Equestrian Ranger

Kneeling behind an obscuring bundle of wilted bushes, a man grumbled, binoculars masking his furrowed hazel eyes. Rapid whirling frostbite relentlessly tugged his face’s exposed, sun-kissed flesh, colorless December chalk highlighting the man’s medium-length, dark-brown beard, haunted howling winds brushing past his ears. Peeking through the man’s worn binoculars, snow-caked woods stretch onward for unknown miles, claustrophobic foliage and shedding tree husks obscuring anything further than fifty yards on all sides.

“Come on out, you oil-slick snakes.” The irritated man clicked his tongue, keeping his hardened gaze unmoved, storing the worn binoculars inside his shoulder-draped satchel.

Three months, or has it surpassed four? Time’s getting harder to read nowadays when watches cost more than second-hand bullets; at least the setting sun’s position gave him a rough estimate through the waning days. Ten til noon, he passively reckoned. Still, the man’s target and his source of ire's elusiveness persisted.

Cole H. Dawkins, infamous outlaw, mountebank, and a rat bastard who’d earned himself hefty coinage and rap sheets longer than Mexico’s border. Con artist, murderer, gang leader, rapist, flat foot, and silver-tongued viper were many, many titles he’d collected from terrorizing small outback settlements and towns throughout the Midwest and northside. His go-to, selling Dawlkin’s Miracle Ambrosia, rarely failed- folk housing shoulder-to-shoulder with the coyotes and lonely valleys weren’t too knowledgeable of big-city trotters and their yellow-belly methods. Every other terrible deed resulted if one unlucky bastard saw through his lousy ploy or was unfortunate enough to cross his path. Lawmen spanning six states chased this slippery verman for years, gaining no headway. The last anyone saw Cole Dawlkins, he and his merry inbred band of rejects and drunks scampered south, likely hiding somewhere in the Texan wilderness. Too bad small parts of the man's mind started doubting those claims, naught but snow, ice, and non-swindling, murdering animals surrounding him day in and day out.

Safe to say, the man began growing annoyed, his ass frozen black and blue sitting all day, doing nothing. Coincidently, muffled, ravenous growling loudly sounded underneath the man’s bison fur coat, beige vest, and long-sleeve, navy blue shirt. “Ah. It ain’t like they're coming anytime soon.” The man dismissed, groaning as he stood, reaching a standard 5”10 stature. Heaving a Winchester model 1866 over his stiff shoulders, the man began retracing his imprinted steps, their once six-inch deep outline turned shallow.

Camp, if you could call it that, sat not too far, two tents and an unlit fire pit hunkered down, protected within an unoccupied cave. Attending the previously mentioned fire pit, a flint rod and a hunting knife in hand, the man regarded another younger a similarly dressed man ten years his junior, James Adrian, nodding slightly. “Nothing?” The younger man questioned dejectedly, his New York accent strongly dissimilar to the older man's southern, vaguely Irish, cadence.

“Hell, what do you think, boy?” snapped the older man, removing his bone-white cattleman hat. “May the saints above show Cole’s sorry-ass grace if I get my hands on him. It's been goin' on what, four months now? We'll either freeze to the bone or end up as vulture's dinner 'fore we bring him in..” The younger man sighed, shrugging.

“Perhaps they moved on by now, sir?” He suggested. “It’s been mighty quiet lately.”

In response, his mature companion shook his head, glancing at the expansive white wasteland beyond the cave’s jagged maw. “Naw, it ain’t likely. Snow's piled up so high, movin' 'round ain't no easy task, and there ain't near enough greenery for a buncha driving cattle or horses. They'd wear out their beasts quicker than a hare in a dog race; might as well feed them to any meat-eating critters if they tried. And I saw smoke driftin' up eastward, 'bout three or five miles out last night. But these damn trees are makin’ it hard tellin’ how far, exactly.” He explained, sitting beside James, who gave him a mixed expression.

“Why don’t we go ahead and bring him in? Surely we can handle someone like Colm and a few drunkards.” He scoffed.

In hindsight, his suggestion would’ve warranted consideration had he said it a month prior. The older man suspected Colm’s rag-tag group wasn’t feeling so happy lately, members flaking off left and right and returning later than usual, including shouting and screaming matches at night. Hell, some idiot fired their side-iron one time. Yet, recent raging blizzard after raging blizzard, Mother Nature forced the several disheveled, bent feathers to stay as their reluctant, dysfunctional flock. Five starved, cold, and ill-tempered men were difficult to handle, confronting twenty is downright suicide.

Three hundred and fifty sounded like an underwhelming reward. “Unless you fancy havin’ your throat slit and your belongings to go wanderin' off, be my guest. Otherwise, sit still and simmer down. You’ve busted my hide at every turn, greenhorn, particularly back at that river wash three days past, so do me the favor of keepin' thoughts of how you'll kill us next time to yourself.” He rebuked, earning an exasperated glare.

Remembering last week’s unexpected venture made his gloved trigger figures itch, paranoia whispering warnings to turn around into his ears.

“Look, sir, I didn’t see that bear cub's mother- how was I supposed to know it was around!” Argued James.

“Now, ain't that the truth! You shouldn't go moseyin' up to one regardless!” Pointing toward the younger lawman, scowling, the older man huffed. “Did your old man ever teach you common sense, boy? It lost its mother, and Mama Bear caught wind of your crazy self tryin' to spook its cub, butt naked as the day you were born. You oughta have hoofed it and given me a holler for a heads-up.” He scolded.

Eying the older man’s finger, the younger man’s scowl deepened. “I know, sir. There’s no reason to keep bringing it up.” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“Oh? Ain't you just a peach? Because ever since you’ve become a Ranger, you’ve done nothing but cause trouble and pitch hissy fits afterward. I don’t know what in God’s name life’s like for y'all city folk, but I’ve seen rotting cattle more sensible than you!”

Shooting up, flint and sharpened steel clattering against the uneven ground, he watched his youthful colleague throw his open hands high, his upper lip curled with anger. “Goddamnit, I get it! I’m an idiot city boy, dull as raw iron and dumber than a rock- you wanna hear that?!” He shouted, “Will you EVER shut up and consider the fact that not everybody is a horse-fucking, mountain climbing, bootlegging red-neck?! I'm trying my best!” Enraged, James flicked his head, grunting. “I swear to god, I’ve never met a thicker-headed, inconsiderate, ass-!”

Suddenly, James staggered, anger replaced by fear and shock as the older man quickly stood and threw a restrained right hook, striking his jaw. Collapsing to the chilled stone floor, blood trickling down his busted lip and a bruise decorating the impact sight, the younger man looked upward, his senior deeply sneering, cracking his knuckles. “Mind your tongue, boy. And don’t use the Lord's name in vain.”- He warned evenly, stepping back while the younger lawman raised drunkenly- “You’re not an idiot- well, not too much of one. But the trouble with you is you got ears just for show. This isn’t New York, prancin' 'round like a dime-store jester and crying how life isn't far ain't how we do things, considering our profession. Ain’t no one around here 'cept me to lend a hand if somethin' decides to take a swipe or aim a shot your way. So quit playin' the fool, city slicker, and pull your head outta your ass.”

Silence coldly greeted the older man’s heeding, James launching a crimson glob before marching off, breathlessly fuming. Sighing, the older man withdrew, retaking his spot and retrieving one of two Schofield revolvers held against his hips, idly scanning its black and dark wood finish.

The older man groaned, stress and tension pulling his joints and muscles taut. “Here I thought they taught discipline in the army.” He spat.

Truly, he stood by what he said. James, hot-headed and skittish, wasn’t a bad man. A thorn trying to disembowel his side, most definitely, but the older man met no greater crack shot than his partner, and he’s a fellow Ranger. Sadly, when his ten-year-old son possessed finer manners and patience than his partner, frequent departments and brooding sessions became frequent. It didn’t help that the current shit-storm they found themselves braving added fuel to the flames.

Speaking of which.

Collecting the discarded flint and knife, the older man positioned both items above piled kindling, the knife’s edge kissing the charcoal-grey stick.

SHINK! SHINK!

Gliding the cutting instrument across the flint rod surface, sparks exploded outward, washing the kindling with dancing orange embers. Eventually, following several strokes, warmth bounced off the cave’s unfeeling walls, eliminating the older man’s onset frostbite, electing a soft sigh. At least James knew how to build a proper fire. The lasting cold combined with the soothing heat weighed heavily on his eyelids, a yawn threatening to escape his parched maw. Images, warm and inviting, floated through his memory, a young woman holding his bright-eyed son and standing outside their modest home. “Ida. Joseph. Lord knows I'd do just about anything to savor her cookin' again and listen to them silly tales that boy of ours spins.” The older man mumbled, smiling, eyes slowly dropping. Her soft, delicate lips pecking his cheek every morning, his kid's laughter.

Summer heat bathed the older man’s face, cracking flames accompanied by rolling gusts singing their soothing lullaby.

May the lord protect them.

BANG! BANG!

Panic shot through his spine like fierce lighting, eyes snapping open as he hurriedly pushed himself to his feet. Gunfire, twenty- no, ten feet away. Utilizing the cave’s uneven entrance, the older man sought refuge behind a sizable boulder, swiftly snatching and chambering his Winchester. “Come on out, Cowpoke! Let’s talk!” Shouted a deep, English man’s voice, slobbery snickers and ratty chortles backdropping his posh tone.

‘Cole.’ The older man thought, confusion and worry running rampant through his system. “Well, look who's decided to stop tuckin' their tail, Dawkins? Color me surprised.” He snarked.

Haughty, sarcastic laughter disturbed the natural, still air. “I do apologize, my good man. Exchanging witty banter and drab remarks sounds delightful, but I think your friend thinks overwise.” Another sharp explosion rocked his ears, and this time, familiar screaming and cursing followed suit. Biting his tongue, the older man inched upward and hesitantly left his protection, each sluggish step revealing his unwelcome visitors. Ten fully armed men dressed worse than ditched corpses and twice as hideous, rusty, abused boom sticks pointed right at his head, likely more camping in the woods. Standing tall, proud, and center, Cole Dawkins grinned smugly, his bank teller getup stained by dirt and dried muck.

Bound, sitting on his knees, James groaned and grunted, pain twisting his battered, and bloodied features, blood pooling on his left thigh, staining the pure snow. “Ah, so you’re my second tail-coat rider? Impressed, I am not.” He said, clicking his tongue with mock disappointment. “I’ll admit, my pursuer's identities piqued my interest for a while. A rowdy, spry lad, and a senior?” Cole barked, throwing his head high.

“Let’em go, Dawkins!” The older man snapped, causing Cole’s men to raise their rifles. “Or by God, I’ll make you wish your whoring mother never popped you out.” He snarled.

Hearing this, gone was Cole’s smug, superior expression, overtaken by a cold, darkened glare. A two-bit, corner street tramp-of-the-night and a no-name hooligan father, it’s no mystery where Colm got his charming personality. “Now, sir, It’d be best for your friend here if you’d kept quiet.” The younger, bleeding man froze solid, Cole’s Webley mark 1 pressing against his skull’s rear. Options grew limited, rapidly. Creating a new hole between Cole’s eagle eyes guaranteed death for him and his partner. He couldn’t grab his horse and lead Cole’s men astray so his partner could sneak off. And fighting them all by himself, low on ammo and energy, also sounded reckless.

“You’re testing my patience. Let him go- I won’t ask again!” The older man said. A distraction is exactly what he needed. Easier said than done.

Another barking laugh, “Likewise.” Cole sneered, “Luckily for you, I’m feeling merciful today. Remove your garments and abandon your supplies, then I’ll let your God’s goodwill and Nature decide your fates.” As if on cue, earth-quaking thunder erupted and rumbled close by, dimming clouds increasing the afternoon sky’s blinding darkness.

Wait.

Briefly glancing skyward, the older looked back and over his shoulder, crackling flames still rolling at his heels. Hell, even with the illuminating fire, he struggled to discern Cole’s outline, much less his scattered gang.

The older man grinned, “Aren’t I grateful, Cole? You do have a soul.” he mocked, backpedaling. “Too bad nobody will miss it.”

Warranting no opportunity for response, the older man’s boot heel kicked loose stone toward the fire pit. Instantly, smoldering timber, ash, and embers dispersed, erasing his already poor vision, various degrees of frightened yelps and startled cries igniting mass panic amongst Cole’s disorganized ranks. Poising his rifle, he waited patiently, muzzle flashes pinning his target's whereabouts. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Firing three shots, two men dropped like bagged bricks- one missing an eye, the other losing half his brain -the last holding his mangled, torn side. Hopefully one of them was Cole. “Run, boy! Get the horses!” He hollered, aimlessly picking off frantic bodies. Soon, the opposing hailing lead met the older man’s offensive fire, laying low, he vacated his compromised encampment, nearby trees separating him and swift death.

Countless prayers repeated endless loops within the older man’s rushing thoughts, hampering his effort to make his snow-crunching steps quieter. How’d they get him? James never ran far during his pouting sessions– and last he checked –Cole’s gang and them were miles apart. He knew the answer to his second question. A rookie mistake made out of exhaustion and ignorance.

‘I led 'em here like a hound on a leash. Reckoned the cave's roof would hide the smoke from our fire, but I was dead wrong.’ He lamented. Ah hell, Cole’s men brought lanterns; glowing dots trailed the older man’s path. Just a little further.

“There he is!”

Shit.

Spinning in place, increasing his hurried pace, the older man’s weapon placed the pursuing lantern lights inside its iron sights. He huffed and coughed, sweat drenching his stone-like features, his sore trigger finger tirelessly hurling round after round, hitting trees, bushes, and the occasional buck-toothed man. The older man wasn’t immune, however, sustaining narrow misses grazing his legs, arms, and cheek, adding to the burning sensation his grizzled frame suffered.

“Sir, over here!”

Switching north, two horses whined and cried, weakly fighting the grip of their fellow rider and beaten owner, the latter waving at the older man. Wasting no time, he forwent his cover fire and spent his final reserves of energy charging forth, reaching and mounting his purebred appaloosa alongside James, cracking the reins. Hooves pounded the white-blanketed forest floor, randomly weaving in and out of tree lines, winds slicing through the older man’s hat-less, short-length hair, his unspoken grievances interrupted by air-splitting rifle fire. “Where are we heading?!” He heard.

Stowing his Winchester, the older man’s right hand flawlessly fell and recovered his Schofield in one practiced motion. Long rifles, especially riding horseback, inhibited a rider's accuracy and took too long when reloading if you’re actively steering your steed.

Pistols and revolvers?

Throwing his armed appendage, he fired two consecutive rounds, successfully erasing a horse’s front knees. The older man didn’t see his split-second draw reward, settling on hearing equine and human forms crumble and pained bellowing. ‘I still got it.’ He praised himself. Handling modern weaponry wasn’t his main forte, juxtaposed with tracking and survival, not that he wasn’t skilled at all. Yet, put a pistol or revolver in his hands– mostly back in his youth –he’d hit a horse fly forty feet over yonder, blindfolded, and half-asleep.

Call it skill or pure talent, the older man knew it’d been god-given luck, seeing as his aging hands typically shook more than autumn leaves awaiting their fate.

“I ain't never set foot in these woods, son. Run, and we might just shake 'em off our tail!” He blurted, yanking his horse’s reins sharply as James snapped left. More thunder boomed overhead, swirling flakes descending upon the bloody, chaotic chase. “Huh? ‘The hell’s goin’ on?” The older man said to himself.

The trees were… different. Frigid husks, still. However, lifeless wooden bark looked more livelier somehow, as if winter hadn’t ravaged Texas’s countryside by then.

Hold on, were those…leaves following them too?

Beneath the shining embrace of Princess Luna’s overwatching moon, two ponies– a young earth mare and unicorn stallion – casually trotted side-by-side, sharing each other’s loving embrace, the White Tailed Forest’s alabaster pillars reflecting moonlight. “Thank you for taking me out tonight, I needed it.” The mare sighed, nuzzling her lover.

“Don’t mention it, babe.” The stallion cooly huffed, smiling. “It’s, like, my top priority to make my marefriend happy, right?” He added, earning a soft giggle.

Enduring Tirek’s rampage, Ponyville almost getting blown to smithereens, her mother and father separating, and entering college? The stallion’s last-minute date was the least he could’ve done. Five years, six months, and 2 weeks came and went since they made their secret love life official, and the stallion couldn’t be happier! A total knock-out, straight-A student like her dating a nopony who failed in everything except hoofball boggled his past self, but it didn’t matter. Now, he gathered whatever wavering courage he had, hyping himself, mouth packed with cotton balls and anxiety. Keep it simple. Stop beside the trail, stand in front of her, get on one knee, and blow her metaphorical socks off!

Hushing his inner hype-stallion, the now nervous stallion copied his internal plan. “Hey,” He muttered, gaining the mare’s attention. “There’s somethin’ I wanted to ask you for a while now.” Leaving the trail and setting his hooves onto the dewy grass, he breathed deeply and kneeled.

Hurry, she’s suspecting something.

Ignoring the mare’s slowly widening eyes, he suppressed a cough, pursing and licking his chapped lips. “I-I…Uh, oh horseapples, Misty Flow. You’re the love of my boring life. The only thing I look forward to seeing on those dull days after practice- the reason I work so hard. Ever since you entered my life, every organ feels like a weightless cloud when I’m near you. And refuse to think of a life without you.”

Igniting his horn and opening his saddlebags, the stallion levitated a felt box, presenting it to his stunned marefriend, her hooves blocking her mouth.

“So, if I can ask, will you marry me?”

Tears erupting from her Dazzling eyes, Misty Flow's falling forehooves uncovered a shaky, yet ecstatic, smile. “Oh, Carver, I…Yes, you silly colt!” She squealed, laughing. “You can’t imagine how long I-”

BANG! BANG! “Fuck me! Damnit! Damnit!” BANG! BANG!

Releasing a startled shriek each, Carver immediately grabbed his marefriends shoulders and tossed themselves out of an unknown stampede, circling leaves forming a semi-cylindrical tunnel encompassing it. Dust flew everywhere, the sound of hooves, yelling, and frightening explosions making Misty Flow scream in terror as Carver held her close, shielding his squinting eyes from the airborne dirt. Thankfully, as abrupt as it appeared, Carver carefully relinquished his deadlock embrace, the sounds disappearing into the far-off woods.

“W-What was that?!” Misty questioned, bewildered and hysteric.

“Beats me.” Craver shrugged absentmindedly. “I think it was… clothed monkeys riding tall ponies?”

Despite their unexpected fright, Misty snorted.