A Fistful of Apples: True Grit is Magic

by Alsvid

Dawn

The hue and cry of a rooster brought Applejack upright.

The first few yellow-and-red rays of sunrise were streaming in through her little window.

Applejack stretched, feeling her shoulders and back joints crackling, grunting with the effort. She rubbed her neck, and thought about how nice it would be if someone offered her a wash and maybe a handle of rye.

Applejack swung her legs off the bed, standing up and walking over to the window, blinking in the morning light. She could barely see out of it.

With a little effort, she moved the bed over to the window. Then she clambered up on it and looked out the window.

The sandy main street of Appleloosa sat before her. Far away was the clock tower; shops, saloons, hotels, smithys, and offices, lined the the street. Many were in such sad states of disrepair, covered in dirt, with broken windows and missing doors, that Applejack had to wonder when last anyone had ever been in them.

There was a faint sawing sound in the distance. Someone was busy with a saw, she could tell.

Looking at the squat, dusty, ramshackle wooden buildings made Applejack's throat dry. She remembered the cup of sweet tea suddenly, and hopped off her bed to get it.

There were a few flies curiously investigating the cup's contents. Applejack knelt down, brushed them off, and took a sip. It was watery and stale. But she was also parched.

She was on her knees gulping down the tea when the Sheriff came in. The thick growth of black stubble on his chin and the bags under his eyes told Applejack he hadn't slept well. His eyes were red and swollen, which suggested that he'd been stoking his courage with a bottle a little before talking to her.

Nearly immediately, Applejack pounced on him. "Morning, Sheriff. Slep' good?" She rested lazily on the bars of her cell, and gave him a nonchalant smile.

He gave her a sharp look, sniffed and commenced to pulling his holster on, muttering under his breath.

"What's all that sawin,' sir?" Applejack sang out.

"Coffin-builder."

"Y'don't say."

"Ayup." The sheriff sniffed again, adjusted his holster. He gave her a very unfriendly glare. "He been workin' these parts here a spell. He kin take the measure of a man jus' by lookin' at him. I reckon that's your coffin he's sawin' over yonder. 'Course, that's if there's gonna be enough o' you to put inside."

He started back out of the room. "My boys are puttin' together a pile of firewood out back. Reckon they'll be finished before the sun's up - then we get this business over with."

The sheriff stopped halfway out the door. "It ain't right, you hear? Shoot, you kill a man, he oughta stay dead. You got no right to break the laws of nature like this. I ain't seen anything like this in all my years. Man gets killed, he dies, and he ain't a bother to any-one in the blessed world. Why cain't you just lie down an' die like a good Equestrian? You ain't s'posed to be alive."

Applejack studied the sheriff. His was a crooked, unhandsome face, with shaggy black whiskers and greasy black hair. But the terror she saw in the man's face gave her pause. She had been preparing a taunt most sharp for him.

But it broke and died in her throat, even as she looked at the Sheriff's haunted eyes. She realized the man was summoning every ounce of courage he could possibly reach, just to stay in the same room as her.

Applejack locked eyes with the Sheriff. "Honest, on the Princess's crown, ah swear, Sheriff. Ah'm just a farmer."

The sheriff let out a long sigh. "Shoot-dang, Miss. What's a farm-girl like you even doin' in these parts?"

"Ain't Appleloosa a apple-growin' town, sir?"

"Not since the Flim-Flam brothers came up. Between them and the Chief, this town ain't quite what it used to be." The sheriff smoothed his black mustachios nervously. "If'n you get ONE thing straight in your pretty lil' head, let it be this: stay away from the Flim-Flams. They'll make good an' darn sure you're dead, Miss. They're mighty smart, them Flim-Flams. And mighty cruel. You wonderin' why ain't nobody workin' them lands yonder? Shoot, nearly all the youngins are DEAD, Miss. That's why."

He paused, and then chuckled darkly. "You ain't gonna be alive much longer to worry 'bout it, so you just set there a spell while my boys build you a lil' ole camp-fire."

Comments

[MikeDave]

bakecooklove.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/bcl-img_3022.jpg

[Crystal wave]

Why is applejack in prison?
More?

[Alsvid]

2933222
SOON.

Watch this space!

[Crystal wave]

Okey dokey lokey