//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1: Alive and Kickin' 
// Story: Hawkeye Delicious 
// by BaroqueNexus 
//------------------------------//


Chapter 1: Alive and Kickin’


The Kickin’ Mule was alive with the sounds of laughing patrons and jazzy piano tunes. Tonight the tavern was especially busy, with dozens of Appleloosans forking over bits to spend the night eating and drinking their problems away. A pony could hardly stand anywhere in the place and not be overwhelmed by the smell of hay whiskey from another pony’s breath. But nopony seemed to care about the odor as the night went on and the merriment only grew merrier. 
Among the tavern’s patrons was Braeburn, sitting uncomfortably at the bar with an untouched glass of ale. He was exhausted and wasn’t much of a drinker, but his friends had insisted that tonight he come to the Kickin’ Mule. After all, the Zap Apple season was finally over. What better way to celebrate their hard work by getting drunk on their rumps? Braeburn didn’t share this sentiment, but went anyway. Even now as he sat at the bar with drunken ponies all around him, he was still questioning whether or not he should have come. But his friends weren’t having any of it.
“Hey, Braeburn,” one of them, a fat unicorn named Pumpkin Patch called from a nearby table. “Why the long face?” 
The others roared in laughter, and Braeburn smiled sheepishly. They then returned to laughing at each other and swallowing pint after pint of ale, with their cheeks turning red and eyes growing glossy.
The night went on and Braeburn was getting fed up, his glass still untouched. He enjoyed a good party as much as the next pony, but he was tired and just wanted to get some rest. His friends were either passed out or flirting with some of the sultry tavern mares. He was about to get up and leave when two stallions sat down next to him, one on each side. The one on his left was a very big puce-colored brute with bloodshot eyes and muscles bigger than his head. The one on his right wore a dark duster coat over his whole body, and he had his head down with his face partially concealed by a black wide-brimmed cowboy hat. 
Now Braeburn felt more uncomfortable than ever.
The bartender approached the big pony and frowned. “Hello, Golden Grain.”
“Shaddup, keep, ‘n git me a bottle o’ beer.” 
The bartender’s brow furrowed as he got the drink. “There you go.”
“Finally. Now git.”
Braeburn fidgeted in his seat as the hulking stallion threw his head back and guzzled his beer in one go, slamming it back down on the countertop and hiccuping before ordering another one. Five beers later and his eyes were almost completely red as he swayed in his seat. The bartender sighed. 
“I’ve gotta cut you off, Golden Grain. I think you’ve had enough.”
Golden Grain, still halfway through his sixth drink, put his cup down and stared angrily at the bartender with his piggy red eyes. “Y’all don’t tell me when I had enough. I know when I had enough.”
“Well, maybe if you actually paid your tab…” 
“Jus’ shaddup,” Golden Grain hiccuped. “I told ya I’d pay, an’ I’m gonna.” 
“When, Grain? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? I’m getting really tired of your excuses.”
“Now listen here, you li’l piece of…”
At that moment, Braeburn finally decided to get up and leave. Unfortunately, as he stood, he accidentally knocked over Golden Grain’s bottle with his elbow, spilling the remaining contents onto the giant stallion’s leg. Golden Grain cried out in surprise, and then turned his piggy eyes on Braeburn, who gulped nervously. 
“Terribly sorry, mister, lemme just—” 
Before he knew what was happening, Braeburn felt himself leave the ground as Golden Grain hoisted him by his collar and slammed him against the countertop. The tavern went silent as Braeburn wriggled helplessly in the giant stallion’s iron grip. 
“You knocked mah drink, boy!”
“I’m…I’m sorry…”
“Sorry?” Golden Grain raged, his piggy eyes brimming with booze-fueled rage. “You sorry? Sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, boy! Sorry ain’t buyin’ me anotha one!”
“I’ll…buy…” 
“Shaddup!” he screamed as he wrapped his hooves around Braeburn’s neck, choking him. “Shaddup, shaddup!”
Braeburn wheezed as his neck was squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. “Agh…gugh…” 
“You ain’t messin’ with me! Nopony evah messin’ with Golden Grain, ya hear?!” 
Other than Grain’s ranting and Braeburn’s feeble gasps, there was silence. The bartender stood with his back against the wall, suddenly terrified by the out-of-control stallion. Braeburn began to turn blue as Grain giggled.
“Yea, thas right, you messed with th’ wrong pony, an’ now you gonna—”
Click. 
Golden Grain felt something cold and metallic press against his temple.
“Let him go, please,” said a voice next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Grain could see what was pressing against his head: the cold steel barrel of a magnum revolver, cocked and held by the pony in the duster coat next to him. The pony didn’t even look at Grain as he casually sipped his whiskey and held the gun steady. 
“Let him go,” he repeated, his face still shadowed by his cowboy hat. Grain gritted his yellow teeth as Braeburn struggled for air. 
“Mister, you gon’ regret this.”
“If you don’t let him go in the next five seconds, I will paint the walls with your brains,” the duster pony said coolly. “Five, four, three…”
Golden Grain growled as a vein in his forehead began to throb, but he finally released Braeburn from his death grip. Braeburn gasped and fell to the ground, choking and coughing, sucking up as much air as he could. The duster pony did not lower his revolver.
“Now say you’re sorry.”
Grain’s eyes grew wide. “Whatchu say?” 
“You heard me. Apologize to this young stallion.” He still would not spare the hulking stallion even the slightest glance. 
“I ain’t apologizin’ to nopony,” Golden Grain snarled. “You gotta lotta nerve comin’ up t’ me with a—”
BANG! 
Golden Grain cried out, and the other tavern-goers ducked for cover. Braeburn gasped as he looked up at Golden Grain, who was holding his head and howling in pain. But there was no blood dripping down his face. As the gunsmoke cleared, Braeburn saw a small bullet hole in the far window. The glass was completely cracked. Grain continued to howl. 
“Mah ears! I can’t hear anythin’, dangit! Ya broke mah ears!”
“Consider yourself lucky, then,” the duster pony remarked, putting away his revolver and taking a small bag of bits out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing the bag to the bartender. “Sorry about the mess. That should buy you a new window.” 
With that, the duster pony rose from his barstool and walked out of the tavern, giving nopony a second look, not even Braeburn. The eerie quiet was only broken by Golden Grain’s soft whimpering. 
Braeburn slowly got up and felt a dozen eyes drill into him. Looking around uncomfortably, he finally made a break for the door, emerging into the cool night air. The duster pony was nowhere in sight, and Braeburn let loose a sigh of relief.
All he had to do now was get home. 


* * *


“Never were one for the tavern scene, were you?” 
The voice surprised Braeburn as he stepped onto his front porch, and when he looked around he spied a familiar pony sitting on the porch swing: the duster-wearing stallion. The brim of his hat still shadowed his face, even in the light of the hanging oil lamp above him. Smoke wafted from the cigarette tucked between his lips. 
Braeburn shifted nervously on his hooves. “Can I help you, mister?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” 
The stallion’s blunt manner of speaking made Braeburn even more uneasy. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Well, um…can I at least ask why you’re on my front porch?”
The duster pony took the cigarette from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “You can. And I can answer. I’ve been looking for you, Braeburn.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Why would I not know my cousin’s name?”
“Cousin? You ain’t my—”
Suddenly the duster stallion stood up, dropped his cigarette, and removed his hat, revealing his face. Braeburn’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. 
“No…it…it can’t be…” 
The duster pony cracked a mirthless smile. His skin was dark sandy beige in color, and his unruly mane was brown as mud. He would have been handsome, had it not been for his horribly disfigured face. A lattice of scars criss-crossed his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Just above his left eye was a deep scabbed-over wound surrounded by rough, dead skin, with another ugly scar running jaggedly down from the wound through his left eye. When Braeburn got a good look at the stallion’s eyes, his stomach lurched. The right eye was normal and colored in a beautiful shade of green. The other, however, was anything but beautiful. The iris and pupil of his left eye were both milky white and jagged, and the sclera was bloody red. The longer Braeburn stared at the eye, the more nauseous he became. But he could not look away, for this was the face of a pony he never thought he’d see again in his life.
“…Hawkeye?” 
“In the flesh,” Hawkeye Delicious said, adjusting the collar of his duster coat.
“But I thought you were—”
“Dead?” Hawkeye sneered. “No, unfortunately. Not yet.”
Braeburn didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t believe it. After all this time…
“What…” he stammered, “What happened to you? Where have you been?” 
“So many questions,” Hawkeye said dismissively. “So little time.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Hawkeye sighed. “Nevermind. How are you, Braeburn?” 
Braeburn could not help but gawk. “Uhh…” 
“What’s the matter? Buffalo got your tongue?” 
“Hawkeye…” Braeburn stammered. “They told me you died.” 
“Who told you?” Hawkeye said, his eyes narrowing. 
“Everypony.” 
“Really? How interesting. I suppose they also concocted some fantastic tale about my demise. Tell me, cousin, what did they tell you? How did I die?” 
Braeburn gulped. “Uhh…stampede. They said you got killed in a stampede.”
“Stampede? Pathetic,” Hawkeye grunted. “How uncreative.”
“Hawkeye…” Braeburn said, trying to swallow his discomfort. “That was six months ago. What happened to you? Where have you been?” 
Hawkeye pulled another cigarette and a match from his pocket, striking the match and lighting up before finally looking Braeburn in the eye. 
“There was no stampede, Braeburn. I was shot.” 
“What? Shot?!”
“What, the scars didn’t give it away? Yes, I was shot. Left for dead in the desert by the Caracaras.” 
All the color drained from Braeburn’s face. The Caracara Gang was one of the most notorious and infamous group of outlaws in all of Equestria. Anypony who ran afoul of them often didn’t live to see their next birthday. Thankfully they usually left Appleloosa alone, but their crimes and exploits made them feared across the entire region.
“The Caracaras…”
“They found where me and my boys were hiding,” Hawkeye continued. “Those damn bastards burned everything to the ground and killed my friends before they put a bullet in my head. But that ain’t the worst part.”
Braeburn gulped again. “It’s…It’s not? 
“No,” Hawkeye growled. “You see, Braeburn, I’d have bled to death in the sand if a buffalo witch doctor hadn’t come along and got me back to the land of the living. But that whole time I spent in a coma, the only thing floating around in my brain, besides a few bullet fragments, was a single word: betrayed.” 
Sweat rolled down Braeburn’s neck. “B-Betrayed? Hawkeye, I don’t…”
“Somepony betrayed me, cousin. Somebody got my friends killed. They were the only friends I’d ever had, and they burned to death at the hooves of the Caracaras. All because somepony sold us out. And you know who that pony was?”
Braeburn shook his head. Hawkeye gritted his teeth as his eyes filled with rage. “One of us.” 
“What? What do you mean?” 
“One of us, Braeburn. An Apple. A member of the family sold me out.” 
Braeburn gasped. “What?! How do you know…” 
“I know,” Hawkeye interrupted. “What I don’t know is which Apple did it. Now, I’d like nothing more than to find those Caracara bastards and make them pay, but going up against them alone would be a death sentence. So first things first: I find the son of a parasprite that betrayed me. Who did this to me.” He pointed angrily at his bloody red eye. 
Braeburn gulped, pulling at his collar. Hawkeye cocked his head. 
“Why so nervous, cousin?” he asked. 
“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Braeburn managed. “It’s just…I didn’t…I don’t…” 
“Oh for the love of Celestia, just spit it out!” 
After a moment, Braeburn composed himself and looked his cousin in the eye. “Okay, Hawkeye. If what you’re saying is true, then…well, how are you gonna find out which Apple it was that did you in?” 
At this, Hawkeye smiled. “I’m glad you asked. I’m going to find every single Apple that I can, and get one of them to confess by any means necessary. And I mean by any means necessary.”
“You’re gonna go after every family member? Just to interrogate them?”
“Yes…” 
Suddenly Hawkeye whipped out his gun faster than the blink of an eye and pressed the barrel against Braeburn’s forehead. 
“...and I think I’ll start with you.”