//------------------------------// // 1. The Stranger // Story: The Buffalo Telegraph // by Horse Voice //------------------------------// On the morning of the stranger’s arrival, Clyde awoke to a notion that he should make extra coffee. He had slept well and did not need it himself, but knew better than to ignore such notions. He rose, worked his muscles to loosen them, and set to work stoking the wood stove he used for cooking. It was a broad, black, potbellied thing, unwieldy for most ponies but just right for someone of his stature. The previous owner had told him they had not been made this way for many years, and Clyde was lucky to have found it. Clyde had not mentioned that luck had little to do with it. In a few moments, the pot was percolating. As an unwatched pot always boiled faster, Clyde decided to take in the sunrise while he waited. The east window, like most parts of his cottage, was wider than most. Other homesteaders would say such windows let out the heat too much at nights, but for a pony formerly used to life in a covered wagon, this was hardly noticeable. As the stove’s heat drove out the cool of early morning, Clyde decided to open the window for a little air. No sooner had he done this then there came a staccato series of thumps from his right—somepony knocking with no small measure of urgency at the cottage’s only door. Whoever it was, Clyde surmised, it could only be the one the extra coffee was for. He crossed to the door at a trot and flung it open to find a bedraggled figure upon the doorstep, partly silhouetted by the morning light. Her tawny coat and charcoal mane were mottled by road dust and a shiner around her left eye, and her right wing hung limp at her side. Her half-full saddlebag had somehow worked its way forward, and was now riding up against the bases of her wings in a way that looked particularly uncomfortable. She looked up at Clyde with turgid eyes, and hissed through gritted teeth—“Help me.” Clyde’s mouth moved quicker than his brain. “Sure…” The stranger leapt forward, ducking past Clyde and skidding to a stop a couple of meters behind him. As Clyde wheeled about to follow her, his back leg struck the door in passing, slamming it shut. “Now what, I say what is all this about?” Clyde could not keep a little annoyance out of his tone, though it was clear the stranger had some reason for this impetuousness. Her gaze darted around, taking in each corner of the cottage in a fraction of a second. “Are we alone?” Without leaving time for an answer, she locked eyes with Clyde and continued. “Listen—any second now, some very bad ponies are gonna come through that door. You must not let them find me. Do you understand?” “I…” For the second time in the space of a minute, somepony knocked at the door: three thumps, heavy and slow. With a raspy whisper of “Horseapples!” the stranger darted for the open window, leapt up to it with catlike agility, and scrambled out, leaving Clyde alone. One, two, three seconds of silence. Clyde looked from the window to the door and back again, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The knocking came again—heavier, with five thumps now. These knocks brought an unpleasant clarity to Clyde’s mind. Whatever was going on, he was now a part of it and had no say in the matter. As he again turned to the door, he shook his head and murmured beneath his breath, “Mm-mm-mm,” as if silently scolding Fate. This time, beyond the threshold stood four burly stallions. At a glance—shirt collars, sunglasses, styled manes. City folk, Clyde supposed. Their legs were covered with dust, and their brows were shiny with sweat. Their apparent leader, for it was he who had knocked, was brown-coated and middle-aged, and had an alligator’s smile. “Please do excuse us,” he said in an accent Clyde did not recognize. “Sorry to trouble you so early, but we’re federal detectives from Canterlot, on the trail of a dangerous criminal.” From his coat pocket, he produced a photo of a pegasus mare who might have been the stranger, though it was difficult to tell, as she seemed to have been photographed in the act of delivering a haymaker to the camerapony. “Have you seen her?” Clyde could not help taking a little offense at the assumption that this might fool him. He looked over the four again, noting their placements relative to him. Judging by where they now stood, they had probably come from the west. The trail in that direction went around a protrusion of the forest a few seconds’ gallop away, and it was likely this had hidden the stranger’s arrival from them. He pointed his snout eastward. “Yep. She went thataway.” “Thank you. Here.” The alligator-smile broadened as its owner lay the photo at Clyde’s forehooves. “If you see her, leave a message at the Appleloosa Arms for Inspector Bell Lock—that’s me. There is a reward for information leading to her capture. Adieu.” With that, the four swung east and cantered away, pacing themselves like patient hunters. Clyde waited until they had disappeared among a group of stone outcroppings, then hurried around the corner of the cottage, looking about for where the alleged criminal might be hiding. But there was only the rain barrel, the outhouse, and the open east window. “They’re gone,” he said, raising his voice a little. “You can come out now.” For a few seconds, nothing. Then, with much sloshing and gasping and coughing, the rain barrel erupted in a blur of water, hair and feathers. The stranger, less dirty but now sopping wet, struggled to pull herself over the rim. With her thrashing, the barrel might have tipped over, had Clyde not steadied it with one forehoof and lent the other to the stranger. In a moment she was on her hooves again, panting and wringing the water from her mane. Soon, having more or less composed herself, she addressed Clyde again, smiling a little sheepishly. “Thanks.” Equestrian folk-wisdom had it that there were times to ask for explanations, and there were times to extend hospitality. “You want a cup o’ coffee, Miss?” Clyde said. *  *  * They sat opposite one another at Clyde’s small round table, with the stranger close to the stove to help dry her off. She sat with closed eyes, breathing slowly, back held straight, sipping from the spare mug every few breaths. At last she set the mug down, and with a little grimace of pain, worked her right foreleg and wing until the latter had properly folded against her side. “Just a pulled muscle. Need to stay off it for a while.” She met Clyde’s gaze, and again the sheepish smile made itself apparent. “I really appreciate this.” “It ain’t no trouble.” Clyde did not mention that it nearly had been quite a lot. “I believe introductions are in order, though I’m a mite concerned, since the name ‘Troubleshoes Clyde’ used to have an embarrassin’ reputation.” Out of habit, he braced himself for this to go over badly. “Don’t worry,” the stranger said. “I haven’t heard it before. No offense intended.” “None taken. You can call me Clyde for short.” “Nice to meet you. As for me…” The stranger looked away sidelong and nibbled at her lower lip, clearly mulling over her next words. “Well, you might not believe it, but you did just save my hide, so here’s the truth.” She puffed out her chest and grinned brazenly. “You’ve probably heard the name, but right now you’re talking to the real Daring Do.” “Sorry, Miss Do, but I ain’t heard o’ you either, so I guess we’re square. No offense intended.” Clyde supposed his guest’s existence was something he had missed in his years on the road. He pushed away a little twinge of bitterness, for such things were counterproductive. Daring blinked at this—once, twice—then leaned back and chuckled. “Actually, I’m kind of surprised. My name’s pretty well-known if you read fiction, and I assume those aren’t just for show.” She indicated the bookshelf in the far corner. “They ain’t, but it’s mostly biography and history and such. And almanacs, since everypony in this part o’ the country reads ‘em. I suppose I should try storybooks too some time, but I missed out on proper book-learnin’ when everypony else was gettin’ it. Been playin’ catch-up since I settled here.” “I gotcha. Sorry to hear it. But listen…” Daring leaned forward and placed both hooves upon the table. “I need to lay low until I’m well enough to fly. Do you have a place I can crash for a bit? I’ll pay, of course—for my own food, as well as the lodging. I heal faster then most ponies, so it won’t be long.” She said this hurriedly, as if to lay out her case before he could say “no.” Clyde drained the last of his coffee and scrutinized his visitor’s face. He saw no sign of bad faith; just the creased brow and turned-down mouth of one in need of a hoof up. “On one condition,” he said. “You tell me all about how you ended up with four mean-eyed guys chasin’ you to my door. The full story, if’n you please. I ain’t in no position to judge somepony who’s on the lam, ‘specially if that pony ain’t had a chance to tell his—uh, her—side o’ the story.” “Deal.” Daring let out a held breath and relaxed a little. “Okay... how should I put it?” She shut her eyes tight and put one hoof to her brow, in the manner of one trying to wrestle disparate thoughts into coherence. “For starters, those guys’ leader probably gave you a fake name. His real name is Dr. Caballeron. He’s a treasure hunter, but also one of the most actively evil ponies in the world.” “The world, huh?” To Clyde this sounded like exaggeration, but for now it seemed best to allow it. “Mighty impressive, since he’s up against such broad competition. But go on.” “He’s completely unscrupulous, and sells his finds to whoever has the most money. Since a lot of them are imbued with magic, you can imagine how dangerous it is when they fall into the wrong hooves—or hands, sometimes.” “Hands?” Clyde raised a brow at this. “Not all his customers are ponies,” Daring said. “Point is, we’ve had more than a few run-ins, and this time his stupid rent-a-thugs figured out how to win a fight with a pegasus—disable the wings first. I’m used to getting hurt, but I know when it’s time to run.” “I gotcha. So, what d’you have that he wants?” There was a long pause. Daring studied him with narrowed eyes, and he calmly gazed back. Of course she had something; someone who only cared about money would not bother attacking her otherwise. “All right,” she said. “It goes against my better judgment, but a deal’s a deal, and you strike me as an honest pony. Caballeron is after me because I’m carrying…” She looked to the doors and windows, though there was no danger of eavesdroppers. She leaned across the table and spoke in a hissing whisper. “… The Human’s Hand.” Silence in the room. “The what-now?” Daring sat straight and made a “sculpting” motion with her hooves, as one trying to describe something abstract. “Well, it’s…” She paused. “No, I’d better show you. It’s in my saddlebag. After I ducked out your window, I threw the bag onto your roof before I hid in the rain barrel. I didn’t want the water to destroy the Hand. I can’t fly up and get it yet, but…” She smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of her head with one hoof. Clyde nodded, and in short order they were out by the rain barrel again. Rearing up, Clyde could just hook the saddlebag down from the eaves-trough. As he did this, Daring stood guard, trying to watch every direction at once. Once Clyde had brought the bag down, she gestured for him to follow and darted back into the cottage. As the two regained their seats, Clyde placed the saddlebag on the table between them. Daring reached into the left pocket, felt about, and withdrew a small black cloth bag, closed tight with a drawstring. Slow and reverent, she began to loosen the string. “The Human’s Hand is an ancient relic, utterly unique—the mummified end of the forelimb of a long-extinct species of great ape. I found it in a king’s tomb in the Zebrahara, recently uncovered by a sandstorm.” She tilted up one end of the bag, allowing the object within to gently slide onto the tabletop. It was an ugly thing to look at—a cluster of spindly bones and knobby knuckles, held together by desiccated flesh turned yellow-brown by time. The shape was curled in upon itself, as if its owner had thought to use it as a club just before expiring. But Daring gazed upon it with shining eyes. “Legend has it, it can grant wishes, though they come with a catch. That’s hocus-pocus of course, but it’s the only known piece of a creature long thought to be a myth. No intrinsic value…” She made a sidelong glance at Clyde. “But the Royal Canterlot Museum will be very interested.” Clyde looked at the thing long enough to be polite before answering. “Beggin’ your pardon, but if there ain’t no intrinsic value, why does this Caballeron want it?” Daring began gathering the Hand back into the bag. “He has another buyer—someone superstitious, who pays for anything that might have magic to give him an edge. That’s one of his weaknesses: He actually believes in stuff like wish-granting.” “Well, he’s kinda right.” Clyde said this on impulse, and immediately wished he had not. He hoped his guest would ignore it, but— “Say what?” she said. Clyde rose and made a show of reaching for the coffee pot. “Uh, you want a top-up?” “No, thank you. What was that you said just now?” “Nothin’, it’s nothin’.” Clyde took the pot’s grip in his teeth and began pouring himself another cup, as slowly as he could, hoping she would drop the issue. But Daring waited patiently for him to put the pot down, and said, “’He’s kind of right.’ What does that mean?” “Just a private joke. Forget I said anything.” Clyde took a sip and grimaced, for it was a little too hot. “No.” Daring looked from Clyde to the Hand and back again. “If there’s any chance you know something I don’t, this thing could be really dangerous.” Clyde slumped in his chair and gave a long sigh. “I’ve had this talk with ponies before. Reckon you’ll call me a kook.” “There’s no way you can be as kooky as half the people I meet on expeditions. Try me—I promise I won’t judge you or anything.” Daring raised both hooves in a gesture of earnestness—symbolizing that the speaker was not wearing iron shoes, and so was not armed for fighting. “If you say so.” Clyde took a fortifying breath. “Here goes. That other feller—the superstitious one. He’s kinda right. Don’t need no ol’ mummy-hand for it, but if he’s as much bad news as you say, better not let him find that out.” “Why’s that?” Daring said. “Well, I’m referrin’ to…” Here went nothing. “… The Buffalo Telegraph.” “The what?” “Lemme put it this way.” Clyde’s gaze drifted upward, as if he might find the right words dancing about his head. “You ever start thinkin’ about somepony you ain’t seen in years, and the next minute you bump into ‘em on the road, or you get a letter from ‘em or somethin’?” “Yeah, a couple times.” It was a start at least, Clyde thought. “And… you ever been in a crowded place, and you felt somepony’s eyes staring at the back of your head, and you turned and caught somepony lookin’ at you?” Daring tilted her head and looked sidelong at Clyde. “I… guess I have?” “And, you ever thought about somethin’ you really wanted for a long time, and a run o’ coincidences ended up with you gettin’ it?” “I… guess so, yeah.” Clyde nodded somberly. “The Buffalo Telegraph.” Daring assumed a half-frown, and another line appeared on her brow. “I still don’t understand.” Now it was Clyde’s turn to quickly blurt out his case. “I heard it from a buffalo who said his people called it that ‘cause they were proud o’ bein’ good at it. He couldn’t explain quite how it worked, but those were some o’ the things he said it did. He said if you had the right sort o’ mind and practiced it, you could actually use it for things—say, being warned o’ things before they happened, or askin’ for things you wanted or needed.” “So, it’s like buffalo magic?” Daring said. “Not exactly. Anypony can use it if they know how. That’s why, the less bad ponies—heck, bad people—know about it, the better.” Daring paused in contemplation for a moment, then visibly relaxed and smiled a little. “Well. In my job, I could sure use a power like that.” Clyde suppressed a sigh. He had one more chance not to lose any respect she had for him. “You already have.” “How’s that?” “All your thoughts and feelin’s go out on the Telegraph,” Clyde said. “You never stop askin’ for stuff. Send out bad thoughts and feelin’s, and bad things come back to you later. For years I thought I was born with plain ol’ bad luck, but after I turned my life around I found out I was makin’ my own luck all the time. Now the Telegraph keeps me in good luck, mostly, ‘cause I accept bad things and I’m grateful for good things. This here Hand is just a chunk o’ dead animal, but the Zebras or whoever were convinced it granted wishes, and that’s what counted. It’s the same with fortune-tellers: They convince you somethin’ will happen, and you make it come true. “The Telegraph tells you things, too, if you listen just right. Like I say, most often it’s when somepony’s lookin’ at you, or is comin’ to call. Told me to put on extra coffee this mornin’, and there sure was no other way I knew company was comin’. That’s about the skinny of it.” He held his breath, waiting for Daring’s answer. She did not speak, but swirled the dregs of her coffee and chuckled a little. Clyde snorted and shook his head. “I knew it, I just knew it. You think I’m a kook.” “No, no, nothing like that!” She again raised her forehooves in an appeasing motion. “I mean, I believe in things when I see them, but I don’t blame you. It’s actually kind of charming.” “Charming?” “Yeah. In a ‘country’ sort of way.” As Daring said this, she caught Clyde’s look and quickly backpedaled. “I don’t mean it like that either! More like… I mean, I’ve had to deal with all kinds of weird superstitions, violent cults, monsters and things like that. Compared to tribes that think the sun requires sacrifices to rise, the ‘Buffalo Telegraph’ is kind of charming. But I gotta be honest—I don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors. It still comes from superstitious thinking: ‘after, therefore caused by.’ Sorry, but I don’t believe in anything I can’t find with my own five senses.” “Your five senses can’t find radiation,” Clyde said, “but it can kill you.” “That’s different. Radiation is something we can prove we can make.” Clyde decided this was the most he could hope for. “You sound like my father, rest his soul. And maybe your way’s been best for you. But I can’t afford to think that way. I lost so many years to bad luck, I need the Telegraph to play catch-up.” “I guess I understand, then. By the way, you got a special somepony?” With the suddenness of this question, Clyde had to check himself to avoid spitting out a mouthful of coffee. Instead, he managed to choke it down, cough, and say, “Come again?” “It’s no big deal,” Daring said. “I was just afraid that if you had one, she might come home to find you visiting a strange mare.” She shrugged. “Hey, don’t worry—I don’t have one either. Too much time on the road. Guess we have the same problem, kind of. Anyway...” She reached into the saddlebag again and withdrew a coin purse, from which she counted a stack of bits. “This is what I’d pay for a couple days at the Appleoosa Arms. How’s that for a deal?” “Looks fair to me,” Clyde said, glad to change the subject. “My covered wagon is out back. I use it for tourin’ with the rodeos, so rest assured it’s liveable.” He made to rise to his hooves. But Daring only half rose. “Thank you, but, uh, there’s one more thing. I don’t really have any supplies, and Caballeron probably has somepony watching the way into town, so…” “You’re wantin’ a disguise?” “One that covers this up, if possible.” She pointed to the shiner around her left eye. “Well, I just so happen to be a rodeo clown, so there’s no shortage o’ makeup. Ain’t got no mare’s clothes, but maybe we can improvise somethin’.” Clyde pointed his snout toward the closet next to the bookshelf. “Perfect!” Daring stood up and grinned broadly. “So you can fix me up with a new identity while I’m here?” “Sure.” Now it was Clyde’s turn to chuckle. “You might say, it’s almost like our meetin’ was meant to be.”