Manehattan was like a dead dog in desert heat. Full of maggots and shit. If it was up to Desert Rat he would have avoided Manehattan like the rotting carcass it was. But the bits promised for going there were too good to pass up.
When Desert Rat got off the train, he saw the half built skyscraper jutting up in the distance. Never before had he seen such a large building, and wondered why anypony needed anything more than the home-sized structures of the towns and outposts he had been to before.
As he walked through the crowded streets, the ponies around him stared curiously at him, as though they had never seen a pony from the frontier before. The drifter huffed under his breath at their sheltered nature. Beneath their ornate gowns and top hats were nothing more than a body of fluff, not fit for survival.
During his commute, Desert Rat mentally reviewed the assignment he was instructed. Find the Hoofbeat Hotel, and meet with Clear Skies. The so-called ‘noble’ who owned the very railway the drifter rode, and dozens of others. Other than that, he had no clear instruction of what to do.
After asking directions from a pair of socialites, the drifter plodded his way along to his destination.
The first thing he noticed was the overly ornate exterior, fit for only artsy types and pigeons with bowel problems. Not bothering anymore with the architecture, Desert Rat walked through the revolving glass doors.
Inside, the carpet felt of red velvet beneath the drifter’s hooves, and the walls were garishly colored with white wallpaper. So greatly did the colors clash that Desert Rat was surprised nopony needed to put on sun specs as soon as they walked in.
Desert Rat walked to the empty desk, and looked around for a clerk or a concierge. After seeing nopony of the sort, he raised his hoof and was about to slam it on the bell, before it was magically pulled away from him.
“No need for that. I’m right here,” said a green unicorn stallion, who wore a pressed suit and a well-groomed mustache. The moment he saw Desert Rat, his face changed to a disgusted grimace.
“Got a room for a tired traveler?” Desert Rat asked.
“Yes,” the concierge said. He pulled the guest book off the desk. “But, not for a half-breed.”
“How about a half-breed with a wad of cash?” the drifter said, as he levitated a roll of coins onto the counter from his pack.
“I’m afraid your money is not good here,” the clerk said, pushing away the coins.
“My money’s as good as the next pony’s. But, since you seem to be set in your ways: how about telling me which room Clear Skies is staying in?”
“There is no Clear Skies here. Good day,” the clerk said, dismissively waving off the drifter.
“Horse apples and hay seeds. Let me see that reading material of yours,” Desert Rat said, as he magically retrieved the guest book.
The clerk tried to take the book back with his own magic.
“Why, you impudent little--”
And that was all the clerk had time to say, before Desert Rat grabbed the clerk by his horn and held his head against the desk.
The drifter paid no attention to the protests of the stallion as his eyes scanned the page. There was Clear Skies, room 803. With a destination to go to, Desert Rat pushed the stallion against the wall, and walked to the lift.
“Eighth floor,” Desert Rat told the bellhop in the lift.
The teenaged colt attending the buttons looked warily at the drifter.
“Come on, kid. I never had any formal schooling, but even I can count to eight.”
Not wanting to press his luck with the rough-looking stranger, the bellhop pushed the button for the eighth floor, the doors closed, and the drifter was on his way up.
When Desert Rat reached eight floor, he walked down the carpeted hallway toward the third room from the end.
The moment he reached the door, something was amiss. The door itself was opened slightly, as though somepony had intentionally left it so. Warily, he approached the door and softly opened it.
Nothing was heard inside. Either somepony inside was expecting him, or they already left, and anypony still inside was dead.
The drifter slowly walked into the room, and found nothing at all amiss. The bed was made. The floor was spotless. And there were no dead bodies to be found.
On a nearby table, there was the only thing that seemed out of place. A briefcase that was placed wide open, revealing the contents within.
Desert Rat investigated the case, and found only papers inside. Each paper was a series of dates and times, followed by a brief text describing what happened that day. Likely, it was somepony’s business log.
“Awful rude, lookin’ through somepony’s belongings, don’t you think?” said a hoarse, smokey voice behind Desert Rat.
The drifter turned his head, and saw that three more ponies had entered the room. Two of them were solar empire guards. The third was a much older business pony. A pegasus whose noble attire was greatly contrasted by his rough worker’s face.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just cleaning up. Management hasn’t got me my uniform yet” Desert Rat said.
“Don’t be smart with me, boy! You better have a damn good reason for bustin’ into my room,” the pegasus said, as the guards behind him readied to draw their weapons.
“You saying this is your room? Then, you must be Clear Skies,” the drifter said.
For a moment, the pegasus was silent as he registered what was said to him.
“And I guess you’re Desert Rat,” he said.
“You got it,” the drifter answered.
With that revelation, the guards released their hold on their weapons.
“Sorry for busting in like this, but the door was open. Thought you might have met with a sour business deal,”Desert Rat said.
“Can’t say there’s any shortage of ponies lookin’ to off me. But, no. I just stepped out to get some ice,” Clear Skies chuckled, as he revealed the large bucket of ice on his back. “Pull up a chair, son. Let’s talk business while the wine cools.”
One of the guards magically retrieved a chair for Clear Skies to sit on at the nearby table. The other took the bucket of ice and placed the bottle of wine he was carrying into it.
Desert Rat used his own magic to pull up his own seat to the table. Once he was seated, he magically retrieved a cigarillo from his pocket.
Clear Skies watched, as a match magically levitated from Desert Rat’s pocket, struck, and applied to the smoke.
“Know what’s funny: the books say you’re a unicorn,” the pegasus said.
“I didn’t know I was wanted,” the drifter said.
“Not law books. Literature. Here,” Clear Skies said, as he retrieved a small, hundred page novella from inside his coat.
Desert Rat puffed on his cigarillo as he eyed the cover. The title was Equestria Frontier Tales, and the cover illustration depicted a brown unicorn who was levitating a smoking gun over a dead stallion.
“I suppose I should be flattered,” the drifter said, before he started flipping through the pages of the book.
“Flattered? Most stallions would kill to have their name remembered in a book of folk tales. Shame nopony will ever remember me fifty years from now,” Clear Skies chuckled. “‘Course, the stallions in these books are all the adventurin’ types. Outlaws and cow punchers. Who wants to hear about an old business stallion like me?”
Desert Rat glanced up from his book. The tone of the older stallion rang to him like a bell. Everything about the look of the pegasus was a contradiction, from his cleanly combed mane, to his rough, chipped hooves.
“You’re not just a business stallion, are you?” the drifter asked.
“You got me,” Clear Skies conceded. “There was a time when I was a lot like you. Going from town to town, trying to find my place in the world. Except, I was no gun for hire. I was a prospector.”
“Tomb raider?” Desert Rat asked, as he blew forth another cloud of smoke onto the pages of his book.
“I prefer ‘treasure hunter,’ myself,” Clear Skies chuckled. “Regardless of what you call me, I ended up findin’ my fortune and used it to build me my railroad empire.”
Desert Rat chuckled in turn.
“Sounds like you could fill two books with your exploits. And two more, if you add any embellishments,” the drifter said, as he closed the book.
“Oh? Are you sayin’ that you never shot the Two Gun Colt?” Clear Skies asked.
“Psh…” Desert Rat scoffed, as he closed the book and slid it back across the table. “No, I shot the guy. I just didn’t do it for the honor of the mare he was engaged to. I shot him because he was a lousy card cheat. And he was never engaged to anypony, far as I know.”
Both stallions shared a hearty laugh at the anecdote. But, they had spent enough time idling, and Clear Skies decided it was time to get to business.
“Anyhoo, it’s precisely my found fortune that brings you here today,” the pegasus continued.
“Yeah? You want me to guard it for you?” the drifter asked.
“No. I want you to get it back for me.”
Desert Rat leaned back in his seat, awaiting the explanation.
“What I need is for you to track down a chest of gold bars. A small part of my fortune, but a valuable and sentimental one to me. For your trouble, you will receive one hundred gold bits, and any compensations for your expenses,” the pegasus said.
Desert Rat blew another cloud of smoke.
“Make it one fifty plus expenses. And another one fifty when the job’s done,” the drifter said.
The guards glared contemptuously at Desert Rat. However, Clear Skies simply smiled.
“A stallion of principle, I see. Alright. It’s only a drop in the bucket to me,” he said. “Now, the gold was taken by one of my soon-to-be ex-business partners. A guy by the name of Rail Spike. Can’t miss him. He’s the only pony in the world with a face like a quarry eel. And I can tell you for sure that he’s still in the city.”
“Anything else I should know?” the drifter asked.
“Yes. This isn’t confirmed, but he’s believed to have employed the Black Hoof Syndicate for his protection.”
Desert Rat had not even finished his cigarillo, but put it out on the cover of the book on the table.
“That might add another hundred to the price,” the drifter said. “How many gold bars am I looking for?”
“Twelve. One for each bandit I had to off to get them,” Clear Skies answered.
Desert Rat smirked at the recollection. He had heard this story before. Not from any book, but from an elderly minotaur he met once. About a young prospector who had faced off against a dozen of the land’s most notorious bandits in Dustbelly Canyon, and lived to tell the tale. But, not before taking their treasure for himself.
“Tell me: was picking up a harpy and impaling them on a cactus just an embellishment?” Desert Rat asked.
“‘Fraid so. I shot that sucker out of the air, plain and simple. That bird was dead before he landed on that cactus,” Clear Skies said, smiling at the memory. “That sucker never saw that succulent coming.”
Again, both ponies shared a laugh at the memory. Desert Rat magically took the bottle of wine from the ice bucket, and poured two glasses.
“Here’s to our embellishments,” Desert Rat said.
“May we never be ordinary stallions,” Clear Skies agreed.
Both stallions drank from their glasses. While Clear Skies slowly sipped his, Desert Rat downed his in one gulp. He placed his glass on the table, and walked for the door.
“I want him alive, Desert Rat. Even if just barely,” Clear Skies said, without turning away from his drink.
Taking the hint, the drifter left to complete his newest objective.