Sounds like you could fill two books with your exploits. And two more, if you add any embellishments,” the drifter said, as he closed the book.

“Oh? Are you sayin’ that you never shot the Two Gun Colt?” Clear Skies asked.

“Psh…” Desert Rat scoffed, as he closed the book and slid it back across the table. “No, I shot the guy. I just didn’t do it for the honor of the mare he was engaged to. I shot him because he was a lousy card cheat. And he was never engaged to anypony, far as I know.”

Both stallions shared a hearty laugh at the anecdote. But, they had spent enough time idling, and Clear Skies decided it was time to get to business.

“Anyhoo, it’s precisely my found fortune that brings you here today,” the pegasus continued.

“Yeah? You want me to guard it for you?” the drifter asked.

“No. I want you to get it back for me.”

Desert Rat leaned back in his seat, awaiting the explanation.

“What I need is for you to track down a chest of gold bars. A small part of my fortune, but a valuable and sentimental one to me. For your trouble, you will receive one hundred gold bits, and any compensations for your expenses,” the pegasus said.

Desert Rat blew another cloud of smoke.

“Make it one fifty plus expenses. And another one fifty when the job’s done,” the drifter said.

The guards glared contemptuously at Desert Rat. However, Clear Skies simply smiled.

“A stallion of principle, I see. Alright. It’s only a drop in the bucket to me,” he said. “Now, the gold was taken by one of my soon-to-be ex-business partners. A guy by the name of Rail Spike. Can’t miss him. He’s the only pony in the world with a face like a quarry eel. And I can tell you for sure that he’s still in the city.”

“Anything else I should know?” the drifter asked.

“Yes. This isn’t confirmed, but he’s believed to have employed the Black Hoof Syndicate for his protection.”

Desert Rat had not even finished his cigarillo, but put it out on the cover of the book on the table.

“That might add another hundred to the price,” the drifter said. “How many gold bars am I looking for?”

“Twelve. One for each bandit I had to off to get them,” Clear Skies answered.

Desert Rat smirked at the recollection. He had heard this story before. Not from any book, but from an elderly minotaur he met once. About a young prospector who had faced off against a dozen of the land’s most notorious bandits in Dustbelly Canyon, and lived to tell the tale. But, not before taking their treasure for himself.

“Tell me: was picking up a harpy and impaling them on a cactus just an embellishment?” Desert Rat asked.

“‘Fraid so. I shot that sucker out of the air, plain and simple. That bird was dead before he landed on that cactus,” Clear Skies said, smiling at the memory. “That sucker never saw that succulent coming.”

Again, both ponies shared a laugh at the memory. Desert Rat magically took the bottle of wine from the ice bucket, and poured two glasses.

“Here’s to our embellishments,” Desert Rat said.

“May we never be ordinary stallions,” Clear Skies agreed.

Both stallions drank from their glasses. While Clear Skies slowly sipped his, Desert Rat downed his in one gulp. He placed his glass on the table, and walked for the door.

“I want him alive, Desert Rat. Even if just barely,” Clear Skies said, without turning away from his drink.

Taking the hint, the drifter left to complete his newest objective.

Author's Note

edit by

wingdingaling

MANEHATTAN GOLD PART 2

The Black Hoof Syndicate was a mystery. And anypony around town only knew vague rumors of the group.

From the moment he accepted the job, Desert Rat knew it was going to be one of the toughest he ever took on.

He went over a mental checklist of objectives. The first would be to find somepony who knew anything that was remotely true about the Black Hoof Syndicate. And the place to look for them would be among the dregs of ponykind.

As luck would have it, one of them was staggering toward him at that very moment. A stallion with a red nose that stood out greatly against his yellow coat stumbled his way down the sidewalk, crumpling the suit he wore when he bumped into a gas lamp.

“Sorry...Do begg’r pard’n ma’am…” he slurred, politely lifting his hat. He looked puzzled at the hat in his hoof, “Oh look...Somepony’s lost th’r hat…”

“I’ll take that, if you don’t want it,” Desert Rat said, as he casually sauntered up to the drunk.

“You...Somethi’g so fine isnnnn’t fit for a pony so f’lthy…”

“Look who’s talking,” Desert Rat rebutted, “I’m looking for a good place to get shitfaced myself. Any suggestions?”

“Ah yes...I just happn’d t’ come...from th’ F. U. Bar down in the Five Points...A most reput...ble drinkery for the finest bl...blood…Not that you’ve got any of that, half-breed…”

The drunk keeled over, laughing at his own verbal jab, before he vomited profusely in the gutter.

“Pure blood alright. Pure alcohol,” Desert Rat said, before he passed the stallion and tripped him so that he landed face first into his own sick.

The five points was a place where all the major races shared their living space, instead of being separated into different burroughs and districts. There, tensions ran high as griffons, zebras, dragons, cats and ponies all broke out into fights as the slightest offense. And after only minutes of asking around, Desert Rat was able to find his way to the F. U. Bar at the very heart of the Five Points.

The outside of the bar gave the impression of a simple, yet welcoming establishment, given the polished oak door and the giant window that allowed the drifter to see inside to the many patrons. The only thing that contradicted the welcoming atmosphere was the name of the bar, which was scratched into the window as if by a large blade.

All was quiet as Desert Rat walked inside. The atmosphere was just as welcoming as it had let on, as the patrons all spoke in hushed murmurs to one another. However, if one listened closely, one would hear all manner of devious plots being concocted, from robberies to gang fights.

Interestingly, or perhaps depressingly, there was a police officer fast asleep at the bar. And he was paying for his negligence, as a young colt was picking his pockets for all he was worth.

The colt ran out the door when Desert Rat took his seat next to the officer. After the colt had gone, the drifter nudged his company awake.

“Hurrr…” the officer groaned.

“Sleeping on the job in the Five Points? I hear tell there’s no rest for the wicked. Good thing for them, since law and order needs so many breaks,” Desert Rat said.

“Don’t tell me how to do me feckin’ job, ya skirt-wearin’ poodle hump! T’e day a no account desert rat contributes to law an’ order in t’e city is t’e day I sprout wings from me bum!” the officer said, as he ambled to the door, cursing all the while to nopony in particular. “Feckin’ foals pickin’ me loike an apple tree in autumn again! I’ll have their balls marinatin’ in a shark tank for this!!”

Desert Rat paid no mind, and dropped a gold bit onto the table.

“Hey, barkeep. Got a bottle of whiskey for a thirsty traveller?” he called.

The barkeep, a donkey with a grey mane, grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him and delivered it to Desert Rat.

Before he could collect his payment, the drifter covered the coin with his hoof.

“I also need some information. About the Black Hoof Syndicate,” he said.

The barkeep scoffed quietly, and motioned with his ears to the side.

Desert Rat looked to the indicated direction, and saw a single griffin, who was the size of a young dragon, sitting alone in a booth by the corner. Only, he was not alone.

The reason for the barkeep’s silence became apparent, as Desert Rat became aware of the presence of many other griffins who were seated at the bar and the other booths around the establishment. Each one of them glancing around the room, as they pretended to focus on their drinks, or the company with them.

After silently assessing them, Desert Rat magically picked up his whiskey bottle and carried it with him as he walked across the room.

The vigilant eyes of the many griffins caught the lone pony, who was walking as if he hadn’t a care in the world right toward their gigantic leader.

Some of them turned in their seats. Others stood up and slowly started closing in on the brazen drifter.

Desert Rat took his seat across from the oversized griffin, who quickly looked up from his own drink.

“What do you want, half-breed?” the griffin asked, in a deep voice.

“Nothing much. Just rumors, really,” Desert Rat said.

“Then beat it. Before I send you out of here a leg short.”

“But, I’m just so curious to know anything about the Black Hoof Syndicate.”

For the hushed murmurs that were present, the following silence was barely noticeable.

Many moments passed. Until the silence was broken by the griffin.

“What do you know about the Black Hoof Syndicate?”

“Nothin’ much,” Desert Rat replied. “But, I hear they pay good money for griffin pelts.”

“You’re not scaring anypony, drifter. I’ll tell you this much, though: the less you know about the Black Hoof Syndicate, the better. So, butt out and mind your own business,” the griffin said.

“Under normal circumstances, I might listen to you. Except, I got the best paying job I’ve had in a long time to finish. And I need to take on the Black Hoof to do it.”

The entire bar erupted with laughter, as if a joke had been told to the entire establishment.

Desert Rat ignored the sound, and simply drank from his whiskey bottle. By the time he finished, the laughter had stopped, and he put his drink back down.

“Listen,” the drifter began, “I really do hate to intrude on your time. But, I have a job to do. And I’m going nowhere, until you tell me what I want to know.”

“You’re leaving when I want you to,” the griffin said, gesturing to his cronies.

“Doesn’t matter how many goons you send. I’m gonna hear what I want to know one way or another,” Desert Rat said, not even glancing to his side.

As if an eye had been blinked, and changed the fabric of existence, Desert Rat’s bottle of whiskey smashed over the head of the griffin’s henchman that was closest to him.

The underling reeled backwards, and the broken bottle was jammed into the arm of the one next to him.

Desert Rat jumped from his seat, just as he saw a gun being drawn by another griffin.

He magically grabbed a barstool and swung it into the back of the griffin, forcing him to sit.

The griffin fired his gun the moment he was hit, missing Desert Rat completely and putting a hole in one of the walls.

Desert Rat magically yanked the stool from beneath him and used it to hit another griffin who was reaching for his weapon. He then broke the stool over the head of the griffin who had been forced to sit on it.

Sensing danger behind himself, the drifter drew his sawed-off, thrusted it backwards and fired.

The mouth of the barrel had rested directly against the chest of a griffin who had his own gun aimed at Desert Rat, and went flying across the room the moment the drifter fired.

The giant griffin had enough. He was going to end it himself, and drew a repeater rifle the size of a small cannon from under the table. Before he even had a chance to fire, the barrel of Desert Rat’s dragoon jammed into his beak.

“You got four injured and one dead. I can easily take them all out, and you with them. So, what’s it gonna be?” Desert Rat said.

The griffin looked at the gun that was pressed into his face, and weighed it against the gun he had pointed at the drifter. All he had to do was squeeze. But, if his opponent fired first…

“Alright. There’s a gambling den on 51st street. Check around there for anything you want to know,” the griffin said.

It was not what Desert Rat wanted to hear, but he at least had some semblance of a lead. And with a huff, he left the bar.

The giant griffin watched him go, debating whether or not to shoot him in the back. He knew that one would only turn their back on an armed enemy if they were either very dumb, or were completely certain of their ability defend themselves from any attack. After seeing what the drifter had done, he was certain of it too.

51st street wasn’t far from the F. U. Bar. After only walking a few streets over, Desert Rat found his way to his destination. After the first few steps down the sidewalk, he kept his ears open for the usual sounds of gambling revelry.

In the distance, he heard the distinct shout of victory coming from a building that looked like a cheap hotel. Behind him, he caught a smell of cheap tobacco.

“Been following me since the F. U., have you?” Desert Rat said, as he turned around and looked down to see the very same colt who had been picking the police officer’s pocket earlier.

The colt, a unicorn with a white coat, spotted with yellow, and a loosely rolled cigarette in his mouth, stood tall and proud as he presented himself.

“Yeah. But, it’s not like I want anything you got. I just want to know something,” the colt said.

“What’s that?”

“Are you Desert Rat? Because you look a hell of a lot like the hero from the pulps. But, the books say you’re a unicorn.”

For the second time that day, Desert Rat rolled his eyes at the notion of being wildly distorted by folk depictions.

“Yeah, it’s me. But, as you can see, I ain’t no unicorn,” he said, lifting his cavalry hat to reveal his two horns. “Now, how about you. I gave you my name. So, it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

Once again, the foal presented himself proudly.

“Name’s Lucky. Best pickpocket this side of the Manehattan!,” he boasted.

“Best pickpocket, eh?” Desert Rat dismissively huffed. “Is that really true? Or is that just an embellishment you came up with after only choosing marks that are sleeping?”

“Aw, suck a gutter. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You watch me at the derby. I can get away with a bigger haul than any of the pigeons bettin’ on any races,” Lucky said.

“We’ll see if your bragging holds up. I might need a pickpocket where I’m going,” the drifter said.

“Really? Where?” Lucky said, with an undertone of eager enthusiasm.

“Gambling den. Somewhere over there. I’m looking for a pony who might know where another pony’s hiding.”

“And that was worth making enemies with the screaming eagles over?”

Desert Rat huffed lowly, and went toward the direction of the noise he heard earlier. Behind him, Lucky trotted after.

“Eagles only scream before they die. I’m not too worried about making enemies,” Desert Rat said.

Though the outside of the gambling den looked cheap, the inside was deceptively well-furnished. Complete with a fountain in the middle of its dimly lit game floor.

Paying no mind to the bouncer at the front, Desert Rat walked in with Lucky close in tow.

Shortly after entering, the bouncer quickly left his post to stop the two newcomers.

“A half-breed’s money is worth just as much as everypony else’s. I don’t see any reason for trouble,” Desert Rat said.

“Not you. The colt. No foals allowed,” the bouncer said, pointing to Lucky.

“Ya can’t throw me out. I’m his good luck charm,” Lucky said.

“Read the sign, punk,” the bouncer said, indicating a sign on the wall. “No weapons. No minors. No good luck charms. Between the two of you, you violate all three rules.”

Across the way, a cat in a freshly pressed pinstripe suit and top hat noticed the trouble by the door. It wasn’t so much the situation that attracted his attention, so much as the pony involved in it. If it was who he thought it was, he knew he was in for a greater profit than he was already fleecing the house for.

With a devilish glint in his eye, he walked forward.

“I’m not asking you again: get the hell out!” the bouncer said demanded.

“I ain’t too keen about listening to scrubs like you. I’m walking in here, whether you like it or not,” Desert Rat replied.

Lucky recoiled when Desert Rat and the bouncer both drew their guns.

“Well, tar and feather me, and call me a turkey. Is that Ke-Woh-No-Tay? I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” said a voice.

Desert Rat looked and saw the well-dressed cat quickly approaching. A familiar black tabby from a steamboat robbery some time back in New Horsleans.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you for hours. How’d ya get here? By way of Prance?” the cat turned to the bouncer, “Thanks for doing your job and all, but these fine gents are with me. I’ll let this little incident slide, so long as you don’t hold up my appointments anymore.” He turned back to Desert Rat, “Come along, friends. Let me take you to my private booth.”

That was the end of the altercation. Desert Rat defiantly holstered his guns, and he and Lucky followed after the cat.
“Friend of yours?” Lucky asked.

“Hardly. Doc Furaday’s a professional gambler by trade. Last time we saw each other, he cheated me out of half my pay for the bounty he had almost no hand in,” Desert Rat answered.

“He stinks like hell!”

“Guy’s a niphead. He says those catnip cigs he smokes are for his cat scratch fever. But, I ain’t seen him have so much as a sniffle since I met him.”

“Is it true he took twenty magnum slugs to the gut?”

“It was one shot with a derringer. In the tail. I know, ‘cause I’m the one who shot him.”

The two ponies followed Doc to his private booth, which was immediately attended to by a waiter.

“Prompt service, sport. I like that. Get me and my associates a bottle each of your finest wine within the minute, and I’ll quadruple your tip,” Doc said.

“You got it!” the waiter eagerly said, before he ran off.

“Winning big, huh?” Desert Rat said, as he lit up a cigarillo.

“And how!” Doc Furaday said, as he presented the contents of a gigantic sack of cash. “Far be it from me to be stingy. Spend as much as you like on whatever you want here. Fine dining. Entertainment. Female company. It’s all on me.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lucky said, taking a hoofful of coins and presenting them to a passing whore.

The mare scoffed slightly at the sight of a colt, who could not have been more than thirteen years old, but was not about to pass up a paying customer.

“This is where I stop being a colt,” Lucky said, with a lustful enthusiasm.

The mare laughed at him.

“Honey, you’re not going to stop being a colt for a long, long time. But, for the time being, you and me can talk about what it takes to get there,” she said, before leading Lucky to an empty table.

“Since when is Desert Rat, famed bounty hunter, a foalsitter?” Doc Furaday asked.

“Since about three minutes ago. Met the kid outside the den. Says he’s a pickpocket,” Desert Rat answered, taking a puff on his cigarillo.

“Ha! And they say I make a dishonest living. Taking a pickpocket to a gambling den? What’s next? Poison to a horse race?” Doc laughed. “So, tell me: what brings the scourge of frontier no-goodniks to the big city?”

“Got a new job. One that’s paying real big,” Desert Rat said.

He had said the right word. Doc Furaday’s brow rose slowly, and a smirk crawled onto the corner of his mouth.

“Ya don’t say. How much?” Doc asked.

“Sorry. I don’t say.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Doc said, with only a hint of disdain. “Can you at least tell me the nature of a job that takes you all the way to my neck of the woods?”

“I’m looking for a pony. A guy called Rail Spike. He’s pissed off a lot of creatures around here. And I’m findin’ him,” Desert Rat said.

“Must be a real high roller to pay enough to haul you out of the dust.”

“He’s not. But, he’s got the Black Hoof Syndicate backin’ him up.”

Doc Furaday paused for just a moment.

“Well...That’s a real high stake venture, right there. So, what’s the plan? Find one of the Black Hooves, and ask them where this Rail Spike is hiding?” he asked.

“More or less,” Desert Rat answered.

Doc Furady could not stop laughing at what he heard. But, he stopped the moment the waiter arrived.

“Your drinks,” he said, sweating slightly.

Doc took a pocket watch from his coat and examined the time.

“Fifty-seven seconds. Not bad, sport. Here. As promised. And take one of these bottles to the colt at the booth behind me,” he said, shoving over the waiter’s massive tip.

The waiter eagerly took the money, ready to retire early from the sheer amount. After stuffing his pockets, he delivered the bottle to Lucky, who was the only colt sitting at a table full of mares, each one offering their advice about how to treat a lady.

“That little shit’s going straight to the races after this,” Desert Rat said, as he watched the waiter skip off.

“When he does, I’ll be right there to profit off of his losses,” Doc said. “Anyhoo, how exactly do you plan to get the Black Hoof to tell you where this Rail Spike fellow is?”

“Simple,” Desert Rat said, smirking as a cloud of smoke enveloped his face, “I’ll ask ‘em real nicely.”

Author's Note

Edit by https://www.fimfiction.net/user/209410/wingdingaling