Draw

by TheVulpineHero1

Nine Of Pentacles: Comfort (Sheriff Silverstar)

Nine Of Pentacles: Comfort

Keyword: Comfort. Enjoyment of the comfort that money can buy. Prosperity, good sense and financial shrewdness. This card relates to a good administration of resources and shows that relaxation is now possible after hard work. The purchase of new furniture and a connection with gardens.
Reversed: Heavy debts, or a succesful life that rests on the misfortunes of others. Danger of theft.

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Sheltered from the scathing wind by thick bluffs of dust-rounded rock on the east side, built from planks of scraggy cedars, checker barked junipers and dwarf pines that grew in the very heights of the river basin to the south, Appleloosa was a town that was not cowed by the fierce and majestic desert in which it had been built. Later, after years or even decades, those small buildings would be slowly and gradually replaced by new ones, hewn from the springy wood of fallen apple trees. Then, with careful management, the cedar trees would become their source of firewood, to warm them when no clouds trapped the heat from the desert sun. Beyond that, no one knew what the future held: just getting to that point would be more than enough.

Sheriff Silverstar looked upon it all, and was pleased.

Not that he showed it. His smiles and his frowns were hidden behind his fine, coarse moustache, his sharp eyes concealed by the brim of his hat. Even if it hadn't been so, the lines of his face were cautiously neutral and inscrutable. Although the folk of Appleloosa were by a long spit the most honest and trustworthy he'd met, he was still Justice in these parts. And he knew well that Justice always kept a straight face. Which was why he was practising so very, very hard.

“Sheriff Silverstar! Ah got one! A letter!” Braeburn shouted, rushing into the sheriff's office. “And it was on time!”

In lieu of a reply, Silverstar gave a cursory twitch of his moustache.

“Ah'm plumb excited, Sheriff, and tain't no lie, neither! A good, reliable mail service puts a town on the map, y'see, and ah reckon-”

“A-huh. Simmer down, Braeburn. I ain't seen you so riled since the Mild West dances took off, and thet's no lie,” Silverstar admonished, but with a paternal pleasure in his otherwise squeaky voice. His voice was, perhaps, his greatest failing as a sheriff. “Wal, since y'all are makin' such a ruckus about it, y'ought to at least tell me what's in the letter.”

“Aw, shucks, Sheriff. It ain't anything too big. Just a letter from my cuz, Applejack. You met her back a ways, when the buffalo attacked,” returned Braeburn, dipping his hat. The sheriff twitched his moustache again. He recollected that mare well enough.

“Wal, shore I knowed it was from one o' your kin. You'd be no Apple if'n yer family weren't fixin' to meddle in your life,” Silverstar said crisply. “But it sure beats the other way round, if you get my hunch. The desert's no place to git lonesome.”

He stood slowly, easing himself off the wooden chair, arranging his vest and bandanna. “Wal, come on. Y'all can keep me company on my rounds t'day. Sheriffs get lonesome, too.”

Dragging a bemused Braeburn behind him, the sheriff stepped out of the office. His hoofsteps reverberated pleasing on the sturdy floorboards of his porch, and once more he thanked the stars above that the little town of Appleloosa was still standing tall. There was the sound of wheels scraping to a halt from the station, and instantly Braeburn started talking.

“Look, Sheriff- somepony's gittin' off the train! I gots to go and-”

“-scare the willies outta them poor city ponies? Yer enthusiasm is cute, Braeburn, but y'oughta learn to pipe down a little sometime,” the sheriff grinned under his moustache.

“But what if they don't see all the wonderful things Appleloosa has to offer?” Braeburn returned, visibly concerned.

“Wal, ah'm not sure about you, but I reckon the wonders of Appleloosa are self-evident to any observant pony. And if'n they're too busy to see 'em, well, a good riddance is what I say. M'not too fond o' strangers anyhow,” he shrugged, and turned left onto main street.

“But, Sheriff! I just gots to show them the horse drawn horse drawn carriages 'fore they miss 'em-”

“You do, Braeburn, and I'll deputise you on the spot!” Silverstar barked.

“But, Sheriff! I'm not cut out to be no deputy. My heart's not in tusslin'.”

“Shucks, Braeburn. Y'all don't need to tussle to be a sheriff. All you needs to be a sheriff is a sense of right 'n wrong, an' maybe listen to it once in a while,” Silverstar returned, voice returning to calm neutrality. “'n every town needs a good sheriff. I know that from hard ex'perience.”

That was no lie. He still remembered the failed frontier town of Mustang, where he'd once lived. For a year or two, it'd been a swell place, everypony banding together to stave off the harsh advance of the sand. But then the lawlessness had set in, hard and fierce, and the wandering broncos with the sharp, cold eyes started coming around, fast to buck and quick as lightning when they did. The place lasted a full six months before all the decent folk left, and fell into decay. It still stood as a ghost town, a monument to the baser instincts of ponykind. And all for want of a good sheriff. Well, he wasn't going to let it happen to Appleloosa for as long as he lived, even longer if he could manage it.

“Sheriff, y'all are awful quiet. Did ah say something wrong?” Braeburn asked, frowning.

“Naw. Ah was just recollectin' the past. Pay it no heed, son. Jest listen here,” the sheriff said slowly. “Look around y'self, Braeburn. This here town's a marvelous place, but fer all its wonders it's jest like a foal. It needs protectin', and it needs fine stallions like you and me to do it.”

“Wal, shore. No way I'd ever let anypony ruin Appleloosa!” Braeburn replied passionately, taking his hat off.

“It's good fer a pony's heart to hear you say that, Braeburn. It's a hard life fer those thet come here, but truth be told it's the only place I've ever felt comf'table. There's something to be said fer that,” the sheriff said, and gazed upwards at the desert sun from under the brim of his hat. There was no cloud to protect them from that fierce heat, no squall to shield them. But life still thrived under that glaring blaze. And whilst life remained in Appleloosa, he would be there to protect it.