//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Short and Sweet // Story: Strive // by Croswynd //------------------------------// "Well, aside from a few bruises and cuts, the kid's alright. Huh." House Call scowled at them, a stethoscope hanging below his neck. "What happened, anyway?" Sighing and sliding into a chair, Silverstar shook his head. "Braeburn found him dangling from the roof with a broken ladder nearby and reacted quick enough to get a bale of hay underneath Black Stone before he fell." The doc glanced between them. "Just Braeburn did, huh? Guess your back's hurting just because you were worried, huh? Not because you threw a bale of hay nearly the size of you like you were some kind of young, hotblooded thoroughbred, huh? Didn't—." Silverstar held up a hoof. "Alright, I helped him. But what was I supposed to do, just let the kid fall? He's my responsibility. I'm the sheriff." "Get a deputy like young Braeburn here then, huh?” House Call shook his head with a world-weary sigh. “Old billy-goats like you and I don't need to be lifting weights as heavy as that. Definitely shoudn't be twirling them like you were in some kind of howdy-do rodeo. Huh." “I’m more worried about how the ladder broke,” Braeburn put in. House Call snorted and waved a hoof. “Equipment here’s as busted and broken as the whole town ‘fore you whipped the folk up into a repairing frenzy. Not surprised a single ladder got swept out from under the fella, huh. Won’t be surprised if I see more foals like Silverstar coming in with a bunch of repair-related injuries. More work for me, huh?” Braeburn opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated instead. What if House Call’s right? What if I’m just jumping at ghosts? He turned away from the other two to stare out of the clinic’s dirty window panes. Sure, Morton’s a pain in the kiester, but he wouldn’t hurt nopony... would he? “Another thing to check on, then.” Silverstar stroked his mustache. “Braeburn, ask the townsfolk to check their stuff before using it, alright? We need all hooves on deck for this hoopla we’ve got planned.” “‘All hooves on deck’, huh. Actin’ like some kind of sailor now.” House Call shot Silverstar an evil eye. “Stop lifting haybales. I’ve got enough work without you breaking, too, huh.” “You got it, Doc.” Silverstar tipped his hat and cantered to the door, but not before bumping his shoulder into Braeburn’s side. “C’mon, lollygag. Back to work.” Frowning, Braeburn followed the sheriff, absorbed in thought. ***** Lost in thought, Braeburn returned toward the makeshift workshop where he’d left his two charges. With the last warmth of the day nearing its end, it was time to wrap up and head to bed. Out in the desert, the howls of a local coyote tribe echoed. Long day tomorrow, he thought with an absent ear flick. Long week after that. Wonder if Applejack’ll let ‘em stay for the festival. As he drew closer to his destination, voices carried to his ears. They broke him from his ponderings and brought a smile to his face.  Despite our issues, those two are a right ray of sunshine. He started to turn the corner to say just that when Babs spoke. “I’m just sayin’, maybe we should think about it.” Braeburn peeked around the corner to see the two of them working on another of the broken wheels. Babs was holding it up while Applebloom hammered a nail home. There was a pile of more nails on the ground beside her, which she reached down toward to get another. “And I said there’s no need to. We’ll get the money and then some.” Applebloom emphasized her statement with a strike of her hammer. “We Apples always find a way.” Rolling her eyes, Babs replied, “I ain’t saying we won’t, but we should plan accordin’ly, dontcha think? I gots a few ideas, too.” Applebloom sighed and leaned back from the wheel, allowing Babs to roll it and rest it against the wall. “I know you mean well, Babs, but I just don’t think it’s necessary.” “Well, if you don’t wants to hear ‘em, I’ll keep my trap shut.” Babs stuck her nose in the air and closed her eyes. Deciding the conversation wouldn’t be going anywhere good, Braeburn turned the corner with a smile on his face. “Howdy, cousins! Y’all workin’ hard?” Babs looked up in surprised and then drew her eyebrows down. “How long were yous there, listenin’ to us?” “Uh,” Braeburn stalled, looking to the side and back at her. “I wasn’t.” “Braeburn wouldn’t eavesdrop like that,” Applebloom gestured toward him with her hammer. “Applejack always says that’s impolite.” “You also don’t think belchin’ in front of other ponies is impolite,” Babs said skeptically, shifting her attention to Braeburn. “Besides, I can tell when ponies are lyin’.” “Alright, you got me.” Braeburn smiled guiltily. “I heard you talking about the money. But you don’t have to worry about it. We’ll get it done, just like Applebloom said.” “See?” Applebloom stared pointedly at Babs. Babs grunted in dismissal. “Somepony’s gotta think about this kinda thing.” “You might be right,” Braeburn said. “But right now, we’ve gotta hit the hay. Lot of work ahead of us.” ***** Despite Braeburn’s worries about Morton and the potential sabotage, no more accidents occurred over the next week. The townspeople continued their repairing of the town, restoring it to its former glory with an old country cheer. Even when the short drizzles drenched the town or the brutal sun beat down hot on their backs, they worked. Braeburn’s two cousins worked just as hard, repairing carriages and creating scaffolds. The townsponies accepted them into the family, laughing and joking with them like they’d always lived in Appleloosa. Babs and Applebloom even joined the meetings with Silverstar, helping to plan out the activities that the festival would showcase. Bobbing for apples was a given, of course, a suggestion that made even Silverstar’s weary mouth lift into a smile. Having a picnic on the orchard’s semi-green hills was sketched out, day to day areas assigned, with a massive gathering under Bloomberg’s huge branches on the last day. Between the trees they strung pennants, each with the crest of the several families living in Appleoosa. Apple, Seed, Plow... all of them were displayed equally on sheets of cloth four hooves wide. They blew spectacularly in the old west’s wind, magic from a local unicorn family up and running to keep the cloth from attracting the dirt blowing with the breeze. Supplies were brought in with the weekly train, along with several tourists from as far flung as Manehatten. Applejack’s promise certainly bore fruit, for the closer the day came to the festival’s opening week, the more ponies arrived. Even a few griffons showed up, with zebras right behind. Braeburn made sure the local inns and taverns had enough space for everypony showing up, from the ones who were staying the whole week to those just curious enough to explore for the day. Bureaucracy had never been Braeburn’s strong suit, but he did the best he could. Babs even offered to help him, pointing out more than few flaws in his recordkeeping. That filly’s sharper than a new plow, Braeburn thought with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. Paperwork piled toward the ceiling on his desk in the Sheriff’s office. Thankfully, most of it was in the pile marked complete, but he still had more than a few pieces of paper to get through before the day was done. A candle burned low on his desk, well away from the papers, and Braeburn looked up at the clock, noticing that dusk had fallen outside the window. It struck him after a weary moment’s worth of staring just how late it truly was. I’d better get back home ‘fore those two get into any trouble. The bustle of the day had died down, but when he left the Sheriff's office through the front door, he could still hear hints of merriment coming down from the nearest tavern—that of Morton Saltsworthy. When he glanced that way, he saw light spilling out onto the dirt road of the main street in town, patrons crowding both the inside and talking in the brisk night air on the tavern’s porch. “Guess I can make a slight detour,” Braeburn said to himself after a moment of indecision. “Haven’t had a nice salt lick in awhile.” Yawning to keep the exhaustion at bay, he moseyed down the street, the feel of the well-traveled road bringing a sense of peace to him. The plan seemed to be working so far, even though it’d been a long shot in the first place. But with all the ponies deciding to stay in town, it seemed the work had paid off. The closer he came to the shop, however, the more his interest in a salt lick and the companionship of friendly ponies waned. As he walked, he felt his hooves carry him past the tavern, down a side street and away from the town. The darkness of the night sky grew clearer as the lights died away behind him. Crickets sawed away their tuneless songs, cool wind whispered across the desert flats and stars glistened overhead. Puffs of dust billowed at his hooves, accompanying the steady clip clop of his trot. Earthly smells and the scent of apples beckoned to him, a siren song he couldn’t resist. Only the moon’s glow allowed him to see the path before him, but even without it, he wouldn’t have been lost on this trail. Eventually he found himself in the orchard, as he knew he would. Life was simpler here, between the fruit trees he and the town had created. It was pure. Taking root in the wastes and transforming it into what it was now was a struggle, but it was worth it. This, more than the town, is the reason for staying. We could lose our houses, our shops and our barns, but the one thing we’d hate to lose the most would be this orchard and the promise we helped create. Braeburn found himself sitting underneath Bloomberg’s gigantic boughs. Even though there was no sign of Little Stongheart, it was still a peaceful evening. The leaves of the tree sang through the night. Wood groaned. Roots burrowed deeper. Life strove to live. And Braeburn slept.