//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: The Outlaw, The Star and the Big, Big Sky // by TotalOverflow //------------------------------// The Outlaw, The Star and the Big, Big Sky By TotalOverflow, 2012         Chapter 1         It had taken longer than anyone had wished, a month or two at least, until the clock tower was finally rebuilt and restored to its former glory.  It wasn’t that nopony cared about the tall keeper of time, far from it: before it had fallen in the battle it had become a sort of symbol for the small town, a reference point for any wagon trains to spot on the horizon and know they were still on the right path for the settlement of Appleloosa.  Unfortunately, life, as it so often does, came in the way and repairs on the clock tower were pushed further and further back until the townsfolk had nearly become accustomed to the cracked, splintery mess above town hall.  The well-being of ponies was the town’s top priority, and with the number of homes to repair, apple trees to buck and personal businesses to run, everypony just sort of lost track of the unrelenting passage of time.         “Ironic,” he chuckled to himself.           He had missed the sight of the clock tower.  He anointed himself head of the restoration project, constantly pestering Sheriff Silverstar to rebuild the thing.  The sheriff finally agreed, and with some volunteering from the buffalo (who claimed they needed to make up for the awful mess they caused) the tower stood tall once again, proudly and loudly proclaiming the passage of every hour with its bronze bells.  He watched as the minute hand ticked its final tick, and listened with a smile on his face as the tolls rang throughout the town.  He chuckled as few ponies jumped at the sudden noise.  There had been a movement to restore only the clock face and stash away the bells, as many had grown used to and even enjoyed the silence.  He couldn’t agree with them, though.  The town just didn’t feel right without those bright and happy chimes.         “Braeburn!”         His golden mane swirling in the air, he turned to face the voice, tipping his hat at the approaching stallion.         “Sheriff,” said Braeburn, his bright and friendly green eyes glowing beneath his Stetson.  The sheriff was grinning ear-to-ear, although most wouldn’t know it from the massive mustache hiding half his face.         “You finally got yer wish, huh?” he chuckled, “I gotta admit, the town just wasn’t the same without it.”         “It sure weren’t.  It was too quiet.”         “Well it ain’t gonna be fer much longer,” Silverstar said, pulling on his red neckerchief, “tomorrow night’ll be quite the night.  Speakin’ of, the orchards could sure use yer help fer the harvestin’.  I’ve invited Chief Thunderhooves out fer the celebration, so we’ll need ta make plenty o’ extra apple pies,” he added with a chuckle.         “I didn’t know the buffalo celebrated the Summer Sun Celebration,” puzzled Braeburn.         “I didn’t know they did either, but apparently them buffalo are pretty big into that sort o’ thing,” said the sheriff, eyeing the cherry-colored clock tower, “Chief Thunderhooves said he’s holding his own celebration as well, but that he’d pay ours a visit.”         Braeburn nodded his understanding and watched the clock tower tick away for a second or two before bidding the sheriff ‘goodbye,’ then trotted toward the edge of town and its apple orchard.  Silverstar was one Braeburn’s closest friends, being one of the first to arrive into the fledgling town.  At the time he was no more than a wandering cowpony with a strong sense of justice, borderline unnatural accuracy with a revolver and no place to call his home.  The mustache grew in later.           Just as he was about to round a corner, Braeburn stopped and looked out into the desert, past the small train station.  Far off into the distance the panoramic view of rocky hills and plains distorted with the heat.  He chewed his lip.  Several months ago, back when the town was little more than a railroad and a pile of timber and Silverstar had recently arrived, somepony had noticed something out in that direction.  A small, black dot, rapidly approaching the new town.  It wasn’t until it came closer that its snarls and shrieks could be heard, but by then it had spotted its equine targets, shaking its frothing head and charging with freakish speed.           Few things were more frightening than a rabid coyote.           Some ponies scattered while others were glued to the spot in fear as the snarling, gnashing beast bore down upon them.  Just as it leapt the train tracks a deafening explosion rang across the desert.  The coyote fell to the ground, dead.  Shot through the neck.  All eyes were turned to the smoking revolver on Silverstar’s hoof.  Shortly after he was chosen as sheriff for the new town, and ponies slept well at night knowing they were protected by such a skilled sharpshooter.         It was the first time most of the ponies in town at the time had ever even seen a gun.  The devices were so rare and poorly regarded in today’s time that they had probably hoped to never see one.  It was unfortunate, really, what the invention of the firearm inadvertently brought with it.  Braeburn didn’t know the whole story of what led to its creation, but he knew that many ponies living in the deserts outside Equestria used the devices as a means of self defense.  And that’s all they were for a time: devices, designed to protect one’s family from rattlesnakes, scorpions and the occasional chupacabra.  But at some point a squall broke out between a pair of families, and one drew his revolver upon the other.           The first murder by gun.         From there, outlaws and bandits grew in number, realizing the potential for plundering these new weapons could offer.  Firearms were immediately banned within Equestria, and production halted at once.  Any remaining guns had become relics of a bygone age, kept only by outlaws or those trusted enough to use them in the most dire of circumstances.         “Hey there, Vinny!” Braeburn smiled as he passed his friend, a pale, cream-coated stallion with an icy blue mane leaning against a doorpost.  He had a bunch of grapes for a cutie mark, and his talent wasn’t too hard to guess at.         “Hey!” he called back, tipping his ten-gallon hat he wore to better blend in with the town.  A valiant effort, but a city slicker was easy to spot out here in the desert: they never ventured far from the shade.         “Lookin’ forward ta t’morrow night?” asked Braeburn, slowing his pace a little as he trotted by.         “You know it,” chuckled Vinny, pulling his hat down over his eyes, “got my harvest all set and ready for the party, but don’t feel too bad; I’m sure everypony will still try one or two of your apples.”         “You’ll be eatin’ them words come tomorrow night,” guffawed the yellow stallion as he turned a corner, “and you need to work on losin’ that city slicker accent!”         “Keep walking,” Vinny shouted after him.           Smiling and waving to passing ponies, Braeburn approached the edge of town, marveling at just how grand the little frontier town was becoming.  With all the hard work put in by everypony, Appleloosa was built within a year, and then even more ponies rolled in: ponies searching for work or adventure, families looking for a better home, and tired souls yearning for a second chance at life.         The air around him was suddenly filled with the delicious smell of the bakery.  Out in front of the shop stood two ponies Braeburn knew: a blue-grey stallion and his new fiancé, a light green mare wearing her bonnet.  Braeburn let loose a wide grin as he approached the pair.         “Slate!  Minty!” he beamed, “just heard the good news!  Congratulations!”         The two smiled and leaned into each other.  “Thanks Braeburn,” chuckled Slate, “Ah’m a lucky stallion.  Minty’s too good fer me.”         “She sure is,” whinnied Braeburn, winking to the mare, “it’s not too late ta change your mind!”         “The stars would hafta fall to earth b’fore Ah’d do that!” she smiled her loving smile and gave Slate’s neck a nuzzle, “I was waitin’ day in an’ out fer Slate ta finally work up the nerve ta ask.”         “Asked her up on Luna’s Loft, too,” blushed Slate, his cheeks turning pink, “got a great view o’ the valley from up there.”         “He made you trot all the way past the orchard an’ up Luna’s Loft?” Braeburn gasped dramatically, “shame on you, Slate!  Tain’t no way ta treat a lady!  You’d better learn some manners b’fore the weddin’!”           Slate was about to defend himself when a filly with a curly red mane poked her head out the bakery door.         “Cousin Braeburn!” she called.         “Applebumpkin!” he tipped his hat to his baker cousin.         “You’d best hurry to the orchard!  Marmalade’s goin’ ta be furious if she catches you slackin’ off!”         “Yeah, guess you’re right,” sighed Braeburn, resuming his journey to the orchard, “I’ll see y’all later!”  The others waved goodbye behind him.         “Lucky colt,” Braeburn muttered to himself, the smile still plastered on his face, “good fer Slate.”  That blue pony was a completely different person the day he stumbled across the town.  The poor colt was beaten, bruised, and even a little malnourished.  He spent days hiding out of sight in the alleys of Appleloosa, stealing food, money and apple pies from window-sills wherever he could.  When he was finally caught, he was backed against the clocktower, his mane slick with sweat and his eyes filled with fear as he clutched his knife, swinging it wildly at the growing crowd.  Silverstar approached him and spoke gently to him.  Braeburn couldn’t hear what the sheriff said, but the blue stallion quickly broke down into tears.  Sheriff Silverstar had compassion on Slate, and offered him the chance to start again.  He wouldn’t even have to serve any jail time.         That was neither the first nor the last time such an act of mercy happened in this town.  Silverstar, his own past shrouded in mystery, could see past outward appearances and find the goodness within the wandering desperadoes that found the town, repentant of the lives they’d lived and fearful of the futures that loomed before them.  The sheriff offered them solace and protection, if they would leave their dark pasts behind and put their all into building a safe, reliable home for others, to which they were more than happy to oblige, voluntarily relinquishing any weapons they may have possessed.  Some of the stallions that had stumbled across the town were so ragged and beaten, backs burdened with a thousand unspeakable crimes that Braeburn had actually feared for his life on more than one occasion, but like Slate, you’d never know it from their appearance now.  Hard work and the love of others had taken those wretched lives and turned them around into upstanding citizens.  Braeburn could empathize with those ponies; after all, there were things in his past that he’d rather forget about too.         And so, everypony worked hard, creating a town just as safe and friendly as that little slice of heaven, Ponyville.  The jail they’d built had never been used, and Sheriff Silverstar had only twice needed to use his revolver since the founding of the town.  In fact, his revolver was probably the last firearm in town.         Well...second last.         “There ya are, Braeburn!”           The sudden shout came from a pony Braeburn knew all too well, his twin sister Marmalade, who currently, as she has often in the past, was standing atop a stack of equines in an attempt to oversee the harvest and pluck a few apples at the same time.  “‘Bout time you showed up!  Now hustle on down here an’ git buckin’!”         “Hello to you too, sis,” replied Braeburn, hopping down the small hill toward the tree line.  The orchard was filled with busy ponies, bucking the fruits from their leafy homes and hauling them away.  “How’s the harvest?”         “Just fine, no thanks to you,” she scowled, her purple, perpetually perturbed eyes glaring down her yellow snout.  Save those sarcastic eyes, the younger sibling’s likeness was uncanny: same golden coat, same peachy mane (hers presently done up in a pair of pigtails); the only thing separating them besides their cutie marks was their near polar opposite personalities.  “Now come on!  We’ve got ta get this finished b’fore the celebration!”         “Calm down, Marmalade!” laughed the stallion, straightening his leather vest, “there’s still a day yet ‘til the celebration!  We’ve got plenty of time.”  Braeburn tipped his hat to the two colts forming Marmalade’s tower (who gave him a pleading ‘help us’ look) and made his way to the nearest tree, then gave it a swift buck, knocking the fruits from its branches and into the baskets around its base.  The mid-afternoon sun cast short shadows between the trees and glittered upon the hills and plateaus in the desert’s distance.         Marmalade Jalapeno Popette Apple, as was her full name (but don’t ever call her by it), was his only sister, and the only member of his immediate family to stay behind in Appleloosa.  Marmalade took over supervision duties for the orchard, and while Braeburn still helped out with the apple trees, he found himself working closely with Sheriff Silverstar on a daily basis, micromanaging the town and its economy, which he enjoyed.  He liked taking care of the apple trees too, but...well, when you’re the only one out there it can get terribly lonely.         After the town was running on its own, a fair amount of Braeburn’s extended family had stayed behind, continuing their work in the town.  Only a dozen or so members of the Apple Family lived in the town right now, but the Apple Family itself was incredibly large.  Cousins, uncles, aunts; there were so many that the family often lost track of just how they were all related to each other, which made things awfully confusing during the Apple Family Reunions.         With satisfying ‘thunks’ apples fell into Braeburn’s basket.  He hummed a little, picking up the basket and trotting through the trees.  The sun’s heat was abated by a light breeze and the shade of the fluttering green leaves, the canopy casting a shining light show upon the dusty ground.  Although not really an ideal location for planting trees (but really, no place in a desert is), it was the best place around to do it, being the only suitable flatland for miles near any sort of river.  Irrigation channels had been built throughout the acreage, and Marmalade would revel in any opportunity she got to tell off a pony for drinking from it.  Still humming his tuneless song Braeburn stepped between the trees toward a large cart, proceeding to unload his basket’s contents therein.  Doing the same thing was a light blue filly, a massively pink hat upon her head.         “Hey there,” smiled Braeburn, “ain’t seen you ‘round the apple orchard before.  Name’s Braeburn!”         “Linky,” the mare nodded, “Ah’m jes’ helpin’ out fer the celebration.  Had a day off from work so Ah figured Ah’d lend a hoof.”         “Well we sure do ‘preciate the help,” chuckled Braeburn, turning to gaze at the small forest, “got a fair ‘mount of work to do yet, but we’ll get ‘er done, no problem.”           “That’s fer sure,” sighed the filly, propping her basket onto her back and trotting off, “better git back ta it.”         “Y’know, them apples are the finest around.  I bet they’re even sweeter’n my relative’s out in Ponyville.  Heh, this one time, me an’ Big Mac-” Braeburn suddenly felt rather silly, having just discovered he was talking to thin air as he looked back.  He sighed, scooped up his empty basket and returned to his work.  “Nevermind, tain’t a good story anyway.”         The work in the orchard went by, the dry heat of the desert lessened by the small channels of water that intertwined the trees.  After an hour or two of solid work (with the occasional ‘hooch under the tree’ break) the apples were hauled away to the bakery, where they would be transformed into delectables for the following day.  Braeburn ambled back into town with the others, striking up short conversations with whoever he found himself walking beside.           “Howdy partner!” Braeburn fell into step with a grey stallion, “Cinder, right?  You were in line fer the promotion at the quarry t’day!”         “Fell through,” he grumbled, “went ta some kid.”         “Darn shame,” sighed Braeburn, “I’m sure you’ll get the next one.”         “Better.  I put a lot o’ hard work into that pit o’ rocks, even with them quakes goin’ on.”         “Oh, are they still happenin’?  I’da thought they’d be finished by now.”         “Yeah, couple weeks now, but none too strong, so nopony’s been hurt.  Some of them other yeller-bellies up an’ run whenever a quake starts though, but not me.  Least I deserve is some recognition.”         “Hey now, that quarry is one o’ the town’s biggest sources of income!” consoled Braeburn, “if it weren’t fer hard workin’ ponies like you, the town wouldn’t last.”         “Speakin’ of hard work, maybe you should find some,” chuckled Cinder as he hopped up the steps to the saloon.  “Do you do any work ‘round here?”         “I’m doin’ more’n you at the moment,” smirked Braeburn.           Cinder rolled his eyes and pushed through the swinging doors of The Salt Block.         “‘Do I do any work,’ pheh,” Braeburn grumbled to himself, walking through town.  Admittedly, it may look like he just spent all day talking to people, but he actually had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders.  As an assistant to the sheriff, days were spent engaging townsfolk and organizing events, settling smaller disputes and lending a hoof wherever he was needed.  Helping maintain the town’s economy, following local affairs and acting as goodwill ambassador to any visitors were all things he enjoyed, so he really was a perfect fit for the job.         It was the hot days, when everyone was itchy and hairy and irritable that Braeburn dreaded.  The days where everypony was too hot to talk, or too busy with work to keep company, and chances of visitors on such days were slim.  But days like today, when ponies were excited, happy to accept help and a cool breeze kept temperaments even that Braeburn enjoyed.           “Ahoy-hoy,” blurted Marmalade, who had quietly snuck up beside the stallion, poking him in the neck.         Braeburn jumped a little.  “Hey sis!  You’re in a good mood!”         “Don’t get lippy with me, li’l brother,” she pointed a hoof at her twin, trying and failing to hide her smile, “if Ah didn’t need ta go an’ teach some slackers how ta wash them apples, Ah’d give yer hide a right tannin’ fer bein’ late fer the harvest!”         “Whatever you say, li’l sis,” smirked Braeburn, patting the top of her head.         She punched him in the side.  And not a light punch, either.         “If yer lookin’ ta get pummeled, keep on actin’ like a mule!”         “If I wanted to get pummeled I’d come help you wash apples,” Braeburn winced, “those colts you’re trainin’ will probably need grief counselin’ by the end o’ the night.”         “Only if they bruise any o’ mah apples!” she snorted as she galloped off.  Letting out a brief chuckle Braeburn massaged his side and resumed his trot.  Even his sister was in a good mood now.         For the rest of the afternoon, Braeburn did what he did best, visiting businesses and checking up on preparations for the party.  As the day drew to a close, however, the dusty roads of Appleloosa emptied as families gathered for supper.  Braeburn sighed, finding himself alone in the center of town.  With a brisk canter he made his way for home, a small, one-story house on the edge of town, a short distance away from the orchard.  Some may even call it a ‘shack,’ and he couldn’t say much in its defense.  He didn’t waste any time letting himself in, and took a quick glance around the inside.  To his left was what served as a kitchen: a pantry, a table with two empty chairs and a window facing town.  Against the far wall rested the saloon’s old piano he adopted when the saloon acquired a new, automated one with all its keys.  Next to it was the door to his bedroom, slightly ajar.  Against the wall to his right was a sofa, an old record player, a lamp, and that was it.  A functional home.  But that’s all it was.         “All right,” he hummed to himself, breaking the silence, “let’s see what there is to eat.”  Ambling over to the pantry he took a look inside, sighing inwardly at the nearly empty shelves.  Only a single apple and a can of peaches.  “Guess this’ll have to do,” said the stallion, “apples an’ peaches always go down well together, right?” he glanced back at the empty table.  “...Right.”         He gulped down his dinner, glancing once or twice out the window to see the sun slowly descending over the empty streets of town.  After he ate he stepped over to his piano, playing out a few tunes here and there that he made up on the fly before pulling out some old sheet music, ‘I’ll Keep Riding On,’ doing his best to play with little success.  His attempts at music were thrown horribly off-kilter by a few missing keys and his large hooves, turning what should have been soothing melodies into exercises in frustration.  Even if the piano still had all its yellowed keys, Braeburn knew he wouldn’t be able to play as well as that little dragon that came with Applejack and her friends during their visit the other month.  Celestia knew Braeburn practiced his piano day in and out, and here comes this little dragon who can play by ear.  He was amazing at that pink pony’s show, and apparently that was one of the first times he’d ever even touched a piano.  Braeburn became even more determined after that, envious of that dragon’s skill -- and his fingers.  “I need to get this thing tuned someday,” he winced after playing a particularly sour note.         After fooling around on the piano for a while longer, Braeburn peeked out the window to see the distant roads of town once again filling with ponies.  He smiled and trotted out his front door, slamming it unceremoniously behind him.  A quiet night at home alone was not his idea of a good time.         For a few hours Braeburn milled about town, discussing a few economical matters with the sheriff and checking in on the preparations for the celebration, and he loved every second.  From a distance he watched Marmalade berating some poor colts for their improper technique at washing apples, and he even paid a visit to the local paper, ‘The Mosquito.’  A fitting name, considering the editor’s tendency to make news rather than just report on it, giving for an entertaining (if scandalous) weekly read.  Many considered it less a weekly paper and more a recurring pest.  Headlines such as ‘Gold Rush in Appleloosa’ (when someone planted a golden delicious tree) and ‘Death From Above’ (when a falling apple gave somepony a bump on the head) were standard fare, but probably the most infamous was when the paper reported on ‘Rising Rebellion in Appleloosa’ when a few disobedient foals wouldn’t listen to their parents about eating their spinach.         After asking the editor to go easy with the metaphors this week, Braeburn trotted down to his cousin’s bakery where he helped Applebumpkin get her materials in order for the morning, then took a trip over to the clock tower and had a casual conversation with the curator about the restoration progress.  As the evening wore on, Braeburn found himself strolling down the main street again.  He looked to the sun resting upon the horizon and hummed with satisfaction at a good day.  Looking down the road he saw a small crowd gathered around the entrance of the sheriff’s office and trotted over.  Once closer, the yellow stallion could see that a bison had paid a visit, a large fellow (even by buffalo standards) with a dark brown coat and a trio of feathers behind his ear.  He was talking with the sheriff, who caught sight of Braeburn and called him over.         “Howdy Braeburn!”         “Evenin’ sheriff,” nodded Braeburn.  He turned his bright smile to the buffalo and extended a hoof.  “Howdy!  Name’s Braeburn!”         The buffalo took the stallion’s hoof in his own: large, cloven, and worn with a lifetime of dwelling in the desert.  His right horn was chipped slightly, and his eyes were mismatched: one brown, the other a light blue.  “I am Watergaze.”  His voice was wise and strong, yet still young and energetic.         “Watergaze here was just extendin’ an invitation fer us ta join Chief Thunderhooves fer an evenin’ o’ story tellin’,” Sheriff Silverstar explained, “but I’m afraid I can’t go.  Got ta keep an eye over the preparations t’night, but if you’d like ta go in my place, Braeburn, be my guest.  I’m sure there’s room fer one more visitor?”         “There is,” nodded Watergaze, “but we should make haste or we’ll miss the beginning of the stories.”         “Lead the way!” said Braeburn.  About a dozen or so ponies joined them, and the group kept a brisk pace as they made their way across the plains.  Braeburn recognized most of the ponies in their party, and he saw Vinny near the back, but none of his relatives were among them.  He shivered slightly, the air cooling as the sky grew ever darker.  Quickening his gait he caught up with the buffalo.         “So Watergaze,” he began, “you don’t seem like some o’ the other buffalo I’ve met.”         “Why do you say that?” asked the bison, casting a sideways look at Braeburn.         “The buffalo I’ve met seemed more...uh...” he looked up to see Watergaze holding his steady stare on him, his blue eye unwavering.  “Heh, what I mean is that you’re kinda...um...The way you talk ain’t so, er...”         The buffalo was silent.         “...Maybe I should just shut up,” blushed the stallion.         “That may be a wise decision.”         Braeburn let his stride slacken a bit, giving Watergaze some space.           “Smooth,” chuckled Vinny, who had snuck up behind.  Braeburn frowned and stared off into space.           He, as his sister loved to remind him, had a bit of a deficit in the brain-mouth filter department.  Once he got talking he could find it hard to stop.  Luckily, it had never got him into any serious trouble yet, but it sure had come close in the past.  He meant no insult when he spoke with Watergaze.  All he wanted to point out was that many buffalo had a more informal style of speech (excepting the chief) while Watergaze’s was much more thoughtful and deliberate.  Quite unlike Braeburn’s chronic verbal diarrhea.         He was good at taking it all in stride, so he swallowed down his embarrassment and within a minute was holding a casual conversation with a tourist pony named Berry Punch about her trip, and her home in Ponyville.  Watergaze led the group around a large flat-topped hill, upon which a vigil bison stood, signaling the group’s arrival to another bison on a distant plateau.           “That’s weird,” Berry Punch mumbled to Braeburn, “didn’t know the buffalo had lookouts.”  Braeburn chewed his lip for a moment, thinking this over.           “There’s probably a lot we don’t know ‘bout them,” he finally answered.  The other pony looked to him for a second before tilting her head in agreement.         “I guess.”         After a few minutes of winding trails and silence Braeburn cleared his throat and worked up the nerve to talk to Watergaze again.         “Uh, hey Watergaze,” he said, coughing a little, “your people are nomadic, right?”         “Correct,” was the reply.         “When’s the last time y’all moved?  Er, is that what you call it?  Moving?”         “Migrating,” said the buffalo, turning his gaze upon the pony, “we migrate far and wide throughout this region over the course of the year: north during the summer seasons and further south in winter.”         “Why’s that?”         “It is traditional,” he said, pride filling his voice, “but it is also for food.  Our ancestors charted the best locations to graze at all periods of the year, and we have never been led astray by them.  We hold our traditional stampede in these valleys, and after we were able to complete the run this year,” he added, earning an embarrassed wince from Braeburn, “we settled in these hills.”         “But that was a couple months ago!  Tain’t a whole lot to eat out here,” Braburn remarked, glancing around the arid and rocky hillside, “how come you’ve stayed ‘round here so long?”         Watergaze frowned, staring ahead.  “It is...a buffalo matter.  Please do not concern yourself on our behalf,” he said with finality.  Braeburn frowned, carefully navigating the dusty path as he noticed yet another buffalo lookout announce their approach.  At last, Braeburn felt his nose tingle with that distinctive campfire smell as they rounded a massive boulder, bringing the campsite into view.  Tents and teepees were spread over the clearing, and logs had been set up in a ring around a massive fire pit.  Bison of all ages sat around the fire, roasting marshmallows on sticks and chatting to each other.  Calves played around the hooves of the elders, who, while cheerful, held a strange air about them; Braeburn couldn’t quite place it, but they gave off an odd scent.  He chalked it up as another ‘buffalo thing’ as the group neared the camp, navigating between the tents and toward the fire.           The large, crimson flames crackled and sent little ember butterflies into the night sky, where shimmering stars were appearing to listen in on the world below, Princess Luna’s ivory moon just beginning its ascent in the distance.  On the other side of the fire sat Chief Thunderhooves, his massive feathered headdress rustling gently in the breeze.  Beside him was Little Strongheart, a young girl Braeburn had come to know over the last couple months.  As the buffalo around the fire cleared room for the ponies to join them, the chief rose to his hooves and lowered his head in a long bow (for a second Braeburn was afraid his headdress would catch on fire).         “Greetings, ponies of Appleloosa,” he said, his tremendously deep voice instantly earning the respect of anyone within earshot.         Braeburn and the others returned the motion.  “It’s our pleasure to join you, Chief Thunderhooves.  Sheriff Silverstar wasn’t able ta come.”         “A pity.  He would have enjoyed tonight.”           “If you’ll excuse me, then,” Watergaze said suddenly, making a quick bow to the chief.  Thunderhooves nodded in reply and Watergaze left the camp.  Braeburn watched him weave through the teepees and disappear around a cleft of rock.           “If you will all take your seats we can begin,” Thunderhooves motioned for Braeburn to join him, so the stallion took his place beside Little Strongheart.  His face grew hot with the fire’s heat.         “Hey there,” winked Braeburn.         “Hello,” she replied, suddenly enthralled by the sand beneath her shuffling hooves.           The chief took a long, dramatic breath and closed his eyes.  “A long time ago, before my father’s father, and before his father’s father, there was a young pony named Wingless.  Wingless loved the night, for it was at night that his good friends the Stars would come out.”         “He sure starts right into it, huh?” whispered Braeburn.         “Shh!”         “Wingless talked with the Stars every night, and they told him stories and tales of all that they had seen.  One day, Wingless called out to the Stars: ‘Oh Stars, all my life we have been friends, and yet I have never truly met you or touched you.  Won’t you please come down to the earth, so that we may be together?’  But the Stars said: ‘Alas, Wingless, but we cannot, for The North keeps us here, and we cannot leave.’”         “Wait, what’s he mean, ‘The North?’”         “Shh!”         “‘Then how may we ever meet?’ asked Wingless.  ‘Perhaps, Wingless, since we cannot come down to earth while The North keeps us, you may fly to us?’  ‘But I have no wings,’ said Wingless, ‘how am I to fly to you?’  But the Stars were silent.  ‘I will find one who can give me wings,’ Wingless decided, ‘so that I may fly to my friends.’  So Wingless traveled, and journeyed far until he met Buffalo.  ‘Oh strong Buffalo,’ said Wingless, ‘can you give me wings and teach me to fly?’  ‘I cannot,’ said Buffalo, ‘for I have no wings of my own.  But perhaps Bird can help you.’  So Wingless traveled further until he met Bird.  ‘Oh wise Bird,’ said Wingless, ‘can you give me wings and teach me to fly?’  Bird looked to the pony with no wings, and was sad.  ‘Alas, I cannot give you wings,’ he said, ‘but perhaps the Wind knows one who can?’  So Wingless journeyed until he found the Wind.  ‘Oh great Wind,’ said Wingless, ‘can you give me wings and teach me to fly?’  Wind looked down to Wingless, and laughed.  ‘Oh, Wingless,’ he said, ‘you cannot fly, and none can give you wings!’  The Wind blew off, and Wingless was saddened.”         “Kind of a downer, too.”         “SHH!”         “But the Sun saw Wingless so sad, and felt pity for him.  So the Sun called her sister the Moon, and they came to earth to speak to Wingless.  ‘Oh Wingless,’ said Sun, ‘my sister and I have seen your quest for wings, and have taken pity upon you.’”         “Wait, sun and moon?  Does he mean Celestia and Luna?”         “Yes, I do, Braeburn,” said Thunderhooves, a look of mild annoyance on his face, “are you ready to listen to the rest of the story now?”         Braeburn’s face grew even hotter and he did his best to hide beneath his hat.  “Sorry Sir,” he said sheepishly.  He could hear above the crackling flames the distinctive noise of a chortling Vinny.         “Thank you,” resumed the chief, clearing his throat.  “Moon looked to Wingless and said: ‘Why are you sad?’  ‘I wanted to meet my friends the Stars,’ said Wingless, ‘but alas, I cannot fly, and I cannot find one who can give me wings.’  Sun smiled and said: ‘It is of a pure purpose that you wish to have wings, and so we will give them to you.’  And so, they gave wings to Wingless and taught him to fly.  ‘You are no longer wingless,’ said Moon, ‘you are now named Pegasus.’  Pegasus thanked Sun and Moon, and they returned to their homes in the sky.  When night came, Pegasus flew high and met the Stars.  That is how the pegasus ponies came to be.”         “I love that story,” sighed Little Strongheart, “it’s always been one of my favorites.”         “Ah alwaysh wondered where them pegashushesh came from,” said a rather tipsy stallion in the crowd.         “I am glad you enjoyed it,” bowed Thunderhooves, “is there-”         A bison had slinked up beside the chief and whispered something in his ear.  The chief’s face changed from concern to disappointment as he leaned to mutter something back.         “What’s that about?” Braeburn whispered to Strongheart.         “Oh, uh,” she flushed, “it’s n-nothing, it’s fine.”  She waved a hoof in the air dismissively and gave a nervous chuckle.  Braeburn frowned, looking away to stare into the dancing flames, a slight shiver of cold rushing down his back.          “I apologize for the interruption,” resumed Thunderhooves after the other bison had left, “is there a tale any would like to hear?”         “Oh!  Oh!” shouted a young bison, his hoof in the air, “tell the one about Falling Rock!”         The chief laughed, stomping one of his hooves.  “Ah, that is one of my favorites as well.  A long time ago, there was a great buffalo chief, and he had three sons.  Their names were Running Fox, Little Bear and Falling Rock...”         “Now, c’mon, I’m sure it weren’t that bad.”         “It was Chief Thunderhooves!  An’ I had ta go and interrupt him over an’ over.”  Braeburn slammed his glass of water on the wooden countertop.  The saloon was unusually quiet tonight.  The townsfolk must have gone to bed early trying to get a good rest before the celebration tomorrow, so only a small hoof-full of ponies were occupying the bar, and the piano sat lifeless in the corner.         Morton sighed beneath his thick, curled mustache and adjusted his monocle.  “I thought you never let these sorts o’ things bother you.”           Braeburn groaned, taking another lick of salt.  He had become skilled at laughing at his mistakes and moving on, but this...         “B’sides,” continued Morton, cleaning a glass with a cloth, “I’m sure the chief didn’t think nothin’ of it.  He’s probably got bigger things ta worry ‘bout than gettin’ interrupted durin’ story time.”         Braeburn looked up from his glass to the barkeeper.  Braeburn was a regular at The Salt Block, the town’s local saloon, but he almost never ordered himself any of the signature salt when he visited.  He’d make trips just to talk to Morton, or to hear the latest gossip and stop any little scuffles that arose in the saloon.  Even though he wasn’t exactly a good customer, Morton was always more than willing to take a little time aside to talk with Braeburn and just shoot the breeze.  Morton was also a good counselor, although he didn’t need to use those skills much with Braeburn.         “I hope yer right,” Braeburn finally said, finishing off his glass of water.           “Dey sure do,” said a voice.  Braeburn and Morton turned to look down the counter.  A few seats away sat an older, balding stallion who worked out in the quarry.  Nopony knew his real name, and he’d never give it when asked, so he became known as Salty, the saloon’s best customer.  He was actually one of the wisest ponies Braeburn knew...when he wasn’t sucking on a block of salt.         “They sure do what?” asked Braeburn.         “Dey sure do got a lot on deir minds,” mumbled Salty with his toothless mouth, twirling his little glass of water.  “Ah hear dings, y’know, out in dem hills.  Quiet dings.  An’ Ah see dings...secret dings.”           “How many has he had?” whispered Braeburn.         “That’s his first,” replied the barkeep, flatly.  Suddenly Braeburn found himself much more interested in the scruffy stallion’s story.         “Ah done heard dat dem buffalo...dey’s scared,” he said, a wicked little grin spreading over his saggy face, “dey’s scared o’ sumdin’, an’ dey dun’ know what.  But dey’re lookin’ fer it.”         “What do you mean?” asked Braeburn.  If this was something the sheriff should know about, then Braeburn needed to hear it first-hoof.         “Dey’re searchin’ deh hills!” Salty waved a dirty hoof, “Ah ken see ‘em, out dere, lookin’, lookin’, lookin’, fer weeks now!  ‘Bout deh same time dem quakes started!  Dey know sumdin’.  Sumdin’ dey ain’t tellin’ us.”         “You’re imaginin’ things, Salty,” Braeburn chuckled, “I think the heat’s gettin’ ta you.”         Salty turned his beady little eyes upon the yellow stallion, sending a shiver up his spine.  “We’ll see, Deputy, we’ll see,” he said, taking a final lick from his salt, picking up his pick axe and holding open one of the double doors.  He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the star scattered sky.         “Have yeh ever wondered what it’d be like ta meet a star?” he said suddenly.  He wheezed a noise and marched off into the darkness.         They listened to the dying sound of his hooves.         They looked at each other for a beat.           “He keeps callin’ you Deputy,” laughed Morton, “you should talk to the sheriff ‘bout a promotion.”         The spell on Braeburn popped like a bubble blown too large.  He turned to stare at the doors, swinging slightly with the breeze.         “So are ya gonna tell the Sheriff?”         “Huh?  Tell him what?”         “‘Bout what that Salty said, ‘bout them buffalo.”         Braeburn let loose a long groan.  “I s’pose.  After the celebration, though.  No reason ta get him all worked up now.  ‘Bout nuthin’.”   Braeburn stood and stepped toward the exit.  “I hope.” This story is incomplete, and I need your help to finish it.  Please comment and leave feedback on this chapter.  Let me know what you think and any way this story can be improved. Thank you.