//------------------------------//
// Gunslinger 
// Story: Severed Roots 
// by Bad_Seed_72 
//------------------------------//


Gunslinger


The protests of the bar’s patrons fell on deaf ears. Once Babs Seed found her venom again, she injected it deeply into the thirsting frontier, declaring at the top of her lungs, “We’re closin’! We’re closin’ NOW! ‘Ey! Dat means youze too, ol’ fool! Hidin’ behind the piano won’t help!”

“Sorry, y’all… s-sorry… No, ya can’t take that outside…” Apple Bloom offered an uneasy smile and apologized profusely, seeking to dispel the rowdiest among the exiting group. Urgency may have justified their early closure, but disrespect had no justification—among either patron or proprietor.

When one weathered miner ducked behind the piano and dumped an entire pitcher of beer down his throat, Apple Bloom made no apologies when her mare grabbed him by the mane and tossed him out, pitcher and all. Some things could not be justified.

Once empty, the two mares hastily blew out the lamps and lanterns and ensured that the stockroom door was locked. They retrieved the front door key and their hotel room key, hidden as always inside a cash box inside the stockroom. Not even bothering to re-arrange stools and chairs strewn carelessly about, both bartenders trotted out of their bar. Any previous drowsiness or brewing intoxication was overpowered by the adrenaline hissing, “Go, go, go, now, now, NOW!” within.

Fumbling with the lock and key, Babs glanced over her shoulders to see Turner standing patiently near the porch railing. “Summat wrong, Turner?” After rattling the saloon doors a few times, satisfied that only the most daring of thieves would pursue the meager stock within, she turned around to face him.

Turner tapped a forehoof on the boards below. “Nothin’, Babs. Aye, I was jus’… Well, I was jus’ thinkin’ dat, maybe… maybe, I could come wit’ youze two?”

“R-really?” Both mares exchanged curious glances. “Are youze sure? It’s a long way out there. An’ what ‘bout Soapy?”

Mustering a slight smile, the stallion answered, “Already thought o’ dat. Camp ain’t mo’ than a few miles outta the way. Tell youze two what. I’ll take off, let him know we’ve got a bit o’ a family emergency goin’ on, an’ meet youze two at the Appleloosian city limit. Sound fair?”

Soapy won’t mind, I know, but—

Concerned, Apple Bloom asked, “Are ya sure? Wouldn’t want ya ta get lost. We could always go wit’ ya.”

With a growing grin and a gentle shake of his muzzle, Turner gestured to the black compass rose on his flank. “Someday, I’ll tell both o’ youze the story o’ dis mark, an’ youze’ll know why I ain’t worried. But, fo’ now, jus’ trust me. Not all who wander are lost, an’ I’m one o’ the mo’ wanderin’ youze’ll eva meet.”

Babs Seed contemplated his dismissal for a moment, precious seconds draining from the hourglass. There was not much time to spare. Every passing moment of uncertainty began to chew its way upwards from her nausea, tensing her muscles and drumming sweat down her nape.

After torturous silence, Babs exhaled and accepted his offer. “Alright. See youze there. But we’re gonna hoof it befo’ dawn breaks. Iffa I don’t see youze at first light, I’m goin’ afta youze. Youze got dat, ol’ stallion?” She smirked, nudging him in the chest.

“Ha! Youze’ll see, lil’ mare. I’ll have been twiddlin' ma forehooves fo' hours by the time youze show up!"

Rolling her eyes (in jest, of course), Babs followed Turner and Apple Bloom off the porch, checking the front doors one last time. They appeared to be as secure as ever, strong locks on both entries daring anypony to breach them. Turner, his saddlebags already retrieved from the bar prior and slung over his back, gave them one last knowing nod before taking to his hooves, kicking up dust from the midnight sands as he galloped.

Apple Bloom started towards the hotel, calling to her mare, "Ah'll go get a bag packed quick, an' we'll take off. Alright, sugarcube?"

Anything but alright, Babs Seed nodded, her mind occupied, making mental calculations of vital time and looming distance.

~

Thirty-five miles dwarfed to twenty before they stopped for a spell. Their coats covered in glistening sweat, the two mares stood silent, coming to rest among a grove of fig cactus. Panting, Babs Seed strode over to one and kicked its trunk open near the middle. A slight stream of fresh water trickled free, but the rest remained cradled inside the plant.

Reaching for the tightly-packed saddlebag on her back—Apple Bloom had carried it first, passing it to her partner a few miles before they stopped—Babs retrieved two canteens and filled them both. She offered one to the other mare, who swiped it quickly, draining half of it one her muzzle and drinking the rest.

The dip in the mercury, however welcome, was little consolation to either of them. Twenty miles to go on hoof. Twenty more. They'd galloped and cantered through most of it, no words exchanged, fueled by fear and urgency.

Taking a huge swig of water from her canteen, Babs wiped her muzzle with a fetlock and peered around. Not one sign o' life, no cookin'-fire smoke, no coyote mournin' in the distance. Truly barren on this patch of soil, the wasteland offered no relief, no reassurance, no approaching hooves of a vagabond with a Manehatten accent.

"What's wrong?" Apple Bloom asked, tensing. She squinted through the darkness, searching for the source of Babs's preoccupation. "Do ya see somethin'?"

"It's what I don't see dat bothers me."

Trotting over to refill their canteens, Apple Bloom offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. Ah'm sure he's headin' this way. Probably jus' got sidetracked talkin' wit' Soapy an' all."

Babs plopped her haunches in the sand and removed the saddlebag, sighing. "I sure hope so. Horseapples, iffa summat happens ta him too, I'll—"

"Shh. Ah'm sure everypony's okay at home." Apple Bloom sat beside her and tucked their canteens away. Giving her mare a sideways hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek, she said, "Let's jus' git there as soon as we can, an' save worryin' fer then. Don't ya think?"

"I guess youze is right." Babs wrestled her mare into her forehooves and chuckled. "Been only a few hours. We should be able ta get there befo' daybreak."

Indeed, the night was strong and dark, barely reaching twilight. The stars and moon burned brightly, serving as a secondary compass to the one within their saddlebags. By now, Babs Seed could determine their path by the beacons above, and would never be lost again. Not even if the Earth itself reversed polarity and rendered all compasses useless.

"Hey, Babs?" Apple Bloom whispered, looking up at her.

"Yea?"

"Why don't you refer ta Turner as yer dad?"

Silence.

"Ah mean—ya don't have ta!" Apple Bloom clarified, fearing she'd brought a particularly sensitive nerve to a white-hot touch. "Ya don't. Not unless ya want ta. Ah mean, Ah guess if Ah were you, Ah probably wouldn't, either. But Ah do like him. He's a good stallion."

"... He is." Gazing towards the south, Babs Seed muttered, "I jus'... It jus' doesn't feel right ta say dat right now. Does dat make me a bad pony?"

Apple Bloom shook her head. "If Ah know anythin' 'bout ya, it's that yer anythin' but a bad pony. Jus'... jus' try callin' him that someday. Fer me, please?"

"... Okay, Apple Bloom," Babs said, hopeful. Someday.

~

The words on the page blurred and merged together, creating sentences and paragraphs of immense magnitude and negligible worth. He tried to lose himself in the story, in the tale of ancient treasures and adventuring stallions and beautiful mares, but it proved useless. Sighing, Braeburn slapped the novel onto his nightstand and took to pacing again.

Anxiety plagued him, refusing to allow him a moment of rest. His injured shoulder, treated with simple antiseptic they'd had on hoof and bandaged generously, throbbed in pain. His mind was in far worse a state. Everything in the last twenty-four hours had been one heap of broken images, smashed together into bits and pieces of madness.

The break-in. The attacks. The bullets, the haze. Libra and her kitchen knife, covered in blood. Citrus knocking the pink mare off him, then gasping for breath. The last bullet. The silence. Citrus... Citrus kissing him. And he kissing her. More silence. The funerals the following morning—for Sheriff, Deputy, and scoundrels alike (Pickaxe, that fool, that blessed fool). The gang-ponies hanging from the town's clock-tower.

And the questions. Oh, the questions.

Braeburn trotted from wall to wall of his bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, ears pricked and breathing slow. The drone of his aunt and cousin's snores provided a soothing mantra to calm his relentless mind. The questions. The tattoos. They were all tattooed. They had to be of the same gang, the same organization, the same cartel, the same... something.

But why Appleloosa? Why? And why the mark—the black orange, the initials? What did it mean?

Braeburn, in the depths of his righteous heart, knew the answer. He gave it no breath, no life, believing that, if he didn't, it wouldn't be true. It couldn't be true. There was just no way in all of Hell's salt and fire that—

A gentle, hesitant knock at the front door. Soft, forgiving.

Grabbing his revolver with both forehooves, the stallion carefully made his way to his own door. Crossing the threshold, he entered then into the living room, pausing. Listening.

Knock, knock. Again.

His heart began to accelerate, wild thoughts of all stripes taunting him. Had they come again? No! That was ridiculous! Since when did criminals knock? 

Well, if the gray stallion in the saloon was any indication, sometimes they played possum before striking. So, maybe, maybe he wasn't that crazy. On the other hoof, it could simply be a wandering soul in need of refuge. Where were his manners? Surely, his pioneering mother raised him better than to forego hospitality.

Swallowing his unease, Braeburn asked, keeping his voice steady, "Who is it?"

From beyond the oak came the voice of one former Manehattenite he'd always welcome. "'Ey! It's me an' Bloom!"

Setting his revolver on a nearby table, Braeburn grabbed the doorknob and swung it wide open. There, his cousins stood expectant, eyes weary and smiles gentle. Without a word, he pulled them both into a tight embrace, laughing. "Y'all don't have any idea how happy Ah am ta s-see y'all!"

Patting him on the back, Babs Seed squeezed him tight, laughing as well. "An' youze have no idea how happy we are ta see youze!" Oh, Celestia, iffa youze had been the one who didn't make it... I... I can't even...

She then moved her forehoof to nudge him in the right shoulder, prompting a groan of pain and a flinch from the stallion. Braeburn released them, rubbing at his wound and clenching his teeth. 

Apple Bloom gasped. "Braeburn! Are ya alright?"

"Ah'm fine," he muttered, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and tensed, catching the pain as it came back up his spine. With one forehoof, he tugged at his Stetson distractingly, and with the other, he soothed the tender, aching flesh.

Seeing through his ruse, Babs mumbled, "No, youze not!" A little louder, she demanded, "Who did dis? What happened? We heard, Brae, 'bout what—"

Inside the cabin came heavy, deliberate hoof-steps and a lowered voice. "Braeburn, who is it?"

Turning around, Braeburn opened his eyes and put his forehooves back on the floor. "Citrus, go wake Auntie. We have some visitors."

"Visitors?"

Citrus Blossom breached the darkness and trotted into the moonlight, half-awake and yawning. Once she noticed the two mares standing in the doorway, she immediately awakened, rushing over to them. "Babs! Bloom! You're alright! You're both alright! And you're h-here!" She held back tears of joy and relief, holding them tight, ecstatic.

An' youze is heeya, an' youze is alright, an' it sounds like Ma is, too. 

The three shared a long, giggling hug, soon adding a fourth. Libra Scales, in a dreamlike trance, heard the commotion and cautiously entered the living room, running over at the sight of daughter and niece. Her joy plowed through taunting disbelief, unsure if this was still a dream. The tight grasp of four sets of forehooves hugging her told her it wasn't.

"I'm so thankful you two are alright!" Libra exclaimed, nuzzling Babs. "I was so worried that maybe, there were—"

Babs shushed her, nuzzling her back. "Let's talk 'bout dat later." Taking a step back, she said, "Ma, there's somepony else who came wit' me an' Bloom ta see youze."

"Somepony else?" Libra asked, puzzled. She, Braeburn, and Citrus stood in the threshold, fading twilight illuminating the darkened cabin. Libra peered over the shoulders of their visitors, seeing nothing but approaching dawn, a dipping moon, and a silent desert. Still confused, she stared at Babs, eyebrow raised. "I don't understand..."

"Youze will in a minute. Jus' wait." Babs snapped her head around, brought a forehoof to her muzzle, and called out into the night, "'EY! COME HEEYA, TURNER!"

Libra blinked, her confusion compounded. "T-Turner? Wait!" She grabbed Babs Seed's muzzle and forced her to face her, hissing, "Wait! Turner what? I know that name! Somehow..."

Could it be? Could it be the stallion from years and years before, the one she'd always hoped to see, out here in the beyond? The vagabond, the tramp, the wanderer, the wait-pony with strange and wild dreams...

Apple Bloom placed a forehoof on her aunt's shoulder, grinning wildly. "Jus' wait, Auntie. He's a-comin'." She and Babs exchanged knowing nods and turned to face the horizon, eliciting the same action from the other three.

Their wait was not long. From behind a group of cacti on the horizon, a stallion emerged, his coat beige, his short mane black and wild. On his back, he carried one bursting saddlebag, his other safely watched by a gracious prospector who offered encouraging words. Those words of encouragement spurred his steps, one after the other.

Babs Seed and Apple Bloom watched with baited breath. Libra Scales trotted a few steps forward, staring at the stallion, gears of the past whirring and churning within her mind. Breathless, wordless, she stepped closer, closer, closer still.

And so did he.

Meeting in the middle a few yards in front of the cabin, Turner said, his words trembling, "Do youze rememba me?"

He mustered a soft, hopeful smile, praying silently to the Most High that she did. He recognized her immediately, twenty years older and just as lovely. He remembered it all—her mane, her coat, her words then. He hoped for a reply, her words now.

The mare strode up to the stallion, studying him carefully. Her eyes darted back between his smiling countenance and that of her daughter's. The desert, it seemed, held up a mirror between them, and in an instant, her deepest fear and fondest hope were confirmed.

It had been him. It had been him all along. 

Dipping into the recesses of her mind, Libra Scales plucked a decades-old name and let it roll off her tongue. "Page... Page Turner?"

"Yes." He smiled down at her, muzzle-to-muzzle close. "It's good ta finally see youze again afta all these years, Libra Scales."

Libra Scales reached up, and smacked him, hard, across the snout.

"Ma! What the hay are youze doin'?!"

Ignoring her, Libra grabbed the stallion's bruised snout, meeting his eye level. Her entire being shook with an alarming mixture of emotions—relief, recognition, rage, and regret swirled together. She growled to her daughter's father, "Do you know how many years I looked for you?! How many years I hoped to see you, to run into you? Do you know how much I dragged my worthless scumbag of a husband to Trottingham, hoping I'd see you again?! Do you know how many nights I stayed up, worrying that you were the father of my foal, instead of that bastard I married? Do you KNOW?!"

Stammering, he chose not to resist, deserving the pain. "L-Libra, I-I... I-I looked fo' y-youze, too! I w-wandered all ova Equestria, an' in ma travels, I hoped ta see youze, ta find youze... Did youze change youze name?"

"I went by titles, yes, but that doesn't excuse it!" She held his snout tight in her forehooves, boring daggers into his surrendering copper irises. Her own burned like the flames they were, gazing into him, into the windows of his soul.

Babs Seed lurched forward, hackles raised. Apple Bloom nipped her by the tail and tugged sharply. "'Ey! Lemme—"

"No, sugarcube," Apple Bloom scolded.

Babs blurted, "But! But, I—"

Citrus pulled her sister back into the doorway, shaking her head. "No. This isn't your battle to fight. This is between them."

Braeburn fiddled with his Stetson. "Maybe... maybe we should leave 'em alone?"

Grinning, Citrus whispered, "I didn't say we couldn't watch."

Babs rolled her eyes but didn't object, observing the scene in silence this time. C'mon, Ma, jus' give him a chance... jus' give... Turner... a chance.

Surrendering, Turner kept silent, his heart beating so rapidly that he feared that it would quit on him at last. Thirty-five miles of pure exhaustion, coupled with the weight of his own regret, rendered any words he could utter useless. He could only wait and see what else Libra had to say.

She continued, maintaining her grip on him, "I went through twenty years of marriage to a worthless sack of shit. Six of them before I met you. And when I met you... I hoped that it wouldn't be a one-time thing. I hoped that we could meet again, and maybe, one day, I'd be brave enough to leave him. And all this time, almost twenty years, when I looked at my youngest, I saw my sister... and I saw you."

Silence.

With one last rush of vitrol, Libra whispered, "And do you know what else I've wanted to do, if I ever saw you again, Page?"

"W-what?"

"This," she said, and kissed him deeply.

Under her breath, Citrus muttered what crossed all four of their minds. "Horseapples..."

Smirking, Braeburn nudged her playfully. "Ah've never heard ya cuss, Citrus." 

Citrus returned his gesture and nuzzled him, spreading scarlet across his cheeks. "Oh, there's a lot of things you haven't heard me say, Braeburn."

"Heh, heh. Like what?" 

Before Citrus could reply, Babs tore her eyes from the bewildering scene and snapped towards her sister and cousin. "Wait a minute! Are youze two... uh..."

Giggling, Apple Bloom took her by a forehoof and began to lead her towards the guest bedroom. "C'mon, Babsy, let's go ta sleep. Looks like everypony's fine now."

But! 'Ey! Wait a sec! Babs resisted, planting her hooves firmly into the floorboards. "But! But, Ma an' Turner, an' Citrus! Citrus, Brae, are youze—"

"Oh, go to sleep, Babs," Citrus taunted, dismissing her with a wave of a forehoof. "We'll all talk more in the morning. Right, Braeburn?"

Beside himself, the stallion darted his gaze between his aunt and Turner, to Babs and Bloom, to the smirking mare in front of him. He rubbed his neck and muttered, "Er... right. Talk."

Citrus pulled him close to her and smiled. "Goodnight, Babs, Bloom. Sleep well. Braeburn, don't you think we should be going to sleep, too?"

"Uh..."

The eyes in the back of her head ever-functional, Libra Scales broke her kiss and snapped around to glare at her daughter. "No, you are sleeping in my bedroom, and Turner is going to sleep in Braeburn's. Right, Brae?"

"Uh..."

Citrus groaned and rolled her eyes. She spun around, seeking the input of either Babs Seed or Apple Bloom. They, however, had already slunk silently away, shutting the guest room door behind them, offering no assistance. Sputtering, she looked back to her mother, who was leading Turner inside. "But! Babs and Apple Bloom are—"

"I've had almost eight years to get used to that." Libra huffed. "Now, get back to bed before I whoop you one, missy."

"I'm almost twenty-six!"

"And I'm almost on my last nerve." Libra Scales smiled warmly towards the vagabond stallion, gesturing to Braeburn. "My nephew here will kindly share his bedroom with you. It's almost dawn, but we'll be sleeping late today. Citrus and I will be up around noon to make brunch. Now, sleep tight, you two."

With a forehoof slung around her protesting daughter, Libra trotted into her bedroom, practically shoving Citrus inside, leaving two confused stallions standing at the threshold.

Braeburn reached up to touch his muzzle, assuring himself he was awake. Turner took in the cabin, noting its expert craftmanship and welcoming design. He quietly shut and locked the door behind him, then cleared his throat and asked, "So, youze room... does it have bunk beds?"

"No, unfortunately not. Here, let me git that," Braeburn offered, grabbing Turner's saddlebag. Hoisting it onto his back, he gritted his teeth, awkwardly smiling nonetheless. "Uh, follow me."

"No bunk beds, eh?" Turner snorted and laughed. "Well, apologies in advance iffa I stink. Jus' galloped thirty-five miles out o' the wasteland ta git heeya. Hope youze don't mind."

~

Brunch was an awkward affair, to say the least. No other adjective summed up the tension at the table that high noon more succinctly. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom, questions of all varieties swimming in their minds, busied themselves with their apple pancakes. Turner, thoroughly confused by Libra's contradictory antics, buried his muzzle in his plate, slurping down seconds and asking for thirds.

Citrus and Libra worked the kitchen in near-silence, agreeing before the others awoke that all true and fervent discussion would be best reserved for supper. Then, and only then, would they breach the subject of the shooting. Braeburn scarfed down his meal and retreated to his bedroom.

There, he retrieved two additional revolvers tucked away in a drawer of his nightstand. Placing the other two weapons beside his own, he cleaned all three while the others finished breakfast.

"Great pancakes, Auntie!" Apple Bloom exclaimed, finishing her plate. She reached for her fork and moved it slowly towards Babs's plate.

"'Ey! Get youze own!" Babs smacked her fork away with a forehoof, grinning. "What's wit' youze always tryin' ta steal ma food?" I swear, dat mare's like six inches shorter an' half ma size, yet she eats mo' than me. Horseapples!

Apple Bloom laughed and grinned at Turner, eying his plate. "Well, if ma own mare ain't gonna share, maybe her dad will?"

Turner pushed his half-full plate forward, not skipping a beat. "Go ahead, kid. I asked fo' too much anyway." He turned in his stool and called into the kitchen, "Great breakfast, Libra!"

"You can thank my daughter for that," Libra answered, smirking. "She cooked it, set the table, and did the dishes. I just did the hard work: managing." This prompted a groan and an eye-roll from her eldest, which only made her laugh. "Oh, c'mon, Citrus! At least I'm not worried you'll burn down the kitchen anymore."

Emerging from his room, Braeburn trotted over to his cousins and Turner, one revolver in his shoulder-holster (now tied around his left, uninjured shoulder). He carried the others, secure in their holsters, and gently set the two weapons down on the table. Pulling up a stool, he said, "Guess what we're doin' this mornin', y'all?"

Glancing curiously at the weapons, Babs guessed, "Uh... kickin' flank an' takin' names?"

Braeburn laughed and adjusted his Stetson. "Good guess. Nope. Ah'm gonna teach y'all how ta shoot."

Pausing in mid-bite, Babs dropped her fork, letting it clatter to the plate. "... Say dat again, Braeburn? I thought I had summat crazy in ma ear." 

"Ah'm teachin' y'all how ta shoot," Braeburn repeated sternly. He motioned towards the two revolvers on the table. "These are spares from the... office." He gulped, pained to make any mention of Silverstar. The death of his mentor and best friend was one that would wound him for many years to come. Forever, maybe. If it were not for Silverstar, the Deputy wasn't sure where any of them—his family or the Appleloosians—would be.

Composing himself, Braeburn continued, "Ah'll explain the whole story at supper, but fer now, lemme jus' say this. Ah ain't comfortable wit' y'all bein' out there in no-pony's land unarmed. Ah hope ya never have ta use 'em—" he gestured to the revolvers again, their grips polished to a perfect shine—"but Ah'd rather y'all have 'em, in case."

Apple Bloom said, "Well, that's mighty kind o' ya, Brae. Ah really don't wanna have ta use 'em either, but Ah guess it's better ta have 'em than not, right?"

Slowly, Babs Seed replied, though skeptical, "I suppose so."

Turner said, "I've neva been one fo' fightin' o' fo' weapons. Ma hooves is all I need. Dat's jus' ma opinion, though," he added, glancing at the mares. "Don't let it color youze."

"Thank ya, Turner." Braeburn asked, "Y'all ready ta learn?"

Two nods and a few hoof-steps later, Braeburn led them out the door and into the desert.

~

Outside of the apple orchard, the cliffs at their backs, two mares and a stallion stood firm against the horizon. There, a few scattered fig cacti waited, perfect targets and ripe for the shooting. 

Braeburn first launched into a quick lecture on gun safety. "Always treat a gun like it's loaded. Neva, ever point it at somepony unless ya intend ta shoot 'em. Never point it towards you. Keep yer hooves 'way from the trigger unless ya want ta fire."

He demonstrated with his own revolver, releasing the cylinder and holding it up to the sun, showing that all eight chambers were empty. Slowly, he loaded each chamber with a fresh round. Stretching out one forehoof straight, he gripped the revolver and explained, "First, get it steady wit' yer dominant forehoof. Mine is ma right. Y'all wanna make sure ya have a tight grip befo' ya bring the other one into this. Never use only one hoof ta grip if ya can; ya risk hurtin' yerself."

Once steady, Braeburn met his right forehoof with his left, standing up on his hindhooves. He trained his weapon towards one of the fig cactus in the distance, glancing sideways at Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. "Any questions yet?"

"Yeah. What's it feel like?" Babs asked, tilting her head slightly.

"What's what feel like, Babs?" Braeburn replied, posing a question of his own.

She trotted closer, staring at the weapon. "Well, it's enchanted so Earth ponies an' pegasi can use it, right? Iffa dat's the case... I dunno, do youze feel anythin' when ya touch it?"

Braeburn shook his head. "Ah think Ah know what ya mean, but Ah don't anymo'. Not since Ah've had ta use it so much," he answered sadly. The impulse, the rush of energy, the feeling of steel and lead becoming alive at his touch had long ago faded, becoming only a dull familiarity. Here in the west and the best, the law of hoof and gun would reign, he feared, far longer than desired. "But you two should."

Taking aim, he said, "Now, look at ma stance. Hindhooves firm, shoulders up—" he flinched slightly as he moved his injured limb—"an' starin' straight at the target. It'll take a lil' fer ya ta get used ta it, an' every weapon fires differently. Keep yer forehooves steady, an' when yer ready, take the one closest ta the trigger an'—"

BANG!

The shot cut straight and true across the plains, imbedding itself smack-dab into the center of the fig cactus. A perfect hole ripped through the trunk, sending a stream of water rocketing from the point of entry. Braeburn smiled in satisfaction and turned to the mares, who looked on in pure amazement. "Alright! Who's first?"

"Ah'll try!" Apple Bloom strode over, an excited grin on her muzzle. 

Braeburn chuckled and plucked one of the revolvers from the ground, showing Apple Bloom how to tie the holster around her shoulder. "See, yer right-forehoofed, right?" She nodded. "Good. Alright, so let's tie this 'round yer left shoulder, high as we can so ya can reach it easily." He adjusted the holster and checked the rope, making sure it was snug but not too taut. "Feel alright?"

"Eeyup! Now, what am Ah gonna be shootin' at?"

Braeburn pointed towards one of the adjacent cacti near its bleeding brother. "Take yer pick, Bloom. Put it straight in its trunk, near the top limbs."

"C'mon, Bloom," Babs encouraged, a toothy grin on her muzzle. "Show dat prickly lil' bastard who's the boss!"

Apple Bloom laughed and reached for the revolver, taking it first in her right forehoof. Once she made contact with its grip, she felt a rush of energy and adrenaline, the steel awakening at her touch. She stared at the weapon in awe, her forehoof shaking slightly as she outstretched it and brought the left one to join it.

Braeburn stood beside her, watching in approval. "Ya ready?"

"Ah'm... Ah'm ready."

A quick squeeze of the trigger, and Apple Bloom fired the second weapon she'd ever held. 

BANG!

The bullet hissed as it sliced through the atmosphere, making contact with the cactus a foot or so below the intended target. Nevertheless, the hot lead pierced its prickly flesh, sending some precious water free to mingle with the sand.

"Not bad! How did it feel, cuz?" Braeburn asked.

"Yea, dat was pretty good, Bloom!" Babs added, trotting over to her mare. 

Securing the revolver back its holster, Apple Bloom said, surprised, "Wasn't as bad as Ah thought it would be! Ah guess Ah was expectin' it ta be a lot harder than it looked. Pretty darn loud, but... Ah guess ya jus' get used ta the sound."

"That ya do," Braeburn agreed. "Now, Babs, yer up."

Apple Bloom brushed against her mare's coat as she strode past her, offering encouragement in her nicked ear. "Ah know you'll do jus' fine, sugarcube."

What? Me? Nervous? Ha! Plastering a confident grin on her countenance, Babs Seed stood tall, offering her left shoulder to Braeburn. He, too, demonstrated the proper application of the holster. The stallion matched the mare in height, meeting her gaze. "Ah want ya ta shoot the cactus ta the left o' Bloom's. Same spot. Think ya can do it, cuz?"

"I know I can," Babs muttered, urging herself to believe. The weapon beckoned in its holster, steel and lead awaiting her forehooves. The Deputy backed away once finished, giving her much-needed space.

"Whenever yer ready, Babs." Braeburn tugged on his Stetson and sat down, patient. Apple Bloom sat beside him on her haunches, expectant.

Babs slowly lifted her right forehoof to the weapon, caressing the grip. Cold to her touch at first, a warmth soon radiated through the steel. Tightening her grasp, she drew the revolver. Sunlight reflected off the metal, blinding her briefly. It feels so... alive. So capable. Like it would have a mind o' it's own, iffa it could. Marveling at the power literally in her forehooves, Babs Seed brought the weapon to bear, stretching out her strong forelimb completely. She wrapped her other forehoof around the same grip and stared down the barrel.

Tense, she tried to relax. One deep breath. Then another. First shot. Think o' it as somepony youze hate. Images of blue and black and red rushed through her mind.

Raising the revolver high, Babs Seed aimed square at the third cactus.

BANG!

The bullet connected just where Braeburn had wanted it—right in the middle of the trunk. An outpouring of fresh cactus water joined the whoops and cheers of both her cousins, pumping their forehooves into the air.

"Ah'll be damned!" Braeburn exclaimed. "Ya hit it right where it counted! An' on yer first try!"

"Wow! Guess guns aren't all that bad, huh, Babs?" Apple Bloom teased.

Babs Seed, her forelimbs trembling with aftershock, holstered the revolver and turned around. Three grins grew on three muzzles, Babs finding an adrenaline rush that left her in want. "Guess not. Say, Brae, got anythin' mo' fer us ta shoot?"

Braeburn smacked his uninjured shoulder, whooping. "Oh, Celestia, ta think Ah'd call ya gunslinger, but Ah will! Yes, o' course! C'mon, y'all, let's see what else Ah can teach ya. We need mo' water at home, anyway."

~

".. .So, that's what happened. As far as Ah know, the gang-ponies attacked the Sheriff's Office first, killed him, an' took off fer the saloon an' salt-bar. They set fire ta the saloon but didn't get the other bar. Pickaxe an' two o' his friends took out the saloon arsonists, an' the towns-ponies got the rest o' 'em. Saloon owner wasn't in the bar when it was burnin', luckily, but it'll take some good time ta fix it. They got Deuce too, rest he an' the Sheriff." Braeburn removed his Stetson and placed it over his heart, closing his eyes.

Everypony's plates were neglected throughout his recounting of that awful night, apple pie going untouched. Turner, Citrus, Libra, Babs, and Bloom let the silence hush and hiss, fitting for times such as these. Believers them all, they silently prayed that this was the end of the madness, the strange assault on the West that had begun almost a year ago with one disguised stallion in one Appleloosian bar.

Tucking his hat back on his head, Braeburn said, "Ah could barely stomach the funeral yesterday. Ah... Silverstar was ma best friend, Ah jus'..." A single tear rolled down his cheek, dripping to his plate.

"I'm sorry, Brae," Babs whispered, fiddling with her napkin. She gripped it tight, the fibers threatening to tear. Iffa only I had been heeya. Iffa I woulda jus' stayed. I coulda heard 'em, saved 'em. I know I coulda.

"Not yer fault." He wiped his tear away, sitting up straight. "Ah know Ah gotta get back ta work soon as ma shoulder's healed up. In the meantime, we've got a posse patrollin' both day an' night. Ah wish Ah jus' knew why this is happenin'. These attacks, these...monsters!" He growled, voice rough and gravelly. "Why here? Why Appleloosa? What did we ever do ta 'em?"

"I'm sure youze did nothin'," Turner answered, pushing the remnants of his pie around with a fork. "I've been ta all sorts o' corners o' Equestria, seen riff-raff o' all stripes. Some ponies jus' live fo' mayhem an' madness, get off on hurtin' othas." The words rolled off his tongue slowly, thick and sour. He gazed up at the Deputy. "Youze tried goin' ta Canterlot 'bout it?"

Braeburn said, "Ah'm thinkin' 'bout it. As far as Ah know, from talkin' ta Deuce an' a few others who came outta the East, some ponies have already written ta the princesses 'bout it. The Chief o' Police there is said ta be in direct contact wit' Celestia herself, constantly meetin' wit' her o' her representatives. But nothin' changes. Economy there's still bad, crime's still bad. Ponies comin' here fer a fresh start.

"An' besides," Braeburn finished, pushing his plate away, "wit' how things are in other parts o' Equestria now—an' not jus' troubles with ponies, wit' Griffins an' zebras too—Ah'm not sure random crime in the West matters much. 'Specially when we have our own law here."

Silence followed his final words, apple pie being thoroughly demolished by wayward forks or scrutinized by frowning muzzles. Supper arrived far too quickly, leaving all with insufficient time to fully anticipate this conversation. Braeburn's recounting of the tale left both Babs Seed and Apple Bloom quiet, stewing in their own anger, their own fear, their own relief and sorrow.

A thought came to Babs Seed's mind, unshakeable. Black orange tattoo. Black orange. Orange. Could it be...? "Braeburn, have youze thought iffa maybe... The tattoos... oranges, youze said, right?"

He nodded.

Carefully, letting her words ruminate within before giving them life, Babs stated, "Well... maybe... do youze think... it could be... summat ta do wit'... him?"

Him. Him. 

All oxygen at the supper table evaporated. All mares and one of the stallions experienced sudden chills, the cold desert night invading through the floorboards, past the walls, between the locks. In the minds of two of them, a black flame roared and blazed, bringing ice instead of ember.

Turner, however, only raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Him? Who's him?"

Libra Scales turned to him, laying a forehoof on top of his. "Ah, I knew this would come up sooner or later. You see, um, Turner... Well... He is my ex-husband."

"I see." Turner speared a piece of apple pie on his fork and brought it towards his mouth.

"Yes, I was married for twenty years to the most powerful and wealthy stallion in Manehatten. The most heinous, too. He lusted only for money and power, not for love or family. Bernie Madhoof," she spat, the name poisonous on her tongue. "If I ever—"

CLANG!

Five heads snapped towards the noise. Turner's fork laid on the plate, landing straight on top of his slice. His offending forehoof trembled, his pupils dilated, sweat rolling down his nape. "S-say h-his n-name a-a-again."

Libra Scales said, "Bernie Madhoof. How he hated his name. How I hated it more."

Turner's muzzle went white. "I-I s-see. Excuse me," he blurted, rising from his stool.

Immediately, Turner jumped from his seat and rushed to the door, thrusting it open. Without warning, he crossed the threshold and broke off into a gallop, thundering his hooves on the ground.

Babs Seed leapt off her stool and took after him, pumping her hooves. "Turner!"

From the kitchen, to the living room, out the door, into the night she ran. Her quarry was faster than his age intended, a streak of beige against the glistening sands. By the light of the moon, Babs Seed galloped, galloped after him, daughter pursuing father into the darkness, calling his name until her throat ached.

"TURNER!"