TALES OF THE DESERT RAT

by anarchywolf18


the stranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright. You got it,” one pony said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantastic!” Gunsmoke said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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