The sun was riding high that day in Appleloosa, hot and sweltering. It was like Celestia had drunk a whole bottle of chili sauce, and was letting all her little ponies know about it. It was the sort of day where you would find every reason to stay indoors and wait till Luna came to the rescue with a cool night breeze.
But if the ponies of Appleloosa were sweating, it was for a completely different reason today.
Because high noon was just five minutes away.
And somepony had been called out.
In the old saloon, Big Iron sat alone at the bar — well, not completely alone. The sable stallion had a glass of apple cider with him, into which he stared forlornly. It was, he knew, his only real friend at the moment.
There was also the barkeep, Whiskey Business, but she wasn’t really his type, and she knew better than to get between a stallion and his – potential – last drink. Whiskey let him be, and focused on cleaning another glass with a rag and her unicorn magic.
Potentially, she’d fill it up for his killer.
He wasn’t looking forward to this. Iron had considered roping in a few of his colts to shoot down the troublemaker as she came to town, but decided against it. In the first place, it was downright dishonorable to shoot somepony in the back or in an ambush.
And in the second place, they’d all said no.
“Jes’ cause she’s the ‘fastest gun in the south’,” he grumbled, settling his chin on the countertop. “An’ she’s already killed ten of us. Cowards…”
The saloon doors slammed open, and an orange and blue-maned pegasus stallion zoomed straight to the back of the room.
“Boss!” Flash Pan cried out. “She’s here!”
Big Iron didn’t hardly move. He blinked a few times, to be sure, but for a few seconds at least, his mind was a blank.
Then, he sighed.
“Son of a mare,” he said at last, and took the cider glass in both hooves. He knocked the glass back, and downed it all in a single swig.
“See ya, Whiskey,” he called over his shoulder, as he strode out the doors.
The sun was boiling. Big Iron was almost glad for the heat, however. If this was his last day, then at least he’d feel like it. And if he went to that fire down below, at least he’d have something to compare it to.
Iron looked left. Through the shimmer and heat-glimmer, he could see a dot on the horizon.
“Never been scared of a dot,” he told himself. “Ain’t startin’ now…”
He tilted his hat brim down, and got to work. His piece was hitched up beside the saloon itself. It took a fair bit of doing, but he’d had Little Iron at his hip for so long now that hooking up was second nature to him. And once the straps and harness were in place, he walked out into the middle of the street, wagon behind him.
A hot wind came in from the west, carrying dust with it that stuck to Iron’s sweaty hide. He finished hitching himself with the odd taste of leather, cider, and dirt on his lips.
Not the best thing to taste right before a gunfight. But that just meant he had to live long enough to get a salad later.
The dot had grown bigger. Soon, it almost looked like a pony. A pony dragging something behind her.
Big Iron glanced at the clocktower.
One minute to high noon.
He licked his lips, and found them more parched than he could remember.
The dot was now visibly orange, with just a bit of gold peeking out from under another Stetson hat. He’d know that hat anywhere, from the stories about its wearer.
Thirty seconds, and the other pony, the one who’d called him out, was only a dozen or so yards away.
“That’s far enough!” Iron called out. “Any closer, an’ we’ll have a hoof-fight on our hooves…”
The clock struck noon, and let peal a sonorous clang. And then another.
And another. All the while, that dang mare just kept walking.
When they were only ten paces apart, the bell finished chiming the hour. The mare finally stopped just as the last echo rang out, her own piece lurching on its wheels as she came to a final rest.
“You ready?” Iron called out again, though not as loudly as before. “Or is the famous Applejack all talk?”
Applejack tilted her hat brim up… and Big Iron felt his knees shake a little. There was a fire in that mare’s emerald eyes.
“I ain’t come ta talk,” she said in a tone that was as quiet as it was fit to burst with rage. “I come ta put you in the ground fer what you did ta Braeburn.”
Big Iron scoffed, and snorted. “Yer cousin didn’t get the first message. So we sent him one that he couldn’t ignore. Not my fault he got hurt—”
Applejack stamped the earth, cracking the road in a terrifying display of her absurd earth pony strength.
“I said,” she snarled, “I ain’t here ta talk. I see yer hitched ta yer piece.”
Iron glanced to the wagon trailing behind Applejack. He caught a glint of sunlight off a barrel, and swore inwardly.
“Same as you, filly.”
“Then I s’ppose we both know how this ends,” she said, before her stance widened.
Big Iron nodded, slowly, and followed suit.
What few ponies were out today ducked behind barrels and fences. Yet, dozens of eyes were on the two ponies facing each other in the center of town, each hitched to a wagon fitted with a fine piece of flying artillery.
Applejack’s cannon was shorter, and bronzed. Big Iron had, true to his name, an iron howitzer set on his wagon. His Little Iron was fully prepped, loaded and ready to fire, while his flank shivered slightly with anticipation.
Or was it fear?
He licked his front teeth, and swallowed a dry mouthful of spit and dirt.
Applejack didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. The Mare from Ponyville just stood like a rock in the center of town, and stared down the pony who’d hurt her family.
Oh, yeah… it was fear.
The clocktower’s minute hoof ticked, once.
High noon. Plus one.
Big Iron moved first. He spun himself around, his tree trunk-like legs propelling him with earth pony strength. He wrenched himself so hard that Little Iron’s wheels wheezed and groaned with the effort.
All he needed was a clear shot…
But Big Iron had to stop! He nearly ran right into the hitching post in front of the saloon before he realized his wagon’s turning radius was just too wide!
Gasping in terror at his lack of spatial awareness, Big Iron started his K-turn, backing up the wagon and trying to inch out a few feet of space before Little Iron’s barrel kissed the sign of the dentist’s office across the street.
Applejack had started her turn at a more leisurely pace, and she could surely afford it. Big Iron gasped again as he watched her complete a one-eighty-degree turn as easily as any pony not hitched to a twelve-pounder might, her wagon being smaller and its axle more skillfully engineered.
Heck, it might have had rear-wheel drive!
Applejack, with all the calm and steadiness of a practiced hangpony, leapt out of her harness, and onto the wa-gun. Her forehooves quickly spun the aiming gears, lowering Brutal Honesty’s sight to point directly at her target.
She stared down that barrel, right into Big Iron’s widening eyes as she took the cannon’s lanyard into her teeth.
Big Iron took his one and only chance. He gave his wagon another hard twist, flinging Little Iron to the side. He caught his own lanyard in his teeth, and pulled with all his might.
There was a thunderous boom, throwing up a wall of sand and dust. A second followed, almost as soon as the first, and the local dentist’s office found itself with a new window.
The residents of Appleloosa flinched away from the explosions, only to turn back as soon as possible. They stared and stared, looking for any signs of the victor.
And then they had it.
As the dust settled, Big Iron lay in the street, a pumpkin-sized hole clean through his side, his Little Iron smoking beside him.
He was still in the harness. Dead, yet still hitched. Like he was married or something.
Applejack seemed to think that was enough. To everypony’s amazement, she simply nodded once, and got down from her gun. She hitched herself back up to the wagon, and pulled right out of that town without a word.
“Geez louise, Sunset,” Applejack groaned, and held up the thin paperback to wave it about. “What in tarnation is this? This is… awful stuff.”
Sitting at lunch, Sunset shrugged and took another bite of salad.
“It’s pretty popular back in Equestria,” she said, somewhat defensively. “Your counterpart there is basically a legendary figure already, so you can’t be surprised somepony would write about her.”
Applejack frowned. “And… Braeburn?”
“I’m told there were liberties taken with that story…”
“Liberties! My foot!” the cowgirl bellowed, and slammed her fist down on the table. Not even checking her strength, Applejack put a hole through it like the table was made out of butter. “This thing’s ridiculous! It’s lit’rary trash!”
Rarity tittered at this outburst, and spoke up. “Oh, it is indeed trash, dear Applejack. But trash can be quite amusing! At least, I think so…”
“This ain’t like one of yer Romancy schmancy books, Rares,” Applejack snapped. “This here’s a bona fide penny dreadful!”
Sunset blinked.
“How did you guess the author’s name?”
Applejack snorted, and shook her head. Then, looking back at the flimsy book in her hands, her brows knitted together as a thought occurred.
A thought that Rainbow Dash, of all people caught onto right away.
“Why are they lugging around artillery?” she asked in between sips of her soda pop. “I mean, don’t cowboys have, like, those old spinny guns?”
Applejack’s frown deepened. “Those are called revolvers, Dash…”
Sunset just laughed, almost choking on an unforgiving crouton. After a few seconds of hacking and coughing, she turned an upraised eyebrow on her rainbow-haired friend.
“Dash? They’re ponies.” She held up one hand in a little ‘hoof’ shape, for emphasis. “How would we pull the trigger on a gun like that?”
“But… you have cannons?” Twilight asked, putting down her second burger at the far end of the friends’ table. “I don’t understand the technological development there.”
Fluttershy, sitting beside her, sighed wearily.
“Why do ponies need guns?”
“How’s it end?!” Pinkie cried, nearly jumping on top of Applejack in an attempt to get at the book. “Does she ride off into the sunset? There’s gotta be a sunset scene!”
“Well, hang on there, Sugarcube!” Applejack protested. When Pinkie backed off, she sniffed, and snapped the book open again.
“Ahem… Applejack only got ta the end of the street…”
“Applejack!” a voice called out. Applejack stopped, and half-turned back towards Appleloosa.
Behind her, one of the buffalo children was racing to catch up with her. Swifthoof, Applejack recalled her name, came riding up to the side of her wagon, panting.
“Miss Applejack!” she cried, “Are… are you leaving us?”
“I gots ta, Sugarcube.” Applejack nodded solemnly. “Y’all have yer town back, and yer sheriff avenged. It’s time I was moseying on home.”
As tears streamed down the child’s face, Applejack smiled, and reached out one hoof to dry her eyes.
“Now, don’t you fret none,” she said, low and quiet. “Whenever you need me again… I’ll be there.”
Swifthoof’s eyes swelled with joy. “You will?”
“I will,” Applejack nodded. “Wherever a filly cries out in fear, I’ll be there. Wherever a no-good desperado rears his ugly mug, I’ll be there…”
The deep pinks and reds of the sunset began to fall all across Appleloosa, and to Swifthoof – and the half-dozen or so townsponies who’d crept up to listen to her speech – it only made Applejack seem larger in her eyes. Bigger than life.
“An’ wherever tha… uh…”
Applejack stared at the setting sun.
“Isn’t it only like, twelve-oh-five? At best?” she asked herself. “I better git going… Somethin’ ain’t right.”
Applejack raced away, forgetting to finish her speech. And as she rode across the desert wastes, cannon bouncing along behind her, she had no idea of the adventure in store for her. But that is a story for another time!
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This book is protected under the copyright laws of Equestria and other countries throughout the world. Country of first publication: Equestria. Any unauthorized exhibition, distribution, or copying of this book or any part thereof may result in civil liability and criminal prosecution. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual ponies (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. No creature or entity associated with this film received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the depiction of apple products. No animals were harmed in the making of this book (seriously, Fluttershy, stop writing to me).