Pale Ale sipped a freshly brewed whiskey. Tasted mighty fine, complete with that fruity edge the folk with burstin' pockets seem tah like. After contemplatin' the flavor a bit, he concluded t'would be a drink to be sold. He laughed heartedly and opened shop. His regular folk would like the new change, he thinks. The spice of life, ain't it.
The next five hours were a hoot. Even that new colt, whatsit, came to help 'round the bar. Mighty nuisance is what he was, but the dishes ain't dishin' itself. His regulars were rustlin' a bush with all that money theys spendin' on his drinks. Pale ain't complainin', he just rakes in the bits just like any other good mindin' folk.
"Boss."
"Whatsit?"
"Can ah do anythin' else 'cept dishin'?"
"Nah. Yous dishin'."
"Yous a prickin' pear, ya know that?"
"Yeah. Yous said that already."
"And ah says it again. A prickin' pear."
"Nuthin' new to these walls." Pale Ale dumped more dishes onto the countertop. "Better git to it, colt."
"Sure, boss."
'Fore he could return to the bar, the door burst apart. The shrapnel dug fiercely into his pelt. Pale gritted his teeth and turned on a dime. Ain't no bushwhacker comin' in 'ere to mess his place! The offender was a big stallion, muscles burstin' at the skin. Red as bright as a bloody morn', hair's dark as ice. Pale Ale sighed. T'was another one of them gangsters.
His patrons, bless their frightened but normalized souls. They duck an' cover. Well, the normal ones do. The newly acquired patronage ain't so bright. Theys run for the door. Good thing the gangster ain't interested in hostages or needless corpses. Then again, who knows what a gangster thinks.
"Hammer Crackshot." The stallion bellowed, a double barrel shotgun square in his hands. Looked vicious too. 'Cept, the stallion forgot one thing. He done messed up The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier. Ain't nopony messin' up The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier.
"It's the slammer for you, colt." Pale trotted so he could place himself directly in the line of the intruder. His hands restin' on his hips like he ain't got a care in the world.
"Yous tried by the Chainers and the Elder proclaims ya guilty."
"Ah ain't the guilty one 'ere."
"Ah, Chainer Folly, am deemed as the Deliverer."
"...he ain't listenin', is he?" Pale glanced back to see whatsit duckin' 'hind the counter. He raised an eyebrow then turned back.
"So, followin' the scriptures of Justice, I claim my iron and shall lead your soul." The red stallion saluted and lifted his double barrelled shotgun. He cracked it open with methodical precision and took out the empty shells. He loaded two more slugs and snapped the shotgun back. "Now ah'll fire."
BANG
The stallion was dead 'fore he hit the floor. Pale Ale sighed and placed his gun back into his holder. He was known as the quickest draw this side of Junction, 'cept that was quite a while ago, 'fore the treaty.
"Party's over, folks." Pale sighed again and sallied up to the poor headless fellow. That stallion ain't seen no draw, he ain't expectin' no outlaw either. Pony of the peace world. Pale gripped the stallion's arms and dragged 'im out of the bar. He dumped 'im unceremoniously off the porch near the cattle and went back inside. He grabbed a cloth and mopped the blood of his damned floor. He sighed, yet again, and stood up.
"Boss...who that?"
"Ain't anypony important."
"'Cept it sounded important. From the Chainers, he said."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, it means if yous got beef with Chainers, theys gonna send more."
"More what? Didn't ah tell ya before? Ain't nopony understandin' 'less you speaks eveyrthin'."
"Send more ponies. More gunslingers. They ain't restin' till you drop dead or ya business is concluded."
"Hmph." Pale strolled over to the bar and treated the next patron in line. "Tombstone, Rangers, Basses, Chainers. Is all the same. Rowdy folk wantin' a piece of the pie, 'cept ah ain't givin' any to 'em."
"..."
"What? Abyssinian stole your tongue?"
"Those gangs...ya fought all of 'em?"
"T'wasn't much of a fight. Pitiful ponies playin' dress up. Real ponies know what they gettin' into 'fore they it comes knockin'."
"Right...right."
"Hey, Pale! The lads an' ah require more of that fruits whiskey, whatchacalit."
"Of course, Smoked." Pale carried four glasses over to a table and dished them out.
"Say, Pale. 'Nother gang up your turf?"
"Seems so, Dusty."
"Yous gonna give 'em Tartarus?"
"Lads, y'all know me enough that that's all ah give to trespassers."
"Ain't that the gospel." The four stallions laughed and clinked their drinks together. Pale shook his head and trotted back to the bar.
The bar stayed open 'fore another 5 hours. Givin' plenty of time for Pale to give a rundown course to the new colt. How to tap ale, to pour whiskey, to wait patiently, to honor patrons. Bartending ain't a job 'fore the simple folk. There lies a certain spellwork to the fashion.
"Alright, colt. Ah'm closin' up shop. 'Ere's yer due." Pale dropped a few bits into the colt's hands. "Come on the morrow or the morrow after, ah don't really care none."
"I'll come on the morrow."
"Alright." Pale finished cleaning the last table and glanced back. "Do me a favor, colt. If ya sees any Chainer. You ain't sayin' nuthin'. If yous says somethin', Tartarus follows. And if ya think ya can get away with yer life, Junction ain't a pretty side of the coin, if ya catch mah drift."
"Ah get it." The colt nodded confidently. "Ah ain't no backstabber."
"Says you now, a change of heart is always in the deck of cards." Pale Ale went back to his bar and put away the dishrag. Then he went into the back, not carin' if the colt leaves. If the colt's right 'bout them gangsters, then an ammo check is in order. A pony who's anypony is wise enough to check stores 'fore the battle begins. Pale tsked. He don't like being tickled wrong.