I'm Coming For You

by killingfrenzycreator

Part Two: Iron Hoof

It was quite a long trip to Dodge Junction. Almost a full week of sitting on an overcrowded train, full of unbathed cowpunchers wearing nothing but dusty rags, and eating stale hardtack with a sip of brackish water. Needless to say, Braeburn was immensely relieved when he stepped off the hot train and into the busy station. Wiping sweat from his brow, Braeburn pondered where to start, then decided to use the same approach he used for Sombrero. It took him a few moments to spot the town's social center, the Drunken Workhorse Saloon. Trotting up to it, he opened the doors and stepped inside. It was considerably cooler indoors than it was outside. Braeburn took off his hat and wiped sweat out of his eyes again before walking to the bar. One of the colts sitting at a Blackjack table turned and whistled, remarking, " Damn, that's a fine set o' guns!"

Braeburn took a seat at the bar and waited for the bartender to reach him. Finally, she came to him. Braeburn noted that she was a rather cute mare.

"What'll it be?" she asked, her Western drawl a little less strong than Braeburn had grown accustomed to. Ignoring his observation, he focused on his objective and slid forward twenty bits. Getting the wrong idea, the bartender said, "sorry mister, I don't do that stuff with customers. If you're lookin' fer entertainment, try Candy o'er there."

"That's not what Ah'm askin' fer, ma'am," Braeburn responded coolly, tipping his hat.

"Oh? And what'll it be then?"

"I want information," Braeburn said, his voice low and serious. "Tell me about Iron Hoof."

The mare's eyes widened for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Right back her, mister," she said, beckoning Braeburn to follow her into a back room. One of the cowponies behind Braeburn was outraged, and yelled out "How come he get's tah do ya an' we don'?!" Braeburn scowled at the pony and followed the bartender. She closed a door and turned to him.

"Why in the name o' all that's good would ya want to know 'bout that dreadful?" She asked.

"A personal matter tha' don' concern you," Braeburn responded casually, seating himself on the dusty wooden floor.

"Fair 'nuff... but you're either a bandit or suicidal if'n yer seekin' out the likes o' him."

"Ah'm fully aware o' the danger an' know full well what he's like. Tell me where tah find 'im an' Ah'll be outta yer mane."

The bartender looked Braeburn up and down. "Say, you wouldn't be the feller who took down Sombrero, would ya?"

Braeburn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mebbe Ah am."

"That changes things a bit, Ah reckon. He's outta town right now. Dunno where him an' his gang went or when they'll be back. Fer now, ya can have yerself a room an' a few drinks. Sound good?"

"Ayep. Sure."

The bartender gave Braeburn a rusty old key and motioned for him to go back into the main hub of the saloon. He followed her out of the back room.

"Well, tha' wuz mighty quick," a rough looking pony mumbled as the two stepped out. Braeburn sat back down at the bar and the bartender slid him a shot of Rye. Braeburn drank it down and tapped for another.

It was almost midnight. Braeburn was feeling very tired and his vision was extremely blurry. The saloon was surprisingly empty, save for two big, burly, mean-looking stallions with old Colt six-shooters at their belts. Braeburn's chin touched the bar and his eyes started drooping. Suddenly, the two stallions stood up and trotted over to him. One grabbed all of his weapons and ammo and the other one held him down. When Braeburn was completely disarmed, they grabbed him under both arms and hoisted him off of his seat. Braeburn, in his extremely drunken state, didn't even notice.

The bartender looked up at him and said, "sorry, babe, but Ah can' have ya goin' an' killin' my husband, now can Ah?" The two stallions dragged Braeburn out of the saloon and into the crisp night air. Outside were half a dozen armed colts and a stagecoach. Braeburn was roughly thrown into the back of the stagecoach, and the six ponies climbed in after him, all ready to shoot him the instant he tried to do something (not like Braeburn could do anything; he was wasted). The two stallions from the saloon started trotting on, and the stagecoach lurched. Braeburn threw up all over a colt's lap, and the colt hit Braeburn in the jaw, sending him flying back into the back of the stagecoach. The blow he took sobered him up a bit, just barely enough to realize that he was being taken somewhere by some very dangerous looking ponies.

Almost an hour later, the coach stopped. Braeburn was almost completely sober now, due to the punch to the face as well as the fresh desert night air. He did, however, have a pounding headache. He had also discovered that he was completely unarmed. Braeburn didn't remember much of what happened; he did vaguely remember the bartender saying something to him, but he couldn't remember what she had said.

One of the six ponies motioned for Braeburn to get out. He started to move out on his own, but was grabbed roughly and thrown out into the ground below. His left arm landed in a prickly pear cactus and searing hot pain shot up to his shoulder. Groaning, he picked himself up, yanking out cactus spines with his teeth. One of the ponies grabbed his gun and prodded Braeburn's shoulder, telling him to go on.

They were in the middle of a desert, with small plants and Saguaro Cacti everywhere. There was a huge, gnarled old tree that looked really out of place in the desert. There were large boulders everywhere. Braeburn saw one of the saloon stallions holding a rope and immediately knew where this was going. Why does everypony need to hang someone? he thought.

One of the ponies shoved him forward. Braeburn started walking to the tree. He racked his brain for ideas on how to escape, but nothing came to mind. The stallion with the rope tied it into a noose around Braeburn's neck, then tied it to a tree branch, high enough up to lift Braeburn several feet above the ground. The stallion grabbed Braeburn, letting him down very slowly.

"Ah wanna see you die mighty slow, hombre. Ah wanna watch you choke," he stated in a gruff voice. Finally, Braeburn was lowered to the point that the rope was taught. The all-too-familiar feeling of his windpipe closing greeted him. That's when he remembered what the bartender mare had said. Iron Hoof was her husband and this was her doing. Unintentionally, he began thrashing his legs about, struggling to breath yet recieving no air. Everything was growing dark, when suddenly...

A shot rang out, and the rope snapped in half. Braeburn took a deep breath, greedily gulping in Oxygen. The would-be lynchers stood there, shocked, not comprehending what had happened. Their reaction was all too slow, as another shot rang out, and a stallion fell to the ground, hoof to his throat, choking on his own blood. Braeburn dashed behind the tree. For what seemed like forever, the ponies shot it out with Braeburn's hidden savior. Then, finally, the shooting stopped. Braeburn peeked around the corner and saw all of the ponies were dead, laying in puddles of blood and empty bullet casings.

Braeburn watched as a stallion appeared from behind a boulder and stepped forward. "It's safe now, Ah reckon!"

Braeburn stepped out from behind the tree, the rope still around his neck. He saw his hat on the ground and put it on, then retrieved his weapons and ammo from the corpse of the second saloon stallion. Then he turned to his savior.

"Ah'm mighty thankful fer thet," he said, tipping his hat. The stallion, who Braeburn recognized from the saloon earlier that day, nodded.

"Twas nothin', mister. Ah saw them throw yer drunk ass inta the coach an' thought you looked like ya needed some help. So, Ah followed, an' sure 'nuff, there yu was, wit' a rope 'round yer neck," he responded. "Which ya still got round yer neck."

Braeburn pulled out his razor sharp knife and sliced the rope, letting it fall to the ground at his hooves. "Again, thankee. Ah would be buzzard food if you hadn't done what ya did."

"An' again, think nothin' of et. But Ah believe we got's some plannin' tah do. Ah got's me a shack jus' outta town; yer welcome to stay the night. Ah got somethin' important tah say to ya, but it'll wait till yer all rested up. After all, we got's a town tah shoot up tomorrow!"

Braeburn was a little confused at that; he was here to take out Iron Hoof, not a town of innocent ponies. However, his protests could wait until he was all rested up and fed. His neck was sore and his eyes were drooping, and he needed a bed soon. Nodding, he followed the pony to a trail.

"Name's Draw. Brother to tha one n' only Quick, if'n y'all heard o' him," Draw told Braeburn. Braeburn was surprised when he heard this.

"I knew your brother. He helped me take down Sombrero.. an' the name's Braeburn. Pleasure to meet ya!" he responded.

"Shit, son! Thet wuz yu who took down Sombrerah? No wunner them Iron Hoof folk wanted yu dead so bad... well, y'all will be mighty angry tah hear this: almost alla Dodge Junction fights fer Iron Hoof. Yu take him down an' the whole damn town'll be on yer ass like ants tah honey. Lucky fer you, alla us decent folk from Dodge 'ave been plannin' on fightin' back fer some time now. Call ourselves the Vigilantes. Yu in?"

Almost all of Dodge is with Iron Hoof? That explains why he wanted to shoot up the whole town...

"Ah'm in," Braeburn responded.

Finally, they reached Draw's shack. Draw opened the door. "Yu can take tha bed," he offered. Braeburn didn't need to hear any more; he was fast asleep on the bed immediately, and he hadn't even taken off his gun belt. Chuckling, Draw curled up on the ground and went to sleep.

Both ponies rose with the sun. Braeburn cleaned and reloaded all of his weapons, sharpened and oiled his knife, and readjusted his holsters before they set out to group up with the Vigilantes. The group of almost fifteen ponies strode into a town of almost fifty enemies. Braeburn bucked open the saloon door and stepped inside, while the rest of the Vigilantes strode about and took over several shops to use for cover in the upcoming shootout.

"Well howdy!" the bartender greeted Braeburn as he stepped inside. She was hiding her shock at seeing him alive rather poorly, but nopony else seemed to notice... or care.

Braeburn responded by drawing his beautiful six shooter and firing a round right between her eyes. Then, before anypony else could do anything, he kicked over a table and dived behind it, using it as cover.

There were maybe five or six ponies in the saloon, all Iron Hoof gangsters. They all jumped up when Braeburn shot, and unloaded into Braeburn's table. Most of the shots were stopped by the thick hardwood, but some went through. One bullet even pierced Braeburn's right shoulder, making him howl in agony. Most of the ponies stopped shooting to reload, and Braeburn took the opportunity to dive out of cover and fire back. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he ignored the searing pain and dispatched two more enemies. However, before he could kill another, he was forced back behind cover as a pony finished loading his gun and began firing at Braeburn.

Several gunshots sounded outside the saloon; the Vigilantes must have heard the fighting and began their attack. The whole town was up in arms, with Iron Hoof's gang shooting it out with Draw's Vigilantes. Braeburn waited for the ponies to start reloading again, and then started shooting them. He killed another two and mortally wounded the last. He dropped his gun and lay on the ground, blood squirting out and painting the floor a dark red. Braeburn finished him off with a quick shot to the head, and then galloped up the stairs. He ran out onto the outside walkway of the saloon on the second floor and switched to his Winchester. Picking his shots, Braeburn provided covering fire for the Vigilantes, until a barrage of bullets were fired in Braeburn's direction. The wooden railing splintered as rounds struck it, as well as the wall behind Braeburn. Only the Saloon sign was keeping him from being torn to shreds by the bullets.

Braeburn winced as splinters rained on him. He was quite effectively pinned. That is, until the Vigilantes laid down massive suppressive fire, giving Braeburn a window. He took it and jumped into the street below, holstering his Winchester and drawing his six guns. Every time somepony raised his head up to shoot, he would die, either by Braeburn's deadly accuracy or the Vigilantes' hellish rain of bullets. The street was littered with bloody corpses, riddled with bullets and bleeding into the dust. Every body had a gun in it's hoof; even the mares'.

Suddenly, a volley of rounds hit the Vigilantes from behind. Seven of the remaining twelve fell, dead or dying. Two rounds grazed Braeburn, knocking him down. Bullets kicked up dust around his head. Draw switched his fire to the rear attackers; a huge group that had been flanking the Vigilantes during the battle. With less fire on their position, the few remaining ponies that they were originally shooting at began to attack.

"This way!" Draw yelled, waving Braeburn into a General Store. The two dashed inside, bullets striking all around them. Suddenly, the shop owner leaped up with a small pistol in his hooves and shot Draw in the shoulder. The bullet sent him flying into a large shelf. Draw accidentally fired his gun off, and the bullet struck the store pony in the eye. His brains were splattered on the wall behind him. Draw rebounded off the shelf, landing on the ground hard. The shelf fell, landing on top of him with a crunching noise. Braeburn winced and rushed over to him.

"Go! Ah'll be fine! Ya gotta help tha Vigilantes!" he waved Braeburn on. He trotted to the back door of the shop, looked back at Draw, and said, "Ah'll come back fer ya, pardner!" Then, Braeburn opened the door and trotted outside.

The remaining Vigilantes had fought well. Most of the rear attackers were falling back, and all the frontal fighters were dead. There were only two Vigilantes left, but they were dug in with rifles, and Iron Hoof's ponies were having a hard time getting a shot at them before being forced back behind cover. Braeburn started shooting too, and pretty soon, the streets were quiet again. Buzzards swooped in circles overhead, and dead ponies covered the streets.

Braeburn found a gangster, slowly dying of internal injuries. He picked him up, shook him, and demanded the whereabouts of Iron Hoof.

"H-h-he went to th-the saloon... wife..." the pony stammered shakily. Braeburn fired a round into his skull, ending his torment.

Then he reloaded his guns and regrouped with the last two survivors of the Vigilantes outside the saloon. They all went in together.

"Ah wanna kill him," Braeburn said to the Vigilantes. "Y'all wait for me outside." They nodded and left.

Iron Hoof sat, his back turned to Braeburn. "You've come tah kill me?"

You'll earn a bullet, fair and square, pardner! Iron Hoof said, in the back of Braeburn's mind. "Yes. Y'all hung mah brother's in cold blood, an' Ah'm here to return the favor." Braeburn's voice was cold, and calm enough to send a chill through Iron Hoof's body. Yet, the bandit had years of experience in gunfighting; he wasn't afraid.

"Let's get to et, then."

Braeburn sat, hoof poised above his gun. His shoulder burned in utter agony, but he ignored it. It was time. Iron Hoof turned around and got into similar position. The two stared into each other's eyes; Braeburn saw the cruelty and evil in Iron Hoof's, whilst Iron Hoof saw the utter hatred in Braeburn's. "Your move," Braeburn taunted. Iron Hoof drew, and Braeburn followed suit. Iron Hoof was faster, but his shot went wide. Braeburn's found it's mark, and Iron Hoof fell. Blood was pulling around him. Braeburn walked towards him and sat besides him, kicking away his gun.

"Sombrero's dead. Who was the kid?" he asked.

"Ah ain't tellin' yu!" Iron Hoof spat. Braeburn drew his revolver and shot, then put the hot barrel inside of Iron Hoof's bullet hole. He screamed. "Ok! Ok! His name was Scar!! Please stop!"

Braeburn smiled, withdrew the gun, and shot Iron Hoof in the head.

Author's Note:

The desert they were going to hang Braeburn in was supposed to be like Cholla Springs from Red Dead Redemption, and the tree was supposed to be The Hanging Rock. Search them on Google images if you want a clear picture of what it looked like and have never played Red Dead. I'll have a picture of the location in the comments.

I started to get really sleepy towards the end of the chapter there and ended up making tons of mistakes... I think I found most of them, but I apologize if I missed any.

Well, this has needed to be written for a while... but I finally got around to it! I hope you all enjoy.

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[killingfrenzycreator]

Here's the pic for Part 2:
img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100626164645/reddeadredemption/images/a/a6/Rdr_hanging_rock_2.jpg