The Buffalo Telegraph told Clyde that a stranger was coming to call. It did not tell him that she was carrying something dangerous, or that evil people were close behind her. And it certainly did not tell him how much she would someday mean to him.
The Buffalo Telegraph told Clyde that a stranger was coming to call. It did not tell him that she was carrying something dangerous, or that evil people were close behind her.
And it certainly did not tell him how much she would someday mean to him.
On the morning of the stranger’s arrival, Clyde awoke to a notion that he should make extra coffee. He had slept well and did not need it himself, but knew better than to ignore such notions. He rose, worked his muscles to loosen them, and set to work stoking the wood stove he used for cooking. It was a broad, black, potbellied thing, unwieldy for most ponies but just right for someone of his stature. The previous owner had told him they had not been made this way for many years, and Clyde was lucky to have found it. Clyde had not mentioned that luck had little to do with it.
In a few moments, the pot was percolating. As an unwatched pot always boiled faster, Clyde decided to take in the sunrise while he waited. The east window, like most parts of his cottage, was wider than most. Other homesteaders would say such windows let out the heat too much at nights, but for a pony formerly used to life in a covered wagon, this was hardly noticeable. As the stove’s heat drove out the cool of early morning, Clyde decided to open the window for a little air.
No sooner had he done this then there came a staccato series of thumps from his right—somepony knocking with no small measure of urgency at the cottage’s only door. Whoever it was, Clyde surmised, it could only be the one the extra coffee was for.
He crossed to the door at a trot and flung it open to find a bedraggled figure upon the doorstep, partly silhouetted by the morning light. Her tawny coat and charcoal mane were mottled by road dust and a shiner around her left eye, and her right wing hung limp at her side. Her half-full saddlebag had somehow worked its way forward, and was now riding up against the bases of her wings in a way that looked particularly uncomfortable.
She looked up at Clyde with turgid eyes, and hissed through gritted teeth—“Help me.”
Clyde’s mouth moved quicker than his brain. “Sure…”
The stranger leapt forward, ducking past Clyde and skidding to a stop a couple of meters behind him. As Clyde wheeled about to follow her, his back leg struck the door in passing, slamming it shut.
“Now what, I say what is all this about?” Clyde could not keep a little annoyance out of his tone, though it was clear the stranger had some reason for this impetuousness.
Her gaze darted around, taking in each corner of the cottage in a fraction of a second. “Are we alone?” Without leaving time for an answer, she locked eyes with Clyde and continued. “Listen—any second now, some very bad ponies are gonna come through that door. You must not let them find me. Do you understand?”
“I…”
For the second time in the space of a minute, somepony knocked at the door: three thumps, heavy and slow.
With a raspy whisper of “Horseapples!” the stranger darted for the open window, leapt up to it with catlike agility, and scrambled out, leaving Clyde alone.
One, two, three seconds of silence. Clyde looked from the window to the door and back again, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The knocking came again—heavier, with five thumps now.
These knocks brought an unpleasant clarity to Clyde’s mind. Whatever was going on, he was now a part of it and had no say in the matter. As he again turned to the door, he shook his head and murmured beneath his breath, “Mm-mm-mm,” as if silently scolding Fate.
This time, beyond the threshold stood four burly stallions. At a glance—shirt collars, sunglasses, styled manes. City folk, Clyde supposed. Their legs were covered with dust, and their brows were shiny with sweat. Their apparent leader, for it was he who had knocked, was brown-coated and middle-aged, and had an alligator’s smile.
“Please do excuse us,” he said in an accent Clyde did not recognize. “Sorry to trouble you so early, but we’re federal detectives from Canterlot, on the trail of a dangerous criminal.” From his coat pocket, he produced a photo of a pegasus mare who might have been the stranger, though it was difficult to tell, as she seemed to have been photographed in the act of delivering a haymaker to the camerapony. “Have you seen her?”
Clyde could not help taking a little offense at the assumption that this might fool him. He looked over the four again, noting their placements relative to him. Judging by where they now stood, they had probably come from the west. The trail in that direction went around a protrusion of the forest a few seconds’ gallop away, and it was likely this had hidden the stranger’s arrival from them.
He pointed his snout eastward. “Yep. She went thataway.”
“Thank you. Here.” The alligator-smile broadened as its owner lay the photo at Clyde’s forehooves. “If you see her, leave a message at the Appleloosa Arms for Inspector Bell Lock—that’s me. There is a reward for information leading to her capture. Adieu.”
With that, the four swung east and cantered away, pacing themselves like patient hunters. Clyde waited until they had disappeared among a group of stone outcroppings, then hurried around the corner of the cottage, looking about for where the alleged criminal might be hiding. But there was only the rain barrel, the outhouse, and the open east window.
“They’re gone,” he said, raising his voice a little. “You can come out now.”
For a few seconds, nothing. Then, with much sloshing and gasping and coughing, the rain barrel erupted in a blur of water, hair and feathers. The stranger, less dirty but now sopping wet, struggled to pull herself over the rim. With her thrashing, the barrel might have tipped over, had Clyde not steadied it with one forehoof and lent the other to the stranger. In a moment she was on her hooves again, panting and wringing the water from her mane.
Soon, having more or less composed herself, she addressed Clyde again, smiling a little sheepishly. “Thanks.”
Equestrian folk-wisdom had it that there were times to ask for explanations, and there were times to extend hospitality. “You want a cup o’ coffee, Miss?” Clyde said.
* * *
They sat opposite one another at Clyde’s small round table, with the stranger close to the stove to help dry her off. She sat with closed eyes, breathing slowly, back held straight, sipping from the spare mug every few breaths. At last she set the mug down, and with a little grimace of pain, worked her right foreleg and wing until the latter had properly folded against her side.
“Just a pulled muscle. Need to stay off it for a while.” She met Clyde’s gaze, and again the sheepish smile made itself apparent. “I really appreciate this.”
“It ain’t no trouble.” Clyde did not mention that it nearly had been quite a lot. “I believe introductions are in order, though I’m a mite concerned, since the name ‘Troubleshoes Clyde’ used to have an embarrassin’ reputation.” Out of habit, he braced himself for this to go over badly.
“Don’t worry,” the stranger said. “I haven’t heard it before. No offense intended.”
“None taken. You can call me Clyde for short.”
“Nice to meet you. As for me…” The stranger looked away sidelong and nibbled at her lower lip, clearly mulling over her next words. “Well, you might not believe it, but you did just save my hide, so here’s the truth.” She puffed out her chest and grinned brazenly. “You’ve probably heard the name, but right now you’re talking to the real Daring Do.”
“Sorry, Miss Do, but I ain’t heard o’ you either, so I guess we’re square. No offense intended.” Clyde supposed his guest’s existence was something he had missed in his years on the road. He pushed away a little twinge of bitterness, for such things were counterproductive.
Daring blinked at this—once, twice—then leaned back and chuckled. “Actually, I’m kind of surprised. My name’s pretty well-known if you read fiction, and I assume those aren’t just for show.” She indicated the bookshelf in the far corner.
“They ain’t, but it’s mostly biography and history and such. And almanacs, since everypony in this part o’ the country reads ‘em. I suppose I should try storybooks too some time, but I missed out on proper book-learnin’ when everypony else was gettin’ it. Been playin’ catch-up since I settled here.”
“I gotcha. Sorry to hear it. But listen…” Daring leaned forward and placed both hooves upon the table. “I need to lay low until I’m well enough to fly. Do you have a place I can crash for a bit? I’ll pay, of course—for my own food, as well as the lodging. I heal faster then most ponies, so it won’t be long.” She said this hurriedly, as if to lay out her case before he could say “no.”
Clyde drained the last of his coffee and scrutinized his visitor’s face. He saw no sign of bad faith; just the creased brow and turned-down mouth of one in need of a hoof up. “On one condition,” he said. “You tell me all about how you ended up with four mean-eyed guys chasin’ you to my door. The full story, if’n you please. I ain’t in no position to judge somepony who’s on the lam, ‘specially if that pony ain’t had a chance to tell his—uh, her—side o’ the story.”
“Deal.” Daring let out a held breath and relaxed a little. “Okay... how should I put it?” She shut her eyes tight and put one hoof to her brow, in the manner of one trying to wrestle disparate thoughts into coherence. “For starters, those guys’ leader probably gave you a fake name. His real name is Dr. Caballeron. He’s a treasure hunter, but also one of the most actively evil ponies in the world.”
“The world, huh?” To Clyde this sounded like exaggeration, but for now it seemed best to allow it. “Mighty impressive, since he’s up against such broad competition. But go on.”
“He’s completely unscrupulous, and sells his finds to whoever has the most money. Since a lot of them are imbued with magic, you can imagine how dangerous it is when they fall into the wrong hooves—or hands, sometimes.”
“Hands?” Clyde raised a brow at this.
“Not all his customers are ponies,” Daring said. “Point is, we’ve had more than a few run-ins, and this time his stupid rent-a-thugs figured out how to win a fight with a pegasus—disable the wings first. I’m used to getting hurt, but I know when it’s time to run.”
“I gotcha. So, what d’you have that he wants?”
There was a long pause. Daring studied him with narrowed eyes, and he calmly gazed back. Of course she had something; someone who only cared about money would not bother attacking her otherwise.
“All right,” she said. “It goes against my better judgment, but a deal’s a deal, and you strike me as an honest pony. Caballeron is after me because I’m carrying…” She looked to the doors and windows, though there was no danger of eavesdroppers. She leaned across the table and spoke in a hissing whisper. “… The Human’s Hand.”
Silence in the room.
“The what-now?”
Daring sat straight and made a “sculpting” motion with her hooves, as one trying to describe something abstract. “Well, it’s…” She paused. “No, I’d better show you. It’s in my saddlebag. After I ducked out your window, I threw the bag onto your roof before I hid in the rain barrel. I didn’t want the water to destroy the Hand. I can’t fly up and get it yet, but…” She smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of her head with one hoof.
Clyde nodded, and in short order they were out by the rain barrel again. Rearing up, Clyde could just hook the saddlebag down from the eaves-trough. As he did this, Daring stood guard, trying to watch every direction at once. Once Clyde had brought the bag down, she gestured for him to follow and darted back into the cottage.
As the two regained their seats, Clyde placed the saddlebag on the table between them. Daring reached into the left pocket, felt about, and withdrew a small black cloth bag, closed tight with a drawstring.
Slow and reverent, she began to loosen the string. “The Human’s Hand is an ancient relic, utterly unique—the mummified end of the forelimb of a long-extinct species of great ape. I found it in a king’s tomb in the Zebrahara, recently uncovered by a sandstorm.” She tilted up one end of the bag, allowing the object within to gently slide onto the tabletop.
It was an ugly thing to look at—a cluster of spindly bones and knobby knuckles, held together by desiccated flesh turned yellow-brown by time. The shape was curled in upon itself, as if its owner had thought to use it as a club just before expiring.
But Daring gazed upon it with shining eyes. “Legend has it, it can grant wishes, though they come with a catch. That’s hocus-pocus of course, but it’s the only known piece of a creature long thought to be a myth. No intrinsic value…” She made a sidelong glance at Clyde. “But the Royal Canterlot Museum will be very interested.”
Clyde looked at the thing long enough to be polite before answering. “Beggin’ your pardon, but if there ain’t no intrinsic value, why does this Caballeron want it?”
Daring began gathering the Hand back into the bag. “He has another buyer—someone superstitious, who pays for anything that might have magic to give him an edge. That’s one of his weaknesses: He actually believes in stuff like wish-granting.”
“Well, he’s kinda right.” Clyde said this on impulse, and immediately wished he had not. He hoped his guest would ignore it, but—
“Say what?” she said.
Clyde rose and made a show of reaching for the coffee pot. “Uh, you want a top-up?”
“No, thank you. What was that you said just now?”
“Nothin’, it’s nothin’.” Clyde took the pot’s grip in his teeth and began pouring himself another cup, as slowly as he could, hoping she would drop the issue.
But Daring waited patiently for him to put the pot down, and said, “’He’s kind of right.’ What does that mean?”
“Just a private joke. Forget I said anything.” Clyde took a sip and grimaced, for it was a little too hot.
“No.” Daring looked from Clyde to the Hand and back again. “If there’s any chance you know something I don’t, this thing could be really dangerous.”
Clyde slumped in his chair and gave a long sigh. “I’ve had this talk with ponies before. Reckon you’ll call me a kook.”
“There’s no way you can be as kooky as half the people I meet on expeditions. Try me—I promise I won’t judge you or anything.” Daring raised both hooves in a gesture of earnestness—symbolizing that the speaker was not wearing iron shoes, and so was not armed for fighting.
“If you say so.” Clyde took a fortifying breath. “Here goes. That other feller—the superstitious one. He’s kinda right. Don’t need no ol’ mummy-hand for it, but if he’s as much bad news as you say, better not let him find that out.”
“Why’s that?” Daring said.
“Well, I’m referrin’ to…” Here went nothing. “… The Buffalo Telegraph.”
“The what?”
“Lemme put it this way.” Clyde’s gaze drifted upward, as if he might find the right words dancing about his head. “You ever start thinkin’ about somepony you ain’t seen in years, and the next minute you bump into ‘em on the road, or you get a letter from ‘em or somethin’?”
“Yeah, a couple times.”
It was a start at least, Clyde thought. “And… you ever been in a crowded place, and you felt somepony’s eyes staring at the back of your head, and you turned and caught somepony lookin’ at you?”
Daring tilted her head and looked sidelong at Clyde. “I… guess I have?”
“And, you ever thought about somethin’ you really wanted for a long time, and a run o’ coincidences ended up with you gettin’ it?”
“I… guess so, yeah.”
Clyde nodded somberly. “The Buffalo Telegraph.”
Daring assumed a half-frown, and another line appeared on her brow. “I still don’t understand.”
Now it was Clyde’s turn to quickly blurt out his case. “I heard it from a buffalo who said his people called it that ‘cause they were proud o’ bein’ good at it. He couldn’t explain quite how it worked, but those were some o’ the things he said it did. He said if you had the right sort o’ mind and practiced it, you could actually use it for things—say, being warned o’ things before they happened, or askin’ for things you wanted or needed.”
“So, it’s like buffalo magic?” Daring said.
“Not exactly. Anypony can use it if they know how. That’s why, the less bad ponies—heck, bad people—know about it, the better.”
Daring paused in contemplation for a moment, then visibly relaxed and smiled a little. “Well. In my job, I could sure use a power like that.”
Clyde suppressed a sigh. He had one more chance not to lose any respect she had for him. “You already have.”
“How’s that?”
“All your thoughts and feelin’s go out on the Telegraph,” Clyde said. “You never stop askin’ for stuff. Send out bad thoughts and feelin’s, and bad things come back to you later. For years I thought I was born with plain ol’ bad luck, but after I turned my life around I found out I was makin’ my own luck all the time. Now the Telegraph keeps me in good luck, mostly, ‘cause I accept bad things and I’m grateful for good things. This here Hand is just a chunk o’ dead animal, but the Zebras or whoever were convinced it granted wishes, and that’s what counted. It’s the same with fortune-tellers: They convince you somethin’ will happen, and you make it come true.
“The Telegraph tells you things, too, if you listen just right. Like I say, most often it’s when somepony’s lookin’ at you, or is comin’ to call. Told me to put on extra coffee this mornin’, and there sure was no other way I knew company was comin’. That’s about the skinny of it.”
He held his breath, waiting for Daring’s answer. She did not speak, but swirled the dregs of her coffee and chuckled a little.
Clyde snorted and shook his head. “I knew it, I just knew it. You think I’m a kook.”
“No, no, nothing like that!” She again raised her forehooves in an appeasing motion. “I mean, I believe in things when I see them, but I don’t blame you. It’s actually kind of charming.”
“Charming?”
“Yeah. In a ‘country’ sort of way.” As Daring said this, she caught Clyde’s look and quickly backpedaled. “I don’t mean it like that either! More like… I mean, I’ve had to deal with all kinds of weird superstitions, violent cults, monsters and things like that. Compared to tribes that think the sun requires sacrifices to rise, the ‘Buffalo Telegraph’ is kind of charming. But I gotta be honest—I don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors. It still comes from superstitious thinking: ‘after, therefore caused by.’ Sorry, but I don’t believe in anything I can’t find with my own five senses.”
“Your five senses can’t find radiation,” Clyde said, “but it can kill you.”
“That’s different. Radiation is something we can prove we can make.”
Clyde decided this was the most he could hope for. “You sound like my father, rest his soul. And maybe your way’s been best for you. But I can’t afford to think that way. I lost so many years to bad luck, I need the Telegraph to play catch-up.”
“I guess I understand, then. By the way, you got a special somepony?”
With the suddenness of this question, Clyde had to check himself to avoid spitting out a mouthful of coffee. Instead, he managed to choke it down, cough, and say, “Come again?”
“It’s no big deal,” Daring said. “I was just afraid that if you had one, she might come home to find you visiting a strange mare.” She shrugged. “Hey, don’t worry—I don’t have one either. Too much time on the road. Guess we have the same problem, kind of. Anyway...” She reached into the saddlebag again and withdrew a coin purse, from which she counted a stack of bits. “This is what I’d pay for a couple days at the Appleoosa Arms. How’s that for a deal?”
“Looks fair to me,” Clyde said, glad to change the subject. “My covered wagon is out back. I use it for tourin’ with the rodeos, so rest assured it’s liveable.” He made to rise to his hooves.
But Daring only half rose. “Thank you, but, uh, there’s one more thing. I don’t really have any supplies, and Caballeron probably has somepony watching the way into town, so…”
“You’re wantin’ a disguise?”
“One that covers this up, if possible.” She pointed to the shiner around her left eye.
“Well, I just so happen to be a rodeo clown, so there’s no shortage o’ makeup. Ain’t got no mare’s clothes, but maybe we can improvise somethin’.” Clyde pointed his snout toward the closet next to the bookshelf.
“Perfect!” Daring stood up and grinned broadly. “So you can fix me up with a new identity while I’m here?”
“Sure.” Now it was Clyde’s turn to chuckle. “You might say, it’s almost like our meetin’ was meant to be.”
A few hours later, two figures, one mare and one rather large stallion, set out from the cottage of Troubleshoes Clyde, making for Appleloosa. The mare wore a shapeless frock of sorts, which might have once been a tablecloth. The parts of her that showed were colored a mottled sort of green, and her mane was combed as much over her eyes as possible, for there was no way to disguise their color.
Clyde had at first thought to slow his pace, to allow for her shorter legs. But she kept up with his long strides at an easy trot. He supposed a pony like her might take offense if he tried to make it easier for her.
“Sure they’ll be fooled?” Clyde knew it was a silly question, but conversation made a journey go faster.
“Easily,” Daring Do said. “They all have bad eyesight, from an unusual booby-trap they tripped a few years ago. And they won’t wear glasses, because then they would look like the ponies they picked on in school. I once fooled them by lowering my voice and making a beard out of mud and spruce needles.”
Clyde raised an eyebrow. “Yer kiddin’.”
She looked rather pleased with herself. “Nope. ‘Course, I’ll have to be careful anyway, since he might have recently hired more heavies.”
“Well,” Clyde said, “just do us both a good turn—don’t think about not bein’ seen. Think about us gettin’ back from town safe.”
“Buffalo Telegraph?” Daring looked at him with a hint of a smile.
“Just… as a personal favor, alright?”
“If it makes you feel better, okay.” Daring took a long breath through the nose and made to change the subject. “So. Let’s go over this one more time, just to be sure. I am Romaine Roma, here to visit my first cousin Clyde after years of familial estrangement. Our uncle Hoist Haversack has died recently, and I’m trying to get the family to make peace, because I’m planning a big reunion next year. Actually…” A sidelong glance. “What’s the reason for the estrangement, anyway? I know we planned to say it was private if it ever came up, but you never know.”
Clyde said nothing, but stared at the ground passing before him.
“Oh.” Daring frowned. “So, there really is estrangement?”
“Sorta.” Clyde spoke slowly, as if the subject were icy water into which he must wade. “Remember I said I used to have an embarrassin’ reputation? Well, I knew what my kin would think when talk found its way back to them, so I been avoidin’ ‘em for… well, never you mind how long.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Daring said. “Believe it or not, I can relate.”
“Oh?”
Daring took another, longer breath. “My Mom—she’s a florist, and that’s a job that attracts mild-mannered and delicate mares. She wanted me to be exactly like her.” At the word “exactly,” a bitter edge in her voice made itself apparent. “Instead, she got the biggest tomcolt in the history of Equestria, and probably the world. The only question for me was whether I wanted to go on adventures, or write about them. The compasses on my flanks clinched it, and… well, the rest is history.”
“And you spent a lot o’ time thinkin’ about doin’ both those things?” Clyde said.
“Well, of course.” Daring blinked at this question, then regarded Clyde coolly. “And I got to doing them both on my own, with lots of hard work and a little luck.”
“’Luck.’ Yes, I suppose that’s logical enough.” There was no sarcasm nor resignation in Clyde’s tone. He simply said it.
Daring obliquely studied his expression for a moment longer, before a little playful smile began to grow on her muzzle. “So, now that you’ve heard my story, let’s hear yours.”
She was cunning, this mare; with her having set the precedent, he was in no position to clam up. “Well… all right. Cousin Romaine would have to know about my past anyhow.” He made to address Daring eye-to-eye, but his gaze wandered to her chin, where it settled. “All right, here goes. It was a misunderstood cutie mark. I thought the upside-down horseshoe meant I would always be an unlucky klutz. But wouldn’t you know it, some ponies came along who had a special interest in that sort o’ magic. They showed me I could do what I always wanted—performin’ in rodeos—by takin’ pratfalls. Nowadays folk say I’m the biggest rodeo clown in Equestria, though I’m sure they’re just talkin’ about my frame.” He looked up and his gaze followed a little puff of white cloud, which was making good time across the sky. “That’s another thing I learned: When you know where you wanna go, you gotta let the current o’ life take you there. Ain’t no good tryin’ to swim against it.”
Daring gave a little half-smile. “Well, the ‘current of life’ sure hasn’t done me any favors lately.”
“No?”
“After I found the Human’s Hand, the first Equestrian town I got to was Dodge City. I was too worn out to keep flying, so I tried to take the train to Canterlot. But a rockslide damaged the bridge over Ghastly Gorge, and the train had to divert to Appleloosa. I thought I had lost Caballeron miles earlier, but that’s where he caught up to me.” She looked a little bashful. “And that’s why I’ve had to impose on a total stranger.”
“As I say, ain’t no trouble,” Clyde said. “Truth be told, I’m glad for a visit. I went so long without any friends, now I gotta learn how to make ‘em again. And it ain’t easy, ‘cause that little plot o’ land was all I could afford, and that only on agreement with the Crown that I would make productive use of it. So without meanin’ to, I might’ve been askin’ for somepony to drop in some time.”
Daring made an exaggeration of a glare. “So you’re saying, the Buffalo Telegraph did all that to me so I would end up here, just because you asked? If that’s true, I think you owe me an apology!”
Daring Do was certainly unusual, Clyde thought, for usually ponies sought an exit when the talk turned metaphysical. He shook his head. “That ain’t it. Nopony can do that much. More like, all that stuff was gonna happen anyway. But maybe, when you were escapin’ from Caballeron, you had a notion to zig instead o’ zaggin’, and that put you on my doorstep. Ain’t always easy to say how these things work.”
“And it’s impossible to disprove, of course.” Daring made a half-chuckle, but checked herself. “Though, I guess I shouldn’t make fun. I was a loner myself for a long time. But last year I met some ponies—from fans of my writing, if you can believe it—who helped me against Caballeron and, uh, his best customer. Point being, I guess there’s one thing we can agree on: you never stop learning.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Clyde said.
By now, the pair had cleared the forest and reached the outskirts of Appleloosa. Talk stopped as they glanced left and right for anypony who might be on the lookout for Daring Do. But there were only townsfolk going about their business, and the beginnings of the crowd gathering for the last day of the rodeo. The grounds for such were set up just south of town, and Daring followed Clyde to a small, nondescript tent at their edge.
“The performers’ change room,” Clyde said. “We get into our work duds in private, ‘cause it’s a symbolic transformation from our usual selves into our stage personas.”
“I’m no stranger to that,” Daring said.
“Guess you ain’t. Makes sense this ain’t your first time goin’ incognito.”
“That, and when I write, I’m A.K. Yearling. And you can bet I wasn’t born Daring Do.”
Clyde looked toward her, one brow raised. “What were you born as, if I may be so bold?”
“You may.” Daring smirked and flitted her gaze to one side. “But that’s something I never tell anypony. Anyway, I wish I could stay and watch your act, but I need to buy supplies, and I want to scout the town for information. You said your first act ends at one o’clock, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Cousin Romaine will meet you back here then. Break a leg!”
Daring trotted off toward the main street, and Clyde ducked into the tent. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was no longer Troubleshoes Clyde, but Luggo the Clown, bedecked in all the trappings of any respectable member of his profession: whiteface, frizzy wig, red nose, gaudy trousers, loud bowtie, and outsize shoes.
He stopped short, for directly outside, the Sheriff stood waiting for him. Clyde had barely spoken to Silverstar since his acquittal as a serial vandal, but the Sheriff’s perpetually steely gaze was always enough to put him ill at ease. But this time, Silverstar held his black hat against his chest, showing that he wanted to speak to Clyde as a mere pony, rather than in his capacity as an enforcer of the law.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Clyde,” he said.
“Mornin’, Sheriff,” Clyde said, keeping his voice casual. “What can I do for ya?”
“Well, Mr. Clyde, it seems in a short time you’ve made quite a name for yourself in rodeos—across the nation, in fact.”
“That’s true. I have.”
“Well, a nephew of mine is an aspirin’ rodeo clown himself, and he’s takin’ quite an admiration for yer work.”
“Very flatterin’.”
“It so happens he’s a-comin’ to visit for a spell, and he heard you lived ‘round these parts. The telegraph office just told me he couldn’t make the early train, but he’ll be in time to catch the tail end of yer act, and, well, it would mean quite a lot to him to have the autograph o’ the great Luggo.”
“That’s all?” Clyde said, surprised.
“’Course. I mean, if’n you would be so kind.”
It occurred to Clyde that he might tell the Sheriff all the morning’s events, and gain the protection of the law. But no—at the first mention that a fictional character was real and had sought asylum at Clyde’s cottage, Silverstar would have him detained for his own protection, or at least reprimand him for trying to play a threadbare joke. So—“Would be my pleasure,” Clyde said.
“Thank you,” Silverstar said. “I’ll introduce you to him here, after yer first performance. Good luck out there.” He donned his hat again and excused himself.
* * *
But there was no chance for an autograph. As Clyde was walking back for his break between performances, “Cousin Romaine” darted from a gap between the portable outhouses and the performers’ tent, and despite her relative size, managed to hustle him into a hiding place behind an outbuilding.
Clyde made to ask what the trouble was, but she shushed him with an intense hissing, and looked all around, swiveling her eyes and ears. After a moment, apparently sure there were no spies about, she beckoned to him to lean down so she could whisper in his ear.
“He did bring new thugs. They recognized me. I think I lost them, but the town’s not safe. We have to get back!” With that, she turned and headed for the trail back to the cottage at a full gallop, tearing off her improvised frock as she went.
“H-hey!” Clyde tried to follow, but tripped on his shoes and nearly sprawled. He kicked them off and galloped after Daring. Her head start made her difficult to catch, and as the accoutrements of a clown were not meant for long-distance running, he left quite a conspicuous trail of them behind—first the nose, then the wig, the bowtie, and finally the trousers when their suspenders slipped from his shoulders. Sweat made his makeup run, and by the time he had drawn up abreast with Daring, he was a curious and rather alarming sight.
“Now what do we do?” he said, panting.
Daring, being only slightly puffed, had little trouble answering. “We take your wagon and cut across country! Cover our tracks! They won’t know where to look!”
Despite everything, Clyde managed to muster an annoyed snort. “What kind of mess have you gotten me into?”
“I’ll compensate you! I’m good for…”
She fell silent, and they both stopped short, for there was something before them that should not have been. The path curved around a thick outcropping of young trees and undergrowth extending from the forest, and rising above this from the opposite side was a column of black smoke. Clyde realized it before Daring did—it was coming from his cottage.
“Oh no…” Clyde charged forward, blind panic fueling such a burst of speed as he had never thought himself capable. He paid no heed to Daring’s shouted warning, and in an instant he had rounded the bend.
The scene before him was surreal in its enormity: The home he had built, where he had meant to live out his days in peace… flames pouring out and upward from the windows and door… a great hissing and crackling and roaring… and standing before it, the four stallions he had met that morning, along with two others—all kicking at the ground, braced for a fight.
It is not in the nature of a draft horse to lose its temper, but any creature that draws breath, no matter how peaceable, will fight when its home is invaded. For the first time in his life, Troubleshoes Clyde took leave of rational thought. Regardless of the numbers set against him, he let out a bellow of rage and flung himself upon the villains. With his considerable size, and the blotted remains of his makeup now resembling a savage’s war paint, he was a terrifying vision as he thundered toward them, closing the distance in the time-span of a single breath. He headed for the middle of the group, where three of the thugs stood close together. Despite their initial bravado, they flinched in fear and dodged to the sides as he reached them. But the one in the middle was not quite fast enough: The mass of a draft horse clipping him at a full gallop knocked him head over heels, and he lay dazed and winded. Had anyone present been in a state to take notice, they might have noted that it was almost comical how his sunglasses flew from his face and through the burning cottage’s front door, landing in the very fire he had helped set.
As this was happening, there came from the pathway behind Clyde the sound of a mare’s voice, first shouting, then yelping in surprise and pain. But in the heat of the moment, he did not hear.
He swerved hard left and again bore down on the first enemy he saw—a brown stallion in a red collar. This one, seemingly braver than the others, leaned forward and stomped with both forehooves, daring Clyde to approach. But before Clyde could answer, a lasso was thrown with expert aim from just outside his sight, and roped him about the neck, making him gag and nearly pulling him down. He looked to see a brawny stallion with red sideburns, the rope gripped in his teeth, planting his hooves and another tug. But Clyde was faster, lunging forward to seize the rope and giving a mighty heave upon it. With a grunt of pain, his enemy fell face-first to the ground.
With no time to get free of the rope, Clyde shook himself and again made for the brown stallion, intending to trample him. But no sooner had he reached kicking distance than something wound itself about his hind legs, sending him sprawling.
Struggling to regain his breath, he reached for the thing that had caught him up, and felt a tangle of nylon cords and round iron weights about his knees. Clyde was strong enough to break any normal hempen rope, but straining against these cords only made them dig painfully into his skin. There was a distinctive chiming sound—unicorn magic—and a second cord, glowing red, descended upon him and fastened his forelegs to his hinds.
Struggle though Clyde might, the battle was over. As his breath returned and his peripheral vision cleared, he saw an unfamiliar unicorn approaching him from the right—all dark reds upon darker reds, with one fake-looking glass eye that stared horribly, and one of flesh that met Clyde’s eyes and glared hatefully. In place of a saddlebag, this newcomer carried a naugahyde harness, from which hung more bolas like those he had used to restrain Clyde.
“I see you are well worth your fee, Mr. Gunsmoke.” This was the voice of Dr. Caballeron, who was now strutting into Clyde’s field of view.
“Caballeron, when I get my hooves on you…!” This was the voice of Daring. Clyde could not see her, but guessed she had been caught the same way he had.
Caballeron looked away from Clyde, in the direction of the path. “I should thank you, Ms. Do, for bringing the Human’s Hand out of the desert for me.” He held a little cloth bag up for all those present to see. “It’s already brought me good luck.” With a gravelly laugh, he gestured to his accomplices. “Put her in the wagon. Ahuizotol will pay more for her alive.”
“What about him?” The voice of Gunsmoke was low and mean.
“Bring him along too,” Caballeron said. “Ahuizotol’s vaunted ‘volcano god’ can never have enough sacrifices.”
Clyde slumped back against the ground. There was only one thing left that he could do. He took a long breath, cleared his mind, a reached out a plea from his mind and heart—Help me.
Above him, the column of smoke and ash reached into the infinite heavens.
It was near sunset when Caballeron’s wagon stopped. The two prisoners were hauled bodily out and set upon the ground, leaning against each other. The blindfolds were pulled from their eyes, and both were able to turn their heads to see their captor, who stood by with a smug expression upon his muzzle and the Human’s Hand still held in one forehoof.
“Mr. Gunsmoke advised me to test you, Daring Do,” he said. “That is, to see whether you could swim with chains around your legs.”
Daring regarded him coolly.
Caballeron turned to his lackeys and ordered them to start cooking. Looking around, Clyde could see that the villains had stopped at a small camp, made up of five large tents around a fire pit, in which two of them began to set kindling while a third unpacked cans from a wooden crate. The camp was built a little way within the entrance of a great crevasse that opened into the desert beyond. Sandstone cliffs stretched high above on either side, so that the camp would be almost impossible for anypony to see unless they passed right by the entrance. Worse, Clyde could not remember seeing a place like this in his travels.
Caballeron turned back to the prisoners and addressed Daring. “But Ahuizotol asked me to bring you to him alive… so he could personally feed you to the volcano. It’s a pity—if you had joined my side, all this could have been avoided.”
Daring Do worked her jaw and spat on the ground before speaking. “Well, you’ll be next when he realizes the Human’s Hand is just a chunk of dead meat.”
“She’s lyin’.”
Everyone within earshot turned to Clyde, for these were the first words he had spoken since his capture.
“Clyde, what do you think you’re…” Daring’s outburst was cut short as one of the thugs, who had been standing guard beside Caballeron, reached out and cuffed her.
“What do you mean?” Caballeron’s tone suggested moderate interest, but little patience.
“She told me all about the Hand,” Clyde said, “and how it grants wishes. If you let me go, I’ll tell you how it works.”
Caballeron began tossing the Hand to himself, as one might a pouch of coins. “An interesting offer. But you might be bluffing. Tell me first, and I’ll release you.”
“I ain’t in no position to bargain more… all right.”
“Why, you dirty—” Daring Do’s outburst was cut short as the thug cuffed her again.
Clyde sighed and assumed a regretful frown. “Most folk think the Hand don’t work, ‘cause they don’t know the trick to it. That’s ‘cause o’ two peculiarities. First is, it needs some time to grant the wishes after you make ‘em. But you won’t know how much time it needs till it starts workin’.”
“Go on,” Caballeron said.
“Second, the Hand goes opposite-like. You make wishes by thinkin’ real hard about what you don’t want. So, hold the Hand and think real hard how mad you’d be if Daring Do escaped, or somethin’ like that.”
At this, Caballeron laughed. “Whatever shaman created it, he was clever. Even if his enemies stole it, they could not use it unless they knew how.”
“That’s right,” Clyde said. “Now, how about these here cords?”
Caballeron sneered. “You must be even more foolish than you look! If you would betray your accomplice—” He indicated Daring Do. “You would certainly betray us if you could. You are going nowhere.” He looked over to the fire pit, over which was suspended a pot of beans. “Still, if it works, perhaps I’ll be generous and allow you a last meal… tomorrow, of course.”
With this, he turned and led his lackey to the circle of logs that sufficed for benches around the fire. Soon there came the clattering of metal spoons in wooden bowls, and much greedy slurping and smacking of lips. Before long, a loud voice entreated Caballeron to let the speaker “uncork that hooch!”
No one was now watching the prisoners, but it did not matter, for in the ruddy light of evening, the form of Gunsmoke could be discerned standing guard over the crevasse’s entrance. The camp proper had been built at a place where the walls narrowed, so there was no way to sneak around it.
As the minutes passed and the setting sun gave way to dusk, the hum of talk about the campfire grew more boisterous, and snatches of tipsy singing began to drift into the evening air.
Daring Do tilted back and to the left, risking a whispered conversation. “I tried to play along. Sorry it didn’t work.”
“Well… it ain’t over till it’s over,” Clyde said, also in a low voice.
“I’m sorry I got you caught up in all this.”
“I forgive you. After all, holdin’ grudges never did nopony any good.” To Clyde’s surprise, he found he meant it.
“Even so, I feel bad.” Daring glanced at the figures about the fire.
A long moment passed. Then—
“Say,” Clyde said, “when you were playin’ along, did you know I was tryin’ to use the Buffalo Telegraph against Caballeron?”
“I… figured that was probably it,” Daring said slowly.
“So… you think it has a chance after all?”
Daring drew a long breath and slowly let it out before answering. “Normally, I could handle these guys. But Caballeron’s gotten smart—hiring better help. I’ve escaped from plenty of traps, but this Gunsmoke is using a kind of knot I’ve never seen before, with cord I could maybe break if I were an elephant. And I thought I had studied every knot known to Equine civilization. If I could get loose, I could fly over them—maybe, if my pulled muscle doesn’t seize up. Or not, since I couldn’t just abandon you to Caballeron’s tender mercies. So yeah—right now, I’m ready to grasp at any straw you can point me to.”
“I been askin’ for help for a few hours now,” Clyde said. “I’d be much obliged if you lent a hoof.”
She grunted. “Fine, fine. I’ll ‘picture’ us getting free. How long will do I have to keep it up?”
“It don’t gotta be perfect,” Clyde said, “just good enough. But you gotta really feel how glad you’ll be to get free.”
“Right. And I’ll try not to remember that you said there’s a time delay, and it may be too late already. That would be…”
She fell silent, for at this moment one of the thugs—the one with the sideburns—stumbled past them, carrying a gallon jug. He walked straight by and approached the lone figure at the crevasse’s entrance.
“Heeey, Gunshmoke! Try some o’ this!” His voice was loud, and he swayed where he stood.
Gunsmoke’s response was too quiet for the prisoners to hear.
“Ah, don’ be sush a soggy blanket!” said the thug, louder still. “You wunnuv ush now! Here—I inshisht!” He lurched forward and tried to hold the jug out, but stumbled. There was a sloshing, followed by a crashing of ceramic on stone. A torrent of angry shouting and stomping of hooves followed.
But this only lasted a few seconds, for a new voice rang out above the sounds of scuffle, fairly booming as it echoed down the canyon—“Now, boys! Get ‘em!”
Figures of ponies, uncountable in the dim light, charged from either side of the canyon entrance, knocking down the two stallions there and surging forward, past the prisoners and into the camp. The scene erupted into a pandemonium of shouting, jostling, kicking, and stomping. Somepony stopped to cut the prisoners’ bonds with a buck-knife, and as Clyde struggled to his hooves, he recognized his rescuer as Sheriff Silverstar.
The villains were in the hooves of the law.
“Thank you!” was all Clyde could think to say.
Silverstar’s broad grin seemed to gleam in the firelight. “Don’t mention it, son.”
“Clyde—the Hand!” Daring Do, now freed, darted toward the camp, and both Clyde and the Sheriff followed.
By now, the dozen ponies who made up Silverstar’s posse had subdued Caballeron’s lackeys, who, silly with drink, had put up little resistance. But Caballeron himself seemed not to have partaken quite as much, for he was now standing with his back to the fire, a flaming branch gripped in his teeth, kicking and thrashing and swinging with such fury that nopony dared to get close, though several of them surrounded him.
As Daring and Clyde drew near, Caballeron spat the branch onto the ground and pointed a foreleg in accusation. “You! Blast you both to Tartarus! You tricked me!” He snatched a small yellow-brown object from atop a nearby log and brandished it. “This Hand is cursed!”
“You get what you ask for, Caballeron!” Daring scuffed at the ground, and it seemed as though she might try to rush forward and seize the Hand.
But she did not get the chance: With a yell of rage, Caballeron turned and flung the Hand into the midst of the burning logs. Taking advantage of the distraction, two of the posse’s number rushed forward and tackled him to the ground. But Daring leapt forward, snatching a long two-pronged fork from the cook’s tools that lay nearby, and made to scoop the Hand from the fire. But centuries of desiccation had made the Hand as dry as tinder, and all she managed to retrieve were a few unrecognizable blackened bones.
Caballeron shouted curses and promises of revenge as they dragged him away, but Daring paid him no mind. She sat upon the stone canyon floor, staring at the charred remains. Her brow was creased and her mouth clamped shut, in the manner of one unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Clyde paused to consider what he ought to do, but only for a moment. He approached her with soft hoofsteps, took a seat beside her, and with all the gentleness of a draft horse, put a comforting hoof upon her shoulder.
“Come on, Miss Do,” he said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
They made their way back in short order, for in Silverstar’s words, he knew the territory like the back of his own hoof. He took up the lead, with Clyde and Daring on either side, the two Sheriff’s deputies guarding their flanks, and the deputized Appleoosans bringing up the rear with the prisoners. About half of the rescuers carried kerosene lamps, and if any hostile wildlife had been in their path, it shied from the light.
Daring walked in silence for the first half hour, but at last cleared her throat and said, “We appreciate the save, Sheriff. But how did you find us?”
“You two are mighty lucky,” Silverstar said. “Luggo the Clown was due for an autographin’, but when he didn’t show, and I saw a trail o’ clown duds leadin’ out o’ town, I knew somethin’ was up. I felt in my bones that this one was a doozy, so the Deputies and I rustled up some help, and we tracked these rascals ‘til we seen the smoke from their fire—two fires, actually.” He turned to Clyde. “Mighty sorry about your house. Reckon there ain’t much to salvage, except the stove. But there’s some good news, anyhow: The fire didn’t spread much, and your old wagon is fine.”
“Well,” Clyde said slowly, “guess it’s good I kept all the stuff with sentimental value in the wagon, out o’ habit.”
“It ain’t right an upstandin’ citizen should lose his home to firebugs,” Silverstar said. “Soon as everything’s sorted, I intend to pass the hat around for ya.”
“Thank you—much obliged,” Clyde said simply.
The rest of the journey passed more or less in silence, for Caballeron’s gang had been threatened with gags if they complained.
They parted ways at the ruin of Clyde’s cottage, with Daring Do electing to help him pick up the pieces. In silence, the two of them Sat down on Clyde’s lawn and watched as the posse trotted into the sunrise.
“I’m really sorry for all this,” Daring said at last.
“And I’m sorry about the Human’s Hand,” Clyde said, “it bein’ the last one left in the world and all.”
“No—I really owe you an apology. I can live without the Hand, but this…” She looked at the circle of blackened timbers and shook her head. “If I hadn’t gotten you caught up in my bad day, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Well, you didn’t know. You were just in a tight spot, so…”
“That doesn’t make it right!” Daring stood up and kneaded the ground a little. “Look, uh, I never mentioned this, and it is kind of a secret, but… my book sales bring in a lot of bits. Like, more than I get from treasure-hunting. So, whatever those townsfolk manage to raise, I plan to match it. Your new house will be better than the old one, and I’m gonna make sure of it!”
Clyde stared at her for a moment, eyes wide. Then he drew himself up, placed his right hoof over his heart, and said, with the clearest and most precise enunciation he could: “If ever I am asked for more proof that I’ve changed my own luck for the better, I will say that I am now lucky enough to be friends with a pony of such courage and integrity as Daring Do.”
Daring half-smiled and glanced away for just a moment before obliquely meeting his eyes. “Not even a burned house can stop you from believing in that, huh?”
Clyde mustered the will to fully appraise the ruin. “Well, it’ll be rebuilt by and by, and it looks like the old stove can be rescued.”
“I guess that’s sort of like good luck,” Daring said, “but you heard the Sheriff: He was already following us by the time you started making a wish, or whatever you call it.”
“He might’ve lost the trail, though, or he might not’ve been able to sneak up on the camp. And you gotta admit it was against all odds that Gunsmoke was distracted for a second, there. I ain’t the pushy type, but I say, what’s the harm in tryin’?”
“Well… it’s possible I already did,” Daring said haltingly.
Clyde turned to her with a blink of surprise. “You made a wish you ain’t gotten?”
“Maybe not on purpose. But you said every thought goes out on the Telegraph, and there was something I was thinking about for a long time, but never even got close to.”
“What was it?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
With a forehoof, Clyde traced a cross over his heart.
“Alright—a special somepony,” Daring said quickly. “There, I said it.”
Clyde looked upward for a moment, considering. “Well, that’s what you might call one big, tall wish,” he said at last. “Those can take longer, ‘cause you gotta wait for one thing to lead to another.”
“A couple of years is a long time to wait.” There was a little edge in Daring’s voice.
“Well, did you think about havin’ a special somepony, or about how scared you were that you never would?”
Daring frowned and fixed her gaze on the ruin.
Clyde continued, making sure to keep his tone light. “Think about how glad you are for things you already got, and how glad you are that somepony is out there for ya.”
After a long moment, Daring sighed, looked at her forehooves, and have a half-hearted little laugh. “Alright, you win.” She looked to Clyde intently. “Okay. In the spirit of trying everything at least once, I’ll give it a shot. For now—” She rose to her hooves. “You said something about salvaging a stove?”
With that, Daring Do began to make good on her promise to stay and build Clyde’s new home, as he knew she would. But neither of them expected that she would stay there for so long afterward. And they certainly did not imagine that when the time came for another of her expeditions, she would drop in as soon as she returned to Equestria. And if you had said that someday, the pair of them would sit together at the edge of the rebuilt cottage’s rooftop, nuzzling as they watched the sun go down and the stars come out, they no doubt would have said you were a kook.
