//------------------------------//
// MANEHATTAN GOLD PART 2 
// Story: TALES OF THE DESERT RAT 
// by anarchywolf18 
//------------------------------//

The Black Hoof Syndicate was a mystery. And anypony around town only knew vague rumors of the group.

From the moment he accepted the job, Desert Rat knew it was going to be one of the toughest he ever took on.

He went over a mental checklist of objectives. The first would be to find somepony who knew anything that was remotely true about the Black Hoof Syndicate. And the place to look for them would be among the dregs of ponykind.

As luck would have it, one of them was staggering toward him at that very moment. A stallion with a red nose that stood out greatly against his yellow coat stumbled his way down the sidewalk, crumpling the suit he wore when he bumped into a gas lamp.

“Sorry...Do begg’r pard’n ma’am…” he slurred, politely lifting his hat. He looked puzzled at the hat in his hoof, “Oh look...Somepony’s lost th’r hat…”

“I’ll take that, if you don’t want it,” Desert Rat said, as he casually sauntered up to the drunk.

“You...Somethi’g so fine isnnnn’t fit for a pony so f’lthy…”

“Look who’s talking,” Desert Rat rebutted, “I’m looking for a good place to get shitfaced myself. Any suggestions?”

“Ah yes...I just happn’d t’ come...from th’ F. U. Bar down in the Five Points...A most reput...ble drinkery for the finest bl...blood…Not that you’ve got any of that, half-breed…”

The drunk keeled over, laughing at his own verbal jab, before he vomited profusely in the gutter.

“Pure blood alright. Pure alcohol,” Desert Rat said, before he passed the stallion and tripped him so that he landed face first into his own sick.

The five points was a place where all the major races shared their living space, instead of being separated into different burroughs and districts. There, tensions ran high as griffons, zebras, dragons, cats and ponies all broke out into fights as the slightest offense. And after only minutes of asking around, Desert Rat was able to find his way to the F. U. Bar at the very heart of the Five Points.

The outside of the bar gave the impression of a simple, yet welcoming establishment, given the polished oak door and the giant window that allowed the drifter to see inside to the many patrons. The only thing that contradicted the welcoming atmosphere was the name of the bar, which was scratched into the window as if by a large blade.

All was quiet as Desert Rat walked inside. The atmosphere was just as welcoming as it had let on, as the patrons all spoke in hushed murmurs to one another. However, if one listened closely, one would hear all manner of devious plots being concocted, from robberies to gang fights.

Interestingly, or perhaps depressingly, there was a police officer fast asleep at the bar. And he was paying for his negligence, as a young colt was picking his pockets for all he was worth.

The colt ran out the door when Desert Rat took his seat next to the officer. After the colt had gone, the drifter nudged his company awake.

“Hurrr…” the officer groaned.

“Sleeping on the job in the Five Points? I hear tell there’s no rest for the wicked. Good thing for them, since law and order needs so many breaks,” Desert Rat said.

“Don’t tell me how to do me feckin’ job, ya skirt-wearin’ poodle hump! T’e day a no account desert rat contributes to law an’ order in t’e city is t’e day I sprout wings from me bum!” the officer said, as he ambled to the door, cursing all the while to nopony in particular. “Feckin’ foals pickin’ me loike an apple tree in autumn again! I’ll have their balls marinatin’ in a shark tank for this!!”

Desert Rat paid no mind, and dropped a gold bit onto the table.

“Hey, barkeep. Got a bottle of whiskey for a thirsty traveller?” he called.

The barkeep, a donkey with a grey mane, grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him and delivered it to Desert Rat.

Before he could collect his payment, the drifter covered the coin with his hoof.

“I also need some information. About the Black Hoof Syndicate,” he said.

The barkeep scoffed quietly, and motioned with his ears to the side.

Desert Rat looked to the indicated direction, and saw a single griffin, who was the size of a young dragon, sitting alone in a booth by the corner. Only, he was not alone.

The reason for the barkeep’s silence became apparent, as Desert Rat became aware of the presence of many other griffins who were seated at the bar and the other booths around the establishment. Each one of them glancing around the room, as they pretended to focus on their drinks, or the company with them.

After silently assessing them, Desert Rat magically picked up his whiskey bottle and carried it with him as he walked across the room.

The vigilant eyes of the many griffins caught the lone pony, who was walking as if he hadn’t a care in the world right toward their gigantic leader.

Some of them turned in their seats. Others stood up and slowly started closing in on the brazen drifter.

Desert Rat took his seat across from the oversized griffin, who quickly looked up from his own drink.

“What do you want, half-breed?” the griffin asked, in a deep voice.

“Nothing much. Just rumors, really,” Desert Rat said.

“Then beat it. Before I send you out of here a leg short.”

“But, I’m just so curious to know anything about the Black Hoof Syndicate.”

For the hushed murmurs that were present, the following silence was barely noticeable.

Many moments passed. Until the silence was broken by the griffin.

“What do you know about the Black Hoof Syndicate?”

“Nothin’ much,” Desert Rat replied. “But, I hear they pay good money for griffin pelts.”

“You’re not scaring anypony, drifter. I’ll tell you this much, though: the less you know about the Black Hoof Syndicate, the better. So, butt out and mind your own business,” the griffin said.

“Under normal circumstances, I might listen to you. Except, I got the best paying job I’ve had in a long time to finish. And I need to take on the Black Hoof to do it.”

The entire bar erupted with laughter, as if a joke had been told to the entire establishment.

Desert Rat ignored the sound, and simply drank from his whiskey bottle. By the time he finished, the laughter had stopped, and he put his drink back down.

“Listen,” the drifter began, “I really do hate to intrude on your time. But, I have a job to do. And I’m going nowhere, until you tell me what I want to know.”

“You’re leaving when I want you to,” the griffin said, gesturing to his cronies.

“Doesn’t matter how many goons you send. I’m gonna hear what I want to know one way or another,” Desert Rat said, not even glancing to his side.

As if an eye had been blinked, and changed the fabric of existence, Desert Rat’s bottle of whiskey smashed over the head of the griffin’s henchman that was closest to him.

The underling reeled backwards, and the broken bottle was jammed into the arm of the one next to him.

Desert Rat jumped from his seat, just as he saw a gun being drawn by another griffin.

He magically grabbed a barstool and swung it into the back of the griffin, forcing him to sit.

The griffin fired his gun the moment he was hit, missing Desert Rat completely and putting a hole in one of the walls.

Desert Rat magically yanked the stool from beneath him and used it to hit another griffin who was reaching for his weapon. He then broke the stool over the head of the griffin who had been forced to sit on it.

Sensing danger behind himself, the drifter drew his sawed-off, thrusted it backwards and fired.

The mouth of the barrel had rested directly against the chest of a griffin who had his own gun aimed at Desert Rat, and went flying across the room the moment the drifter fired.

The giant griffin had enough. He was going to end it himself, and drew a repeater rifle the size of a small cannon from under the table. Before he even had a chance to fire, the barrel of Desert Rat’s dragoon jammed into his beak.

“You got four injured and one dead. I can easily take them all out, and you with them. So, what’s it gonna be?” Desert Rat said.

The griffin looked at the gun that was pressed into his face, and weighed it against the gun he had pointed at the drifter. All he had to do was squeeze. But, if his opponent fired first…

“Alright. There’s a gambling den on 51st street. Check around there for anything you want to know,” the griffin said.

It was not what Desert Rat wanted to hear, but he at least had some semblance of a lead. And with a huff, he left the bar.

The giant griffin watched him go, debating whether or not to shoot him in the back. He knew that one would only turn their back on an armed enemy if they were either very dumb, or were completely certain of their ability defend themselves from any attack. After seeing what the drifter had done, he was certain of it too.






51st street wasn’t far from the F. U. Bar. After only walking a few streets over, Desert Rat found his way to his destination. After the first few steps down the sidewalk, he kept his ears open for the usual sounds of gambling revelry.

In the distance, he heard the distinct shout of victory coming from a building that looked like a cheap hotel. Behind him, he caught a smell of cheap tobacco.

“Been following me since the F. U., have you?” Desert Rat said, as he turned around and looked down to see the very same colt who had been picking the police officer’s pocket earlier.

The colt, a unicorn with a white coat, spotted with yellow, and a loosely rolled cigarette in his mouth, stood tall and proud as he presented himself.

“Yeah. But, it’s not like I want anything you got. I just want to know something,” the colt said.

“What’s that?”

“Are you Desert Rat? Because you look a hell of a lot like the hero from the pulps. But, the books say you’re a unicorn.”

For the second time that day, Desert Rat rolled his eyes at the notion of being wildly distorted by folk depictions.

“Yeah, it’s me. But, as you can see, I ain’t no unicorn,” he said, lifting his cavalry hat to reveal his two horns. “Now, how about you. I gave you my name. So, it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

Once again, the foal presented himself proudly.

“Name’s Lucky. Best pickpocket this side of the Manehattan!,” he boasted.

“Best pickpocket, eh?” Desert Rat dismissively huffed. “Is that really true? Or is that just an embellishment you came up with after only choosing marks that are sleeping?”

“Aw, suck a gutter. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You watch me at the derby. I can get away with a bigger haul than any of the pigeons bettin’ on any races,” Lucky said.

“We’ll see if your bragging holds up. I might need a pickpocket where I’m going,” the drifter said.

“Really? Where?” Lucky said, with an undertone of eager enthusiasm.

“Gambling den. Somewhere over there. I’m looking for a pony who might know where another pony’s hiding.”

“And that was worth making enemies with the screaming eagles over?”

Desert Rat huffed lowly, and went toward the direction of the noise he heard earlier. Behind him, Lucky trotted after.

“Eagles only scream before they die. I’m not too worried about making enemies,” Desert Rat said.

Though the outside of the gambling den looked cheap, the inside was deceptively well-furnished. Complete with a fountain in the middle of its dimly lit game floor.

Paying no mind to the bouncer at the front, Desert Rat walked in with Lucky close in tow.

Shortly after entering, the bouncer quickly left his post to stop the two newcomers.

“A half-breed’s money is worth just as much as everypony else’s. I don’t see any reason for trouble,” Desert Rat said.

“Not you. The colt. No foals allowed,” the bouncer said, pointing to Lucky.

“Ya can’t throw me out. I’m his good luck charm,” Lucky said.

“Read the sign, punk,” the bouncer said, indicating a sign on the wall. “No weapons. No minors. No good luck charms. Between the two of you, you violate all three rules.”

Across the way, a cat in a freshly pressed pinstripe suit and top hat noticed the trouble by the door. It wasn’t so much the situation that attracted his attention, so much as the pony involved in it. If it was who he thought it was, he knew he was in for a greater profit than he was already fleecing the house for.

With a devilish glint in his eye, he walked forward.

“I’m not asking you again: get the hell out!” the bouncer said demanded.

“I ain’t too keen about listening to scrubs like you. I’m walking in here, whether you like it or not,” Desert Rat replied.

Lucky recoiled when Desert Rat and the bouncer both drew their guns.

“Well, tar and feather me, and call me a turkey. Is that Ke-Woh-No-Tay? I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” said a voice.

Desert Rat looked and saw the well-dressed cat quickly approaching. A familiar black tabby from a steamboat robbery some time back in New Horsleans.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you for hours. How’d ya get here? By way of Prance?” the cat turned to the bouncer, “Thanks for doing your job and all, but these fine gents are with me. I’ll let this little incident slide, so long as you don’t hold up my appointments anymore.” He turned back to Desert Rat, “Come along, friends. Let me take you to my private booth.”

That was the end of the altercation. Desert Rat defiantly holstered his guns, and he and Lucky followed after the cat.
“Friend of yours?” Lucky asked.

“Hardly. Doc Furaday’s a professional gambler by trade. Last time we saw each other, he cheated me out of half my pay for the bounty he had almost no hand in,” Desert Rat answered.

“He stinks like hell!”

“Guy’s a niphead. He says those catnip cigs he smokes are for his cat scratch fever. But, I ain’t seen him have so much as a sniffle since I met him.”

“Is it true he took twenty magnum slugs to the gut?”

“It was one shot with a derringer. In the tail. I know, ‘cause I’m the one who shot him.”

The two ponies followed Doc to his private booth, which was immediately attended to by a waiter.

“Prompt service, sport. I like that. Get me and my associates a bottle each of your finest wine within the minute, and I’ll quadruple your tip,” Doc said.

“You got it!” the waiter eagerly said, before he ran off.

“Winning big, huh?” Desert Rat said, as he lit up a cigarillo.

“And how!” Doc Furaday said, as he presented the contents of a gigantic sack of cash. “Far be it from me to be stingy. Spend as much as you like on whatever you want here. Fine dining. Entertainment. Female company. It’s all on me.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lucky said, taking a hoofful of coins and presenting them to a passing whore.

The mare scoffed slightly at the sight of a colt, who could not have been more than thirteen years old, but was not about to pass up a paying customer.

“This is where I stop being a colt,” Lucky said, with a lustful enthusiasm.

The mare laughed at him.

“Honey, you’re not going to stop being a colt for a long, long time. But, for the time being, you and me can talk about what it takes to get there,” she said, before leading Lucky to an empty table.

“Since when is Desert Rat, famed bounty hunter, a foalsitter?” Doc Furaday asked.

“Since about three minutes ago. Met the kid outside the den. Says he’s a pickpocket,” Desert Rat answered, taking a puff on his cigarillo.

“Ha! And they say I make a dishonest living. Taking a pickpocket to a gambling den? What’s next? Poison to a horse race?” Doc laughed. “So, tell me: what brings the scourge of frontier no-goodniks to the big city?”

“Got a new job. One that’s paying real big,” Desert Rat said.

He had said the right word. Doc Furaday’s brow rose slowly, and a smirk crawled onto the corner of his mouth.

“Ya don’t say. How much?” Doc asked.

“Sorry. I don’t say.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Doc said, with only a hint of disdain. “Can you at least tell me the nature of a job that takes you all the way to my neck of the woods?”

“I’m looking for a pony. A guy called Rail Spike. He’s pissed off a lot of creatures around here. And I’m findin’ him,” Desert Rat said.

“Must be a real high roller to pay enough to haul you out of the dust.”

“He’s not. But, he’s got the Black Hoof Syndicate backin’ him up.”

Doc Furaday paused for just a moment.

“Well...That’s a real high stake venture, right there. So, what’s the plan? Find one of the Black Hooves, and ask them where this Rail Spike is hiding?” he asked.

“More or less,” Desert Rat answered.

Doc Furady could not stop laughing at what he heard. But, he stopped the moment the waiter arrived.

“Your drinks,” he said, sweating slightly.

Doc took a pocket watch from his coat and examined the time.

“Fifty-seven seconds. Not bad, sport. Here. As promised. And take one of these bottles to the colt at the booth behind me,” he said, shoving over the waiter’s massive tip.

The waiter eagerly took the money, ready to retire early from the sheer amount. After stuffing his pockets, he delivered the bottle to Lucky, who was the only colt sitting at a table full of mares, each one offering their advice about how to treat a lady.

“That little shit’s going straight to the races after this,” Desert Rat said, as he watched the waiter skip off.

“When he does, I’ll be right there to profit off of his losses,” Doc said. “Anyhoo, how exactly do you plan to get the Black Hoof to tell you where this Rail Spike fellow is?”

“Simple,” Desert Rat said, smirking as a cloud of smoke enveloped his face, “I’ll ask ‘em real nicely.”