Chapter 1
Follow the Rails
William Colley swayed gently on the ridge. The stallion beneath him stood firm in the midday breeze, only occasionally shifting a hoof as it delicately balanced on the crumbling sandstone.
William’s hand absentmindedly drifted to rub against his mounts powerful shoulder, his focus on the filthy lens of the spyglass he was currently rubbing against his tunic. The weathered brass was discolored and corroded, it's once vibrant naval finish now a dull matte. Countless nicks and dents along the case betrayed the years it had jostled through the desert.
William buried his face into the crook of his elbow, dragging the appendage downwards. He grasped the other end of the spyglass with the unoccupied hand, a warm dampness soaking into his sleeve. He spun the spyglass until the lens reached skyward, squinted one eye, and gently tilted the device to hunt for any imperfection.
Any imperfection beyond the ever present slight chips and scratches, that is. He’d really have to think about getting a new lens the next time he traveled home.
Not that he had any idea when that would be. Mary was with her parents, he knew. They hadn’t kept in touch as well as some other families, but when she needed them they’d been there. William knew it had been hard on her. She had taken the loss much worse than he, that much was clear. Maybe it would have been different if it had been a son, or maybe it was just the distance.
So much distance.
Arizona was a vast territory. Even after working the hills and cliffs for nearly a decade, he could still hardly comprehend scope of the land, the idea that beyond the next hill there lay another, and another beyond that. It simply kept going.
Even before he truly dove into his work, he had missed so much. He had only seen the girl three or four times. Every time he left, he would miss so much. When he first hit the trail, she had been a wee babe, not four months old. The next time they met, she was nearly two.
Satisfied, he plucked his hat from were it rested on the saddle horn, the shade of its brim a welcome relief. Outside the reach of the sun, the breeze caressing his glistening face almost felt cool.
God, was it hot.
Arizona was hot country, to be sure, but the past few days had truly been remarkable.
He shuddered, thanking god that it at least had the mercy to bring this hunt towards the foot of the mountains. He saw them in the distance- great fists punching into the sky, seemingly erupting from the neigh endless scrubland.
William knew he wasn’t up that high, as the wisps of soft white on the faraway peaks revealed. But it was easily twenty degrees cooler here than it was in town; even then he was cooler than the boys working near the border. The tall cacti were far less frequent here, as well; another gift, William supposed. He never did take too kindly to dodging the towering plants.
He squinted, glancing at the sun.
‘bout ten. Should be any minute.
He pressed the spyglass against his eye, the sun-warmed brass singing his eyebrows. He peered through the glass and scanned the landscape, the small cacti and endless rocks and patches of scrubgrass melding together as he quickly panned along the pass.
A brief flash of grey cut through the desert. William grinned. The tracks. Noting where they lay, he rested his spyglass between his legs. He pawed at the saddlebag which hung near his knee, extricating a leather vessel and three crumpled sheets of paper, sweaty hands dragging small streaks of ink across the forms. He pressed the vessel against his mouth, threw his head back, and allowed the refreshing liquid to spill down his throat.
He inspected the three papers. “WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE” they read. Two men and a woman. 22, 26, and 19. All white, although some witnesses say the girl might have some chinamen in her. Brothers and a wife, if he wasn’t mistaken. Not that it mattered. He didn’t much care to think of their relationships. The lines below the drawings told William all he needed to know. “SABOTAGE--TRAIN ROBBERY--KIDNAPPING--MURDER”
He didn’t feel it, nor did he hear it. His stallion, though, started as a dust cloud materialized down the pass. He sighed, both excited and exhausted. He had been after these three for nearly two weeks. He hadn’t slept in almost two days.
He lifted the brim of his hat, wiping his brow once more before cramming his effects back into place. He reached behind the saddlebag, undid a snap, and pulled free his trusty ‘76. He had yet to see a rifle that shot as far and as straight as she did. She was old, nearly as old as he, but had gotten him out of more scrapes than he cared to recall.
As the first rider broke into his field of view, their youthful shouts echoed through the hills, the gang hooting with delight as they tore along the tracks.
Wonderful he thought they musta’ just hit a stagecoach.
No matter. Today was the day he would finally take them. Tomorrow, he could head for home. It was only a day or so ride, and he had been gone nearly three years. Surely he could slip away for a few weeks.
He shook his head, wiping his soggy left hand on his trousers before firmly gripping the weapon. He spoke softly to his stallion as he stood straight in his stirrups, squeezing steady with his knees. As he rose, he threw the rear of the gun towards himself, his rigid fingers quickly cycling the weapon’s lever, pressing a .45-75 round firmly into the chamber. He drew a bead on the lead horse, tracking him across the rails, instinctively making minute adjustments for range and wind and speed.
Time seemed to crawl as every element clicked into position. His finger brushed against the trigger, the hammer fell, and lead erupted from its 26” prison. A fraction of a second later, and a loud whiny filled the canyon as the lead horse tumbled, rolling in a heap atop its rider. William wracked the lever, clattering metal flinging the smoking shell to the side and wrenching another round into position.
The younger man looked back to see what was happening. He desperately scanned the hills, locking momentarily on William as the sun reflected against the star on Williams jacket. The man leaned back, gesturing towards the woman, encouraging her forward. The pair flicked their reigns, ducking low as a round crackled mere inches past the woman’s head, the resounding boom of the shot following only millisecond later.
William frowned, quickly snapping his rifle back into place. He grasped the reigns in his left, tugging just once to be sure he had them properly gathered. He fell to his rump, let out a holler, and dug his spurs into his mount.
As the stallion effortlessly dodged prickly pear and tore down the grade, William grasped the iron at his hip. Even at a full gallop, the motion was fluid- his father made sure he had learn to draw as soon as he could ride- as the .44 cleared leather. He leaned slightly to the right, aimed, and fired. The round went low, a small cloud of dust erupting into the air before being dissolved by the thunder of hooves.
The pair glanced back in surprise, each scrambling to draw their own revolver. The woman glanced back, noticed that he was drawing nearer.
Six shots. They each had six, and they knew it. Not even William could reload while running a horse that fast.
The man swapped hands, letting the reins briefly go limp as he took the gun in his left hand. His body spun, his eyes burning with a hatred that only came when faced with the killer of a loved one.
William buried his chin in the horses mane, blinking furiously, fighting the strands of fur and clouds of dust that collected in his eyes. The woman pressed her elbow into her stomach, wrapped her arm around her torso, and blindly fired. William rode low, sliding slightly down the horse’s barrel as he stretched his gun forward.
The chase carried on for several minutes, every half minute or so another trying to take a shot. The occasional crack of gunfire an occasional harsh staccato, quickly forgotten against the rolling thunder of the galloping steeds.
William pressed the trigger twice in quick succession. The two rounds arced through the air, one whistling past the womans head, the other ripping through the bones in her right shoulder. She let out a sharp cry as the bullets blasted through her clavicle, her dress staining a deep crimson as a fine mist peppered her jaw. Her gun hand went limp and the weapon spilled into the desert, mangled beneath the charging hooves of William’s horse.
She shuddered and her horse began to waver, unsure of what it had been commanded to do.
The man spun again and unloaded his pistol in William's general direction. William, anticipating the turn, slid to the other side of the horse. If a bullet was to hit, he didn’t intend to be the one to take it.
And he didn’t.
Instead, as one of the rounds tore through the forward strap of his saddle and behind his horses lung, he dropped from his low hanging stance, plummeting towards the desert floor.
William didn’t even have time to process what had happened. He hadn’t realized that he was being dumped below his own horse. The ground met his head, and everything suddenly went black.
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Any stiffness, any control, it was all gone. In the blink of an eye, William had become little more than a doll or a piece of meat. His frame twisted and tore across the ground. The sandstone cut gashes across his hands and face, cacti buried their burs into his palm. A terrified whiny filled the valley as the pained horse tripped over his rolling form, stomping to a stop and rearing back, the oppressive weight sliding from it’s back to the dust.
Trailing blood and breathing hard, the horse made a blind sprint back through the pass.
A small trickle of blood oozed from Williams mouth, the droplet worming its way through the creases in the corners of his lips, the warm liquid quickly dissolving into the thirsty earth.
Williams sprawled in the scrub just beyond the tracks. Several thousand yards behind him, a young man breathed a final rattle, his lungs collapsing as his eyes bulged from above his twisted neck.
The clock continued to turn, the sun arced across the sky, and there the bodies lay. The carrion began to gather, sharp beaks wrenching flesh from the boy and the horse.
William’s body shuddered, wrenched, and inhaled the dusty air. The gnats began to chew on his exposed neck, and the crows which had gathered meal startled back into the sky.
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William could vaguely distinguish sandstone. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes of invading debris. The effort made him painfully aware of more sandstone, facial muscles and skin singing as embedded shards ground deeper into his wounds.
He was convinced that his skull had shrunk, or his brain had swollen, or both. He was convinced that a bird sat on his neck, pecking at his skull, every thud launching shockwaves deep into his eyes.
He groaned, dry lips nearly audibly cracking as he maneuvered his face. His tongue flew about his mouth, the scratchy surface like sandpaper against his gums, nearly clinging to his tacky teeth.
He left arm was flung far from his body. If the sharp pinpricks of pain were anything to go by, his hand rested among a patch of ‘pears. With a shallow breath, he dragged his hand near him, his elbow thrusting into the sky.
The simple motion made him feel as though he was being split in two. As his muscles wrenched his appendage across the ground, a pain spidered across his chest. He couldn’t breathe. It hurt too badly. Every attempt felt like a small knife being thrust. He began to pant, his body struggling between the instinct to inhale and trying to avoid the biting pain.
He clenched his jaw, grinding the tombstones against each other. An incisor chipped.
Slowly the pain dulled and his breathing steadied. He grunted, steeled his nerve. In one swift motion, he thrust his hand into the earth and rolled himself over. The pain screamed through his being, wrapping its way through his chest and into his lungs, escaping from his windpipe, incapable of stifling his yelp.
Once again, he lost his breathing.
A steady whine built in his ears, the shrill cry growing louder in volume and steeper in pitch, as the world shrunk around him. Every swell of an artery felt like a prizefighter's fist against his side. His head thumped, the blazing sun slicing into his skull with no regard paid to his clenched eyelids. Rivulets ran through the layer of dust on his face, as he once again broke into a furious sweat.
Slowly, the pain began to ebb. Williams panted, slowly willing his eyes open. Besides him, a spotless run of rail disappeared over the horizon, stretching endlessly in both directions. Familiar scrublands greeted him, scraggly bushes, small cacti, and large rocks covering the rolling hills. The mountains seemed larger, clearer. He shook his head, his vision swimming with the sudden movement. Despite their apparent growth, the mountains were capped in a bleak grey, the peak marked by the end of a run of thick trees and the beginning of smooth stone.
A breeze wafted down the line, cooling his sweat. He sniffed the wind, glanced at the sun. Should be about 3. The breeze carried with it a faint chill, the previously sweltering desert now only a slightly uncomfortable warmth. William focused again on the mountain, sure now that it had even changed shape in the last few hours.
He turned his head, ignoring the grating of his spine as he searched the ground around him. He lay elevated on a small mound of rocks, the distinctive red Arizona sandstone built up a foot above the ground, nearly level with the rails. On closer inspection, the landscape seemed far more… tan… than it should have been. The ground spoke far more to Southern California than the rich red on which he sprawled.
He spun, his eyes clawing over the land, searching. At the edge of the mound his saddle lay crumpled, its baggage flung in every direction. Crumpled paper spilled from an opened pouch, each gust of wind carrying a piece or two down the tracks. He saw a faint glint of metal, and a painful grin cut into his face. He didn’t even notice as the cracks in his lips pulled wider, the faint smear of blood slowly spilling into his mouth.
He flopped to his side, the rippling pain kept away from the ground. He dragged his knees through the dust, slowly grunting, and pulled himself to his knees. He leaned over, intending to stand, only to stumble.
He seized a waterskin, frantically pulling it towards his parched lips, wrenching off the cap and throwing back his head. A few drops of moisture graced his tongue as William squeezed the pouch. His hand shook as he slowly let it fall from his lips, noticing the cactus firmly embedded in its side, the slightly darker earth were it had lain the only proof of what it once contained. William gritted his teeth and groaned in frustration, tossing the waterskin away.
His eyes suddenly lit, his shaky hands scrambling through the larger pouches on the saddles rear, his scarred fingers brushing against smooth glass. William let out a relieved chuckle, lofting a small vial into the sun, inspecting the powder within. He had gotten the vials from the Doc in Fort Whipple, to help with his toothache. The problem had taken care of itself later that week in a tavern brawl, when the offending tooth found itself buried beneath the floorboards of some seedy establishment in some nameless hamlet along the line.
He poured the grains into his palm, placed the powder onto his tongue, the last drips from his abandoned waterskin providing just enough moisture to help the powder dissolve. He let himself fall back to the earth, the saddle serving as a temporary pillow as the opium burst into his bloodstream. He lay there for a half hour, the pain nearly forgotten.
He pulled himself to his feet, and once again took stock of his surroundings. He focused again on the mountain foliage.
“Musta rode way further north than I thought.”
He shook his head, and began to search, lifting clouds of dust with his boot tip as he pawed at the ground. His boot shifted something heavy. He squatted down, smiling as he pulled his revolver from the ground. He filled his lungs, cringing slightly at the discomfort that still rippled from his chest, and blew the dust from the trusty gun. He hit the cylinder, blowing debris from the action and chambers, before clawing spent shells from the weapon and feeding a fresh round into each slot from his belt. He spun the cylinder, satisfied, and flicked it back into place before sliding the .44 back onto his thigh.
He wandered back to his saddle, and began the laborious process of transferring the most important articles to his person. He pulled the length of rope typically used to restrain horses or hogtie criminals and fashioned a second belt, securing his bulging pouches. He pulled his rifle from the ruined leather, reloaded, and slung it onto his back.
He was still so thirsty.
He approached a particularly thick prickly pear, yanked his old Indian knife from its sheath, and carefully scraped away the spines. He pulled it from the others, sliced into the cacti’s meat, and suckled the sweet nectar from its' innards. He smiled, life coursing through him, invigorated by the water.
Temporarily satisfied, he climbed to his feet and stared down the railroad. Mentally flipping a coin, he turned to his right, and the crunch of gravel sounded as he trod along the tracks.
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The muffled rattling of metal spilled from one of Williams pouches as the ranger faltered. He stumbled, tripping over a larger stone that had been obscured by the soft morning light. William swore, righted himself, and trudged on.
He had walked through the night, fighting his mounting exhaustion as the moon arced overhead. His brain shut down, his whole existence engaged in dragging one foot in front of the other.
The trip had gone fairly well for the first several hours. Between the powder and the cactus water, he felt as good as ever. As the opium wore off, his chest began to throb. He wanted to stop, to crawl away from the tracks, to enjoy the growing night betrayed by the swirling oranges and reds and violets above.
But Williams knew that would be suicide. The desert was a land of extremes; by day, a sweltering inferno, by night, a frigid wasteland swarmed with predatory beasts and prowling Indians. Unable to start a fire and too injured to maintain one, he knew he would be offering himself to hypothermia and wildlife. Especially as far north as he seems to have ridden, given how comfortable midday had been.
So he stopped, stepped from the tracks, and palmed more powder. It had worked wonders, of course, but he needed to keep moving. With a few taps he added an extra dose of the medicine, tossed back his head, and downed the pile. William allowed himself a short rest, only resuming his trek as the pain fled from his chest and his head ceased thumping.
As the first stars began to dim and the faint blues of morning swam onto the horizon, he repeated the treatment. After taking the medicine, he felt as though he hadn’t even been thrown. He glanced at the pouch holding the vials nervously. He was burning through his stock, though. If he didn’t come upon SOMETHING before he ran out, he would be in real trouble.
William hoped that he hadn’t somehow come across a dead track. There weren’t that many of them this deep in the territories, but it wasn’t impossible. He had been walking all night, and had probably been lying besides the line for the better part of a day. He hadn’t seen a steam column or felt a rumble or heard the whistle of a single train. If this was a dead track… he might as well just swallow the barrel of his Colt.
He shook his head, marching on. If he didn’t reach civilization before his medicine ran out, he would be facing his gun regardless.
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As the sun cast the long shadows of a bright morning from every divot and every rock, William felt as though he could cry. It had been almost like a novel, the way the empty landscape slowly spilled over to a beautiful view of cotton fields, overtaking the desert and stretching far into the distance. He had been delivered from his days of wandering. He had found civilization.
Near the perimeter, a few neat buildings rested. Far in the distance, the telltale plumes of a churning stove drifted lazily above flat roofs. An occasional cloud of dust rose, the early morning sun amplifying the particles. William shakily brought a nearly empty vial to his lips, drained the glass of the fine powder, and threw the vessel to the side.
He nervously thumbed his Ranger’s star, ensuring it sat straight and proud, before pressing his hat firmly onto his head, and descending towards the structures below.
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William pressed his fingers into his eyes. He had knocked on the door of each of the small buildings, and nobody seemed to be home. And he was fairly positive that they were homes, too. They certainly didn’t seem to be shacks or barns. They seemed too new, too clean, to have been abandoned.
Well, it was still early in the day. Perhaps an occupant was still asleep, or they had been travelling, or it was a worker’s residence and they were already out in the fields. He had scanned the farmland, but hadn’t seen anything move. He even readied his spyglass, only to find that the impact had shattered the lens.
He grumbled, his boots thudding as he stepped down from the porch. There was a dusty path not far from the buildings, and it seemed to track towards the wisps of smoke he had seen earlier. He gazed longingly back towards the houses, imagining the food or water they might contain. He had even scouted around for a well, to no avail.
He decided that he’d wait until sundown. If he hadn’t seen anybody, he would go looking for water- bolted doors be damned- stay the night inside, and make the trek to town in the morning.
He approached the one thing that spoke of age; a small shack that had long ago fallen in on itself, the wooden wreck almost furry as ancient paint peeled beneath the desert sun. He rested his back against the one firm wall, sliding down until his rear settled into the sand. He lowered his hat, the brim protecting his eyes from the rising sun, and watched the houses.
His attention was immediately wrenched by a sight so beautiful it nearly brought him to tears. A hundred yards into the cotton, obscured from earlier view by the ruins of the shack, a large stallion rested in the shade of a scraggly tree. His head hung loosely and he stood perfectly still, clearly dozing. He wore a large yoke, clearly meant to guide the massive cart of apples that sat forgotten to his rear.
Wrinkles formed above William’s eyes as confusion set in. A powerful stallion, to be sure. He was almost as large as William's own horse had been, clearly toned muscles, evidently hard-worked… and red. A glaring, artificial red. A similarly offensive green blob marked his rump. His eyes… no horse should have had eyes that large. They took up nearly half his face, clearly unfocused and resting.
William stared. Blinked. Stared some more.
He couldn’t believe it. No horse looked like that. His eyes flitted about the fields, hunting for an owner. Seeing none, he returned to puzzling over the strange stallion. An escaped circus horse, perhaps? A born freak, painted up as clown?
Nothing else made sense. But even that didn’t explain how it came to pull an apple cart.
Williams thought of his options, taking note of his distinctly lighter satchel and gravelly tongue. He shrugged, and approached the stallion. No one called out or shot at him, so he elected to commandeer the mount.
The cart wasn’t attached to the the yoke. He gave silent thanks to whatever was watching. The medicine was strong, and took away quite a bit of his pain, but it couldn't make him ‘lift a heavily loaded cart off the back of a nearly full-sized horse’ strong.
He gently brushed his hand against the stallion's muzzle. It's over-sized eyes blinked, pupils straining as they struggled back to consciousness. He blearily lifted his head.
William placed his hands atop the stallions back, hopped, and lifted with all his might. As he heaved his mass above the creature, his leg shot out, and he swung to straddle it's barrel. It had been a long time since he last rode bareback, but he had no problem remembering the mount.
Or so he thought, until he found himself winded, staring into the sky. The stallion had reared back, spinning his front legs in the air, looking around frantically for the source of it’s sudden discomfort. As the horse fell forward, William leapt up, intent on calming the beast. The sudden movement caught its' attention.
It spun it’s head to face him, it’s eyes narrowing in a terrifyingly human expression of fear. It firmly planted its' forelegs in the earth, leaned into them, and bucked William in the stomach. He crumpled, panting, as the horse loosened it’s forelegs and sped away down the path.
William clutched his bruised stomach. He barely processed the horses bizarre shrieking whiny as it sped towards the town.
“E’Nooooopppppppppeeeeeeeeeee……”
Author's Note
I don't know for sure when AZ started growing cotton, but it's one of the state's biggest crops now, so... maybe this wouldn't be to strange a sight for Ranger Colley?
Please, leave comments. Positive, negative, criticism, personal attacks, whatever. I like interaction.
Hopefully somebody enjoys this.
~~Chapter 2 will 100% be out within the next week. After that though... who knows.~~
Nope. Computer is gone for a couple of weeks. It'll be a bit before anything else come out. As soon as possible though.
Enjoy Your Stay In Beautiful Appaloosa!
Chapter 2
Enjoy Your Stay in Beautiful Appaloosa!
William moaned as he hauled himself to his knees. He was thankful that the kick landed in his gut- it hurt like the devil, and even a slight tensing of his abdominal muscles elicited a sharp slice of pain but unlike the beating he took from his own horse nothing seemed to be broken. Granted there was nothing down there to break, but he didn’t enjoy the idea of another shard shanking his innards every time he moved.
And he supposed it could have been worse. Far, far worse. If the horse had kicked a foot lower, well… he would have finally given up on the dream of having a son.
Broken or no, he was again rendered useless. His body hadn’t started calling out for the medicine yet, but the pain from the hoof had pierced through the haze. Oh well. With town this close, surely a doctor or apothecary would be found. He could afford to take another dose a little early.
He remembered the cart, piled high with the glossy red orbs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had tasted apples. Surely he had eaten some back in Georgia, but he couldn’t pin down precisely when. He hadn’t even SEEN an apple since Pa moved everyone out to the territory. The dry desert heat didn’t exactly help the watery fruits flourish.
He pounced, juice erupting into his mouth. The delicious flavor wrapped around his tongue, washing down his throat and satiating his thirst while the meat filled his stomach. For the first time since the chase he felt full, strong, and hydrated. With the pain all but gone and a reasonably full stomach, the distant town seemed nearer.
He smiled.
He wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow, and he wouldn’t have to break into anyone’s house. Surely a mark of improving luck. He shoveled several more apples into his bags and tightened his crumpled hat. The toes of his boots flung small columns of dust against his ankles as he trudged along the path.
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William leaned against the sign as he mindlessly chewed on an apple, inspecting the empty town. The buildings appeared well-maintained, though the subtle chipping of the slowly fading paint and the slight coating of dust and sand that permeated the street betrayed their age.
The town was unexceptional. In most regards, it was indistinguishable from every other small railroad town in the territory. A wide, sandy street divided two rough rows of buildings. Most appeared to be the standard strain of flat-roofed wooden shops, large arches rising towards the street denoting their purpose. Across the town from were William stood towered the violent ridges of a sheer cliff. Cliffwards, one structure clawed towards the evening sky, skinny walls and a sharp peaked roof visible from any point in the quaint settlement. William took it as a steeple. While outposts this small usually just used an available one room building, (when they bothered with a church at all) steeples weren’t unknown in more religious areas.
Behind the shops rose a smattering of small houses. Rough trails connected several, all casually feeding into the street like a tributary melding into a river. Between the town and the fields of cotton grew a small collection of apple trees. They thoroughly confounded the Ranger. It had been strange enough to find fresh apples; those trees shouldn’t have been possible.
William tossed the stripped core aside, the rubbish rolling to a stop near the second forsaken vial. He plucked his rifle from where it rested against the sign, grasped it loosely ahead of the lever, and stepped into the town. His attention flicked between the signs, to no avail. He figured that it had been established by some foreign steel-drivers or similar. Every phrase was painted in some kind of script, the origins of which he hadn’t a hope of guessing.
William scanned the windows and doorways as he passed each building. The town was completely still. Normally, William would assume he had stumbled upon a ghost town and move along. But William couldn’t shake the nagging incongruities. Outside several shops, horseless carts rested. They were few but none were empty, none unkempt. On the stoop of one shop a spotless hat hung, swinging slightly on its hook in the breeze. Each porch seemed clean, save for paths of dust trailing from the street towards the doors.
Nowhere did William see a single water trough. No hitching posts. Not even a hint of droppings.
William stopped, head swiveling, as he monitored the structures. A flicker of motion caught his eye when a shutter slowly inched forward, a dark shape shifting beyond the crack. The shutter froze as William stared and swiftly flew back into position. William sighed. This was not completely unexpected. Settlements near Indian territory, or full of criminals of one breed or another, were usually fairly suspicious of newcomers.
William slung the Winchester over his back, rested his palm on his .44, and moved to approach the window. He quickly pivoted towards a large building on the other side of the street as he neared the door, a shrill woman’s scream filling the town.
He rushed to the entrance and flattened himself against the exterior wall, trying to peak into the window. No such luck. He set the rifle against the door frame. His hands scrambled at the slipshod knot in his improvised belt, finally loosening the rope and depositing his cargo with a weighty thud. He drew his gun, and prepared to go through the door.
“‘uhmon, ‘uhmon. I don’ want to hurts’ nopony.”
William paused, his hand resting on the door’s rough, unfinished surface. Nopony?
“Jes gives’ me you’s bits. All o’ ‘em.”
The clattering of coins rang out as ‘bits’ spilled into a canvas bag.
“Hehe. Dah gems, too.” An audible smacking of lips and slurping of a tongue could be heard from the tavern. “I wants’ dah gems.”
More clattering.
It was clear to William what was happening. Why the ruffian hadn’t hit a bank was anybody’s guess, but a robbery was afoot. Normally, William would be all too eager to go in guns blazing, but he was instantly tempered when he recalled how he had been summoned. Even now, he could hear the faint nervous tittering of womenfolk. As far as he could tell, the varmint hadn’t shot anybody- better to wait until he came out.
“Git, git. ‘Uhmon. ‘Erepony to dah back.”
William couldn’t believe his luck as a clattering of boots resounded, the porch itself vibrating as the patrons filtered into a crowded stockroom. The robber began to giggle as William heard the jingle of a cash box. Cupboards opened and closed, the thief clearly rifling, seeking out every valuable.
William stretched his gun toward the door, the deadly steel tapping against the surface as he slowly pushed through. He crept into the tavern, taking care to avoid the few tables and stools that had been tossed carelessly around. He crossed his feet as he slunk towards the bar, the large heels of his boots producing a muffled crack with every step. The thief, focused on his task, took no notice as William drew near.
William smiled. It had been a very poor few days, and he didn’t need to kill this man. He reminisced about his scrappy days as a cowpoke, before he donned the silver star. He had been quite the pugilist when he was younger. He hadn’t had much practice lately, either. Once he wore the star, the meaningless fights had died out. When he fought, it usually involved the flash of powder.
William, still focused on dodging discarded furniture, found the opening of his holster with the .44’s barrel. He released the hammer, and snapped the weapon into place. He passed a table that had avoided the violence which had twisted its brothers, abandoned cards strewn about the surface. A large bottle nearly quarter full of a glistening amber liquid stood near the center. He reached out, seized the dirty glass, and gulped. His throat burned as he felt the fire travel to his stomach. His pain was forgotten, his injuries an afterthought. He felt alive.
He drew the bottle to his lips once more when he finally caught a good look at the thief. The bottle froze, kissing his lip and itching his mustache. He stared.
It had to have been a freak, a mutant. No normal person looked like that. Maybe a carny? Perhaps that freak horse from earlier had been his steed? The man was frightfully bizarre. His skin was a sickly, ashen grey. He had short, skinny legs, horribly disfigured and unnaturally bent. It was, frankly, a miracle that he could even walk. He was topped by a stout skull, ginger hair contrasting painfully with the grey skin. A strip of red around his neck betrayed the bandanna obscuring his face.
His arms… William’s hand twitched, almost ready to change course and go for his gun. His arms stretched nearly to the floor, each pipe almost as thick as his torso, each hand nearly the size of William’s cranium.
William shook his head. Surely the thief was a freak, but no one was THAT much a mutant. He must have taken a bit too much of the tooth medicine. He tipped the bottle back and chugged down what fire was left, grimacing. As soon as he found a doc he’d get fixed up. Then he wouldn’t have to take any more of the nasty stuff. He removed his hat, gently placing it where the bottle had rested, and confidently walked behind the cretin.
As the freak began to whistle a tune, William leaned forward.
He buried his knee into the small of the mutant’s back.
The robber yelped as he bent. His legs gave out, and he fell heavily to his bastardization of knees. His head spun as he desperately scanned the room, seeking out his sudden attacker. The bottle held high in Williams hand shone brightly,reflecting rays of sunlight pouring through the open doorway across the filthy room.
William grunted with the effort, wrenching his arm downwards. The glass shattered against the back of the robber’s skull, ragged edges tearing deep red lanes from his scalp as momentum carried the jagged bottle through the stunned criminal’s flesh.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sheriff Silverstar sauntered into the sunlight from the confines of the Appaloosa Jail. He had made sure to leave the heavy iron door of the building’s only cell wide open, already certain that it would be occupied for a short time.
The day had been taxing for Silverstar. He was a stallion of action- when troublemakers were ahoof, or thieves needed a good punishment, he was all too eager to jump into the fray. When he couldn’t do that, he preferred things to be quiet. He liked everypony in town fine, and had a cordial relationship with all, but his heart was with the town, not with the ponies who came to him to complain over the slightest annoyance.
And that day had been one of complaints. He had been dealing with Big Mac from the moment he stepped into the jail early that morning. The stallion wouldn’t stop blubbering about the giant monster larger than he who had tried to mount him while sleeping. Homosexual monsters aside, Silverstar couldn’t understand what Mac expected of him. Mac had supposedly bucked it good and hard; surely, it had been scared off. Nopony else had seen it around.
If only that were true.
His office had grown increasingly cluttered as a steady stream of townsponies filtered in, all apparently on the verge of panic. Supposedly, a fearful monster was approaching the town. Nopony had ever seen anything like it. What he thought he could simply blow off was quickly spiraling into his own personal worst case scenario; detective work. He hated that part of the job more than anything. He craved an obvious bad guy; a split second of action, a scoundrel dragged to stew in jail.
So Silverstar had spent most of his day taking reports, preparing an inquisitive letter for the government. The monster hadn’t ransacked anything or destroyed the town, so he hadn’t yet tried to directly pursue it. As he took each ponies statement, his frustration mounted. None of them appeared to have actually seen the beast- Mac must have told them his tale, and they just ran with it. Several of the ponies draining the last free inch of his office space seemed to have been caught in the tide of panic, key parts of their stories altering wildly as rumors filled the air. Some were obviously unrelated- he swore at some point he heard an older mare yelling at him about why kids shouldn’t be allowed to eat grapes. Some were obviously fictitious- not only had the beast been stalking about, prowling for ponies, but he was draped in the carcass’ of his past victims.
Silverstar couldn’t wait until he could usher all of these ponies out of his jail, and crack open the locked drawer in his desk. His ears twitched slightly. His head began to pound.
Luckily for him, yet another horrified mare galloped into the jail. She had just escaped from the tavern, she said, and Buster was robbing the place.
As soon as the words had left her muzzle, all conversation cut out. The crowd stared at each other, wide eyed, the revelation slowly processing. The next instant all had forgotten the supposed monster and begun shrieking and galloping in all directions, intent on locking themselves into their homes until the danger had passed.
Silver Star nearly clambered onto his desk, prostrated, and began praying to Celestia. After providing this respite, Buster might as well be his new best friend. Maybe he’d shorten the dog’s sentence a day or two.
Silver Star leisurely strolled towards the tavern. He already knew how this would play out; he had plenty of experience with Buster’s antics. Buster had established himself as a nearly biweekly entity in Appaloosa. Everyone knew his routine. Honestly, Silver Star thought they all only pretended to panic whenever he appeared, as a sort of cultural tradition.
Every other week Buster would show up and try to rob something. He never succeeded. Last time Silverstar checked, Buster had in fact become a net positive for the town.
About a month ago, he had tried to rob the town bank. Instead of making off with any bits, he somehow accidentally managed to open an account and deposit several dozen of his own gems. If his ‘crimes’ didn’t factor into the amount of funding the town was allotted for ‘beautification’ and ‘safety’ by the Crown Sisters, he probably wouldn’t bother arresting Buster. Just yelling at him a little to make sure he knew he had been bad seemed to pacify him.
The Sheriff approached the bar, buffing his star as he climbed from the street. He barely noticed the pile of belongings that somepony had abandoned near the door frame- sure, there were more than usual, but it was all too common for travelers to come through town.
He snuck a glance at his reflection. Satisfied that his mustache was in order, he prepared to trod through the open doorway as shards of glass and chunks of wood and a rag-doll body erupted into the street.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The bastard was more resilient than William had anticipated. He had hardly known a man who stay awake, let alone fight, after taking a bottle to the head.
The freak seemed to be running on nothing other than pain and rage. His eyes flashed across the room, pupils dilating intermittently, seeing but not processing. When William dropped the bottle to the ground the freak spun, William only barely managing to sidestep his wildly flailing counterattack. William broke into a grin. Long forgotten instincts surged through his body as he deftly evaded the blind rage of the robber, swiftly stepping through the punches and landing a few of his own.
This only seemed to provoke the man further, his attacks increasing in intensity and directionlessness. William almost thought that the whole thing was too easy.
Then he ran into the counter. As the sharp edge dug into his side, his attention flicked away from his target for only a fraction of a second, which was ample time for one of the unguided barrage to land.
The criminal may not have been aware of what was going on- he may have been a freak, may have been a headcase, may have been totally untrained. But when those Goliath arms hit, they hit.
William staggered. His head snapped to the side, his chin digging into his right shoulder. He felt a distinct pop as his jaw dislocated, tasted a powerful copper as blood poured around his teeth. He stumbled into the wall, spitting the enamel to the floor as he rapidly blinked, struggling to pierce through the sudden daze.
The freak, who had again been swinging into empty air, finally realized the general direction of his attacker. With a snarl that was a pure manifestation of rage and anguish, he barreled toward William.
At the last moment William spun, the pain in his jaw forgotten, and shot out his foot. The man’s eyes widen in shock as he stumble and began to trip, loosing his footing. As his over-sized torso pulled him back, he was flung towards the wall by William’s mighty upper right.
He was bodily flung into the large, boarded-up window, which quickly gave way to his surprising mass. A ear-splitting shatter filled the bar, followed by a faint tinkling as individual shards rolled from the windowsill to the rubble below. The thief flipped through the opening, spilling onto the porch and rolling into the street. Shocking William yet again, the miscreant still hadn’t fallen. His arms pushed slowly through the dust in a vane effort to crawl away from his crime, a slight pitiful moan spilling from his lips.
William rose, and grabbed a full bottle from the bar. Clearly the last one hadn’t been heavy enough. He raised his boot and stepped over the windowsill, trodding quickly down the porch steps and into the street. So focused was he on his prey that he hardly noticed the short horse in a ten gallon hat standing slack jawed at the tavern entrance. He tried to call out, to demand the thief’s surrender, to ascertain the man’s identity.
A sharp pain sliced into him as he struggled to open his mouth, muscles straining against sockets positioned in ungodly ways.
He grimaced. Now he really had to find a doctor.
He grabbed the man, who tensed at his touch. He battered weakly at the Ranger, all his strength sapped by the violent exit. Without preamble William brought the bottle against the criminal’s temple. This time, the blessed glass didn’t break. The impact wrenched the vessel from Williams grasp. The thief breathed roughly as his eyes spilled back into his head and he fell totally limp. William let his hand fall loose, and the man spilled to rest in the street.
William turned him over and fumbled to wrap his hands in thick rope. He wished he had brought a set of irons. They were heavy and loud and given the gang's reputation he hadn't expected to need them, but they would have been much easier. He’d have to get the feet later. Or find the local sheriff, and have him secured. William turned the man again, his restrained form significantly easier to maneuver than it had been with splayed arms. William rested him on his side, and motioned to move the cover from the man’s face. William tenderly brushed his jaw, the adrenaline beginning to wear off.
All thoughts of his condition fled as the bandanna slipped. Bent limbs, he understood. A bulking build, he had seen. Strange discoloration? Disease will do that. The man’s face? Not possible. It was purely animalistic. Beyond the color and size, it was totally indistinguishable from the head of a terrier. The thing's splayed mouth and lolling tongue revealed its' sharp row of brutal incisors.
“What in the hel-”
William’s eyes went wide and he spilled forward, settling in the dust beside his captive.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sheriff Silverstar lowered his hind legs, having delivered a buck even his grandaddy would have been proud of. He shoved the monster off of Buster, barely giving it a second glance as he took in the damage. Buster’s eye was swollen, his scalp torn on his temple. Blood coagulated as it mixed with particles of road where it spilled, running in rivulets from the tattered back of his head.
The Sheriff gulped. He had seen monster attacks, sure, but nothing this… brutal. The monster was usually content to terrify a citizen or burn down a building or steal someone else’s food… he had never actually seen the aftermath of one driven to hurt.
Worse, he wasn’t sure it was a monster. He had only given it a sidelong glance, but it seemed to be wearing some strange kind of clothing, and had obviously known about basic knots.
He took in Buster’s wounds once again as the dog began to shudder, and his breathing grew rough. Silverstar tore himself from the scene and rushed into the bar. Wrenching open the back room, he found the ponies helping themselves to some of the stock. He desperately cried towards the owner “Go get the doctor!” before leading the rest of the herd from the building.
The town kicked into motion, ponies scrambling to get Buster help. Silverstar practically had to fight them off as they crowded the beloved ne'er-do-well. As the medical cart raced away the worried masses trailed behind, leaving him alone with his Deputy and the monster.
“What is it, Sheriff?” he asked.
“I don’t rightly know, Overreach.”
He glanced pointedly at the belongings piled high beside the establishment’s door.
“Overreach, that’s its' things. I do believe that old hat inside is its' too.”
“Sheriff?”
“Bring ‘em to jail. Crown’ll probably want 'em.”
Overreach nodded, bounding off to commandeer a local carriage for his task. Silverstar strained, routing his muzzle through his saddlebags until his teeth grasped a sturdy piece of rope. He expertly bound all the monster’s legs, then bound each pair together. He had no idea just how strong this thing was- if it woke up, there was no telling what it would do. All he had to do was get it behind iron bars. He was thankful that the monster was so (relatively) small. He had been forced to restrain a wounded Ursa Minor once- that was a challenge. But if it fit in the cage, it stayed in the cage, and it wouldn’t be getting out. All the Sheriff had to do was keep it there for a week or two, until the Royal Guard Natural Protection Unit could come and take it to who knows where.
He hoped it was somewhere safe. He didn’t know exactly what happened to monsters. He hoped they were placed in a sanctuary, or allowed to be studied comfortably. He didn’t hate the monsters, and punishing them- or killing them- for following their nature… it wouldn’t be justice. He looked again at the monster before him. He looked at its' clothes, its' hat, its' bags. He thought of what it had done to Buster. Maybe the fate of monsters wasn’t so important.
Silverstar gave each knot an experimental tug. Overreach loaded its’ belongings into a cart he had sourced from a nearby cottage. There was something peculiar about its’ clothes, something he couldn’t quite place. He inspected its’ feet. Scales. Scales, like those of a dragon or an armadillo or an alligator. The creature seemed to have almost reptilian skin around its hind legs. The other possibility was too sickening to contemplate.
Still, Silverstar felt uncertainty wriggling in his mind. He couldn’t shake an unnerving feeling about the things’ clothes. Again, he focused on its' midsection, cautiously rubbing his hoof against the material.
Silverstar stumbled rearwards, gasping, as a memory blossomed. It had been about 16 moons ago, in the dead of summer. An old cow from the settlement a few miles south had somehow wandered off, and no one knew where she had gone. An old lady, during the hottest weeks of the year, would be downright dangerous. Her family rushed around, quickly making contact with each town, summoning aid for the hunt.
Silverstar was a deputy then- he wouldn't ascend to Sheriff for another 4 moons. His face was still clean-shaven, his status not yet granting him that one beautiful mark. He was paired with the current Sheriff, exploring recently-discovered tracks, searching for the missing elder.
They found her six days after the hunt had begun. She had broken her legs when she fell down a shallow ravine. Dehydration took care of the rest within the day. The stream which had cut the chasm ran not ten feet from her, near but impossibly far away from the crippled old girl. She had been left to bake beneath the sun for the rest of the week.
By time they found her, she was little more than skin and bones. Silverstar remembered her skin. Melting beneath the desert sun, the fur quickly fell out, and the flesh had hardened and tightened.
Queasy, he looked again at the beast. It was unmistakable. The same pattern, the same feeling. It was a bit different color, and it sung of processing, but he had no doubt.
Whatever this thing was, it wore on its' back the pelt of several cows.
He gagged, choking down the bile that rose in his throat.
“Overreach!”
The deputy bounded over.
“Send an E1 letter direct to the Crown. Tell ‘em… tell ‘em it’s bizarre. Then run along- get everypony gathered. I’m deputizing ‘em all. We’ve got to go see if there’ve been any missing cows recently.”
Overreach spat the pen from his mouth as he finished his notes. He quickly read them back, ensuring that he understood. Overreach visibly paled as realization swept through him.
“Is- Is it wearing…”
“Yes. We need the Princesses.”
Overreach nodded, and rode hard for the post office.
Author's Note
A Note on my take of Equeus Timekeeping.
I believe that this is canon to the show (Mirror opens every 30 moons- Sunset has been across the mirror for four earth years- 30 moons / 4 years = 7.5 moons per year) However, that doesn't take into account the time shift between the two worlds. It's never really explicitly stated, but I believe Shimmer is a fair bit older than Twilight. If we assume that Twilight is in her early twenties, then 2 moons equaling an equestrian years would allow her to have started studying under Celestia as a filly, presumably a year or two after Sunset ran away. So she could have studied somewhere around 12 years under the princess when the mirror opened 30 moons (15 years) later. Anyway, all that to say that in this story 2 moons equals one Equestrian year.
A Note on the Sheriff
Every lawpony wears a star out in the boonies. Only Sheriff's, however, are permitted a mustache. It is a great affront to a Sheriff if a deputy is not clean shaven- it implies that they consider themselves an equal.
General Notes:
Wow, I learned from my mistake. From here on out, I won't even pretend to have a deadline for things. I have a loose goal of finishing this thing before summer is out, but given how long it took me to get around to writing this chapter, that may be humanly impossible.
A quick note for those who read Chapter 1 prior to this chapter being published- I edited a few things in the first chapter. I finally settled a few key plot points that I had left open ended, and one of the most important was exactly when in canon this whole story takes place and why Colley has found himself on Equeus. I can't say too much more about the canon time since it IS a relevant and revealed plot point, but know that the changes were necessary.
If you don't want to go back and find them, here is a summary-
-William follows the tracks for a few days instead of overnight. The primary motivation for this change was to match the canon of the show, which required me a couple of days at least between William waking up and being discovered. Also the extra time allows him to have the pain begin to dull as he slowly begins to heal, which helps make this chapter make slightly more sense. The change is literally a single sentence, though. It's just something everyone who's already read Ch. 1 will probably want to know.
Anyhow, I don't think this chapter was as strong as my first one, but I've got a bit more time now and a clear direction for this story so my writing should return to the level of Follow the Rails if not improve as this thing continues.
Thanks for reading, and as always, all comments (kind, supporting, helpful, critical, violent personal attacks, whatever) are welcome and encouraged.
Post-Credits:
Twilight Sparkle scours a book on human biology while William writhes and squirms in the next room.
Fade to black
