Dime Novel


                                            >"When you deliver these papers to the marshal, youngster, we shall be free."

                                            >old Pops Benson presses the precious documents into your eager hand, and you secure them in your saddlebag

                                            "That's right, Pops, by all the stars, that's right. I'll get to riding straight away sir, we haven't a monent to spare."

                                            >you're about to spur on your horse when a sweet, feminine cry halts you

                                            >"Wait! Anon, wait!"

                                            >she's a lovely little slip of a girl

                                            >her fair skin - almost white - miraculously untouched by the hot desert sun which watches over her daily toils

                                            >her glossy, raven hair waving behind her like the flag as she flies from the house

                                            >her perfectly-formed hands, desperately grasping for yours

                                            >old Pops Benson smiles and retreats, giving you the respectful distance needed for a lovers' parting

                                            >Bolly Benson scowls up at you

                                            >"To think you'd just up and ride off without so much as saying goodbye!"

                                            "Shoot, Bolly, don't be mad. Once I get these papers to the marshall, that old scoundrel Jim Dene will be hauled off in irons, and you and your father shall be safe."

                                            >"I know that! You can still spare a moment to say goodbye to me, can't you?"

                                            "I suppose you're right. Goodbye, dear Bolly. I'll be back again tomorrow, or the day after at latest."

                                            >those slender fingers wrap themselves around your wide ones just a bit tighter

                                            >"You'd better be."

                                            "I will. And when I get back..."

                                            >you lower your voice to an intimate whisper

                                            "I shall ask you to marry me."

                                            >Bolly gasps

                                            "Tell me, Bolly, what will you say?"

                                            >"Why- why I- Yes!"

                                            >she lets go of your hands to throw her arms about your waist

                                            >"Of course I'll say yes, Anonymous, you silly boy!"

                                            >you gently unclasp Bolly's hands from your body

                                            "Then I'll be off."

                                            >"You'd better be."

                                            "I will. Hyar, Braeburn! Ride on, you faithful old beast!"

                                            >the intelligent, tawny mustang doesn't need to feel your spurs to know that it's time to run

                                            >the powerful beast gallops to the east, his hooves pounding the earth like thunder

                                            >the nearest marshal isn't, strictly speaking, so very far away

                                            >the problem is that he's on the far side of the Grand Canyon

                                            >the fastest way over is to ride along the north rim of that impressive abyss

                                            >but that route shall take you through the wild and treacherous forest of Coconina

                                            >neither you nor your steed seems to notice as you pass through the treeline of that treacherous country

                                            >Braeburn, perhaps, because these wooded hills are the very same which he roamed as a wild horse, in the years before you caught him

                                            >you because your mind is focused on your hope for the future

                                            >to think that you, Anonymous

                                            >you, the wandering wild horse hunter who hasn't so much as slept under a roof these past five years

                                            >to think that you of all people had found love, and would soon be settling down upon a ranch

                                            >and that someday you'd inherit that ranch, as a gift from a dear old friend

                                            >it's enough to make you whoop your delight

                                            >and to think that that old rustler

                                            >that old scoundrel, Jim Dene

                                            >to think that at last he'd pay the penalty for his many crimes

                                            >that's what spurs you to ride on with the greatest possible speed

                                            >you scarcely notice the haunting beauty of the Grand Canyon as you ride up to its northern rim

                                            >unfortunately, there's something else you fail to notice as well

                                            >a little glint of metal in the trees

                                            >and it's aiming straight for your heart!


                                            >CRR-ACK

                                            >a bolt of fire pierces your shoulder and knocks you off of Braeburn

                                            >the spooked mustang rides off without you

                                            >so much the better for him

                                            >he'll do better in the woods of his birth than he would in the hands of the coward that's shot you

                                            >the scoundrel steps from the trees, emitting a low cackle that you'd know anywhere

                                            >with a painful effort, you look up into the swarthy, bearded face of the outlaw Jim Dene

                                            >"Figgered on gettin' those papers to the marshal, did ya Mr. Nonermous?"

                                            "Sure did... And I still do, you shameless coward!"

                                            >"Wal, I reckon you'll have a hard time of that..."

                                            >Dene grins a crooked grin

                                            >"From the bottom of thet thar Grand Canyon!"

                                            >with his rumbling cackle, Dene presses a boot against your shocked body

                                            >and nudges it over the rim of canyon!

                                            >the fall seems... shorter than you expected

                                            >and you hit the ground

                                            >and a flood of pitch drowns the world from your senses

                                            >sensation returns with a big, wet muzzle nudging your face

                                            >thinking one of your hounds has come to show you his affection, you raise your hands to push the brute away

                                            >but the sharp pain that tears through your shoulder quickly jolts you to a full awareness of your situation

                                            >and your eyes snap open

                                            >the creature that's awoken you is not a hound, nor a member of the canine family at all

                                            >it's your own trusty, tawny mustang, Braeburn

                                            >you bite back a pained grunt to place your hand on his nose and rub it

                                            "Ah, you faithful old beast. You came back for me, did you?"

                                            >Braeburn snorts and pulls his face out of yours, evidently convinced of your welfare

                                            >night has fallen

                                            >the Grand Canyon is as hauntingly beautiful at night as it is during the day

                                            >maybe moreso

                                            >you can tell, from this high ledge you landed on

                                            >the broken twigs beneath your body attest to the bush which gave its life for yours

                                            >though the thorns embedded deep in your back protest that it did so unwillingly

                                            >you roll off the remains of your savior and prop yourself into a sitting position against the canyon wall

                                            >but you wince as the sheer sandstone presses a thorn a bit deeper into your back

                                            >you'll have to get those out

                                            >it's a slow, painful task to grasp for those thorns and remove them from your tattered hide

                                            >by the time you've gotten every one you can reach with your good arm, darkness is dancing in the corners of your vision

                                            >you shake your head

                                            >and you notice Braeburn doing something odd

                                            >he's standing motionless

                                            >staring up into brilliant desert sky

                                            >and a strange fancy takes hold of your imagination

                                            "Ah, Braeburn, what manner of distant sphere are you looking at, out there in the great infinity of the cosmos?"

                                            >the horse does not respond

                                            "For all the tea in China, I'll bet it's a lot better than this old Earth. I bet it's nothing but green pastures and wide-open spaces, where the wild horses roam."

                                            >the tawny mustang snorts

                                            >the brilliant silver light reflecting off the canyon is dimmed as darkness threatens to overtake you again

                                            "Ah, Braeburn. Would that we could go together to that far-off world."

                                            >and as the world fades away

                                            >you see Braeburn do something odd

                                            >that mighty mustang rears up to his fullest height

                                            >and he brays at the stars

                                            >you don't get a chance to discern why he does this

                                            >because soon you're unconscious once more


                                            >from somewhere in the darkness

                                            >the unmistakable shape of a hoof nudges your side

                                            "Cut that out, Braeburn."

                                            ~"How do you know my name?!"

                                            >your eyelids all but fly off of your eyes

                                            >it's daytime

                                            >you're nowhere near the grand canyon

                                            >you've been propped up against a great granite boulder in the middle of some sandy plain

                                            >and the creature that's poked you is...

                                            >you leap to your feet

                                            >the horse looking at you now is a small, tawny thing that looks, for all the world, just like your Braeburn

                                            >but its eyes are wide and green and filled with visible disconscernment

                                            >and it's wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a bucksin vest as though it were a man!

                                            >and...

                                            "Why, but you're so little. You're scarcely a pony! You couldn't possibly be Braeburn!"

                                            >the creature frowns

                                            ~"I am a pony, mister, and I've been Braeburn all my life!"

                                            "And you talk!"

                                            ~"Only when I got something to say, if I can help it.  Now tell me, mister, what manner of creature are you? I was going on my way, but when I saw you sleeping over here I just had to stop and ask."

                                            "Me? I am a man."

                                            >or at least, you think you are

                                            >a quick examination of your arms and legs tells you've undergone no strange changes

                                            >but your shoulder

                                            >there's no wound on it!

                                            >for that matter, there's no pain in your back either

                                            "Something wondrous strange is going in here."

                                            ~"I'll say. Come, stranger, tell me how a 'man' like yourself came to be just west of Appleoosa."

                                            "Appleoosa? I've never heard of such a place."

                                            ~"It's the nearest town. You must be very far from home indeed to have never heard of it. "

                                            "I must be, at that. I was... riding. I was taking some papers to the marshal, containing irrefutable evidence that one Jim Dene was a rustler and an outlaw. But Dene caught me on the way, and I... I fell into the Grand Canyon."

                                            >the pony scratches his chin

                                            ~"Well I don't know about any Grand Canyon, or any Jim Dene."

                                            >he scowls

                                            ~"But I do know of one Jim Beam."

                                            >the small Braeburn spits

                                            "I take it the fellow's not quite good company."

                                            ~"He sure ain't. He's a land-thief, an apple-rustler, and now a kidnapper."

                                            "What in the world is an apple rustler?"

                                            ~"It's a scoundrel who digs up apple trees from my orchard in the dead of night, and carries them off to his ill-gotten farmland."

                                            "What a yellow trick!"

                                            ~"My cousins have been telling me to leave it alone, saying his gang is just too tough for me to handle."

                                            >his hoof stomps hard into the sand

                                            ~"Except last night he went too far, when he carried off my sweetheart! I'm going to run Jim Beam and his thugs out of the west right now!"

                                            "Why, and he deserves it, too! How I hate him from what you've told me! You must be heading into town to gather up some tough cowboys to help you."

                                            >Braeburn shakes his head sadly

                                            ~"Actually, I'm leaving town. Everypony's just too darn scared of Beam's gang to help me."

                                            >why, but that's outrageous!

                                            >one lone pony against a whole, vicious gang?

                                            >surely you haven't wound up in a country with no more than one brave soul?

                                            "Well that settles it then!"

                                            ~"Settles what?"

                                            "I shall go with you. We'll whip that Jim Beam so soundly he'll wish he never laid eyes on your orchard!"

                                            >Braeburn frowns

                                            ~"Why, I'd be right grateful for your help. But ain't you working out problems of your own? Your papers?"

                                            "My papers are lost, and in any case I wouldn't know how to get back to the Grand Canyon from here. But your sweetheart is out there right now, in the clutches of the crookedest scoundrel I've ever heard of, and you're going to help her all on your lonesome. I just couldn't live with myself if I went on my way without helping you."

                                            >Braeburn scratches his chin at that

                                            >and then smiles

                                            ~"Well shoot, what's your name, partner?"

                                            "Anonymous. My friends call me Anon."

                                            ~"Come on then, Anon. You'll be the strangest traveling partner I ever had."


                                            >as you follow the trail left by the kidnappers, Braeburn explains a bit about his country to you

                                            >it's called Equestria

                                            >that great American experiment, democracy, seems to be an unheard-of concept here

                                            >thus, the quadrupedal cowboy at your side is ruled by, surprisingly, a princess

                                            >creatures such as men are also unheard-of

                                            >just about everyone in this land is a pony

                                            >and those that aren't are generally other hoofed creatures, such as zebras or buffalo

                                            >your companion is just about to explain what he knows of the buffalo who inhabit these plains

                                            >but he does a curious thing

                                            >he canters off, away from the trail, in the direction of some mountain range in the distance

                                            "Braeburn, old fellow, you're leaving the tracks."

                                            >the tawny pony stops, and gives you a look of confusion

                                            ~"Tracks? What tracks?"

                                            "Why, the ones we've been following all this time."

                                            >Braeburn shakes his head

                                            ~"I sure didn't see any tracks. I was just headed to Jim Beam's hideout, in that there mountain over there."

                                            "No foot or hoof has stepped in that direction for days. But look here! Three ponies, maybe four if one of them was dragged, went toward the river no more than twelve hours ago."

                                            >Braeburn frowns at the sand

                                            ~"How do you figure that? This sand's too soft to hold a proper hoofprint."

                                            "Have I been a wild horse hunter all these years for nothing? See here, these craters and grooves within the sand? These were left by hooves about the same size as yours, for all the tea in China."

                                            ~"Have you been a what now?"

                                            >oh!

                                            >of course, "wild horse hunter" might be a controversial title in the land of Equestria

                                            "A... tracker. If you'll follow me to the river, I'll explain some things about my own native country."

                                            >you take Braeburn to the river, attempting along the way to describe the wild horses which roam the American plains

                                            >emphasizing that they are not, as he is, rational beings

                                            >and stressing with even greater emphasis that you merely capture and tame the beasts, and do not eat them

                                            ~"Your country is a strange land."

                                            "Ah, then imagine how I felt upon waking in yours."

                                            >down by the river, the sand is downright muddy in places

                                            >and there, in the wet sand, you see it

                                            "There. There's the proof that I know my trade. Even an untrained eye can see that."

                                            >Braeburn sees the hoofprints in the sand

                                            ~"Well, I sure can see it. And I sure wish I couldn't."

                                            "What's the matter?"

                                            ~"This river flows through buffalo country."


                                            >the journey becomes one of uneasy silence as the two of you follow the river westward

                                            >based on what Braeburn has told you about buffalo, you gather that they aren't civilized folk

                                            >yet he says that the buffalo near Appleoosa have been friendly with the settlers for some time now

                                            >so why the unease?

                                            >the further you go, the more brush you notice

                                            >cacti and sparse patches of sage at first

                                            >but, almost imperceptably, the desert transitions into a vast plain of tall, dry grass

                                            >even you, tall man that you are, can't see over the top of the rustling sea you're now navigating

                                            >you take those noisy stalks of grass as both a blessing and a curse

                                            >a curse because silent motion is all but impossible for you

                                            >a blessing because silent motion should be absolutely impossible for the lumbering, clumsy creatures you know as buffalo

                                            >if you're attacked, you won't be surprised at least

                                            >"Halt. Pony and chingachgook."

                                            >wheeling around, you find yourself face to face with three buffalo

                                            >you've been completely surprised!

                                            >Braeburn takes off his hat respectfully

                                            ~"I am Braeburn, a friend of the buffalo. Little Strongheart will vouch for me."

                                            >the lead buffalo snorts

                                            >"I know of no Little Strongheart. But the great pony chief Braeburn is known to me, as the devil who soiled the sacred stampeding grounds of the buffalo with his foul trees!"

                                            >Braeburn swallows

                                            ~"I was afraid of that."

                                            >"And now the pony chief Braeburn brings a chingachgook into the sacred grazing grounds!"

                                            "Why do they keep calling me a 'chingachgook?'"

                                            ~"I believe it means something to the effect of 'evil sand spirit.' Probably because they can't tell what you are."

                                            "Ah. That's troubling."

                                            >"Silence! Pony and chingachgook, you are prisoners of the Patchy buffalo herd. You will come to face judgement!"

                                            >now, you're a big man

                                            >you can tussle with damn near any man alive

                                            >and if the average pony is Braeburn's size, you could probably fight any pony alive as well

                                            >but, though these buffalo are somewhat smaller than the great beasts of the American plain

                                            >there's no tussling with those horns

                                            "Now-now, hold on, big chief. We're off to rescue a maiden. A scoundrel named Jim Beam took her off in the night-"

                                            ~"Anon, no!"

                                            >all three buffalo begin to stamp their big hooves menacingly

                                            >"Jim Beam is a friend of the buffalo! Jim Beam brings firewater!"

                                            >Braeburn groans

                                            ~"I was afraid of that, too."


                                            >the buffalo lead you and Braeburn along an incomprehensible path of unchanging grasslands

                                            >along the way, you make a point of snapping stalks of grass at regular intervals

                                            >you don't snap them in two

                                            >you just leave them bent

                                            >the buffalo either don't notice what you're doing or can't make sense of it

                                            >either way, none of them orders you to stop

                                            >eventually, you come to a neatly-grazed clearing containing a small village

                                            >tents, made from fibers of tightly-woven grass, dot the area

                                            >buffalo look up from their grazing and bellow at the sight of you

                                            >"It is the pony chief! He who steals the stampede!"

                                            >"But what is that with him?"

                                            >your captor helpfully provides his theory as to your identity

                                            >"It is a chingachgook! The pony chief has brought it to bring ruin to our grazing grounds!"

                                            >the buffalo proceed to bellow and stomp, quite literally shaking the earth itself

                                            >you take advantage of the cover of noise to ask Braeburn a question

                                            "Would it help if I explained that I am a traveller from a distant land?"

                                            ~"The only distant land these folks know of is the spirit land."

                                            "Would that happen to be where such creatures as evil sand spirits come from?"

                                            ~"Yup."

                                            "I see."

                                            >the herd quiets down as a stooped, greying old bull saunters out of the central tent

                                            >the ancient buffalo wears a feathery headdress which flows all the way down his massive back

                                            >and intricate, multi-colored swirls and patterns have been dyed down the length of his grizzled hair

                                            >these buffalo remind you of nothing so much as the Indians who have haunted American frontiers since your first forefathers set foot in that continent

                                            >aided by this comparison, you deduce that the decorated old bull must be the ruler of the village

                                            >the herd waits in silence as the old chief stares at you stoicly

                                            >"The strangers shall undergo the trials. Thus says the Patchy."

                                            >immediately, the herd breaks into a ruckus again

                                            >you and Braeburn are shoved against a tent

                                            >your hands are pulled behind you, through holes in the thick, fibrous material and bound with a rope

                                            >Braeburn's front hooves are given a similar treatment, forcing him to stand upright

                                            >it's a cruel way to treat a quadruped, but if your friend is in pain he doesn't show it

                                            >the buffalo leave the two of you alone for a while, as barrels are brought out from the central tent

                                            >the lids are thrown from the barrels, and the buffalo braves proceed to sloppily drink a clear, brown liquid from them

                                            ~"Oh, no."

                                            "Is that whiskey?"

                                            ~"Sure is. More work of Jim Beam. Buffalo ain't friendly creatures even at their best, but they normally have something resembling a sense of honor."

                                            "I take it that strong drink tends to erode that honor?"

                                            ~"Sure does. Beam's thugs must've came through here and left that whiskey just to make sure anypony tracking them wouldn't get past the village."

                                            "That's a cunning trick. Damn, we should have headed for the mountain. If I hadn't-"

                                            ~"'Tain't your fault. For all the tea in Canterlot we wouldn't have found Beam there anyway."

                                            "We wouldn't have found these drunken buffalo either."

                                            ~"Courage, man! They'll gore us straight away if you show them any fear! Show them courage, and they might let us live overnight, and we might yet slip away in the dark."

                                            "You're right."

                                            >the spark of hope begins to flare and warm inside your breast

                                            "Damn it all, you're right. We still live!"

                                            >"The chingachgook still lives, it says!"

                                            >a young buffalo brave stumbles away from the barrels and lowers his horns in your direction

                                            >"It will not say such things for long!"

                                            >and with that

                                            >the bull charges


                                            >as the buffalo brave thunders ever nearer

                                            >your resolve grows stronger, not weaker

                                            >your face is set like a grim stone

                                            >and you stare down those approaching horns as though contemptful of them

                                            >why should these horned savages have the satisfaction of seeing you quake?

                                            >at the last moment, the young bull pulls off to the side and collides with the tent

                                            >that marvelously strong, grass-woven material is neither punctured nor torn by the impact, though it does flap inward with the blow

                                            >your heart sinks as you realize that your bonds are made from that same material

                                            >there can be no hope of clutching at some small rock to sever them then, as in some yellowed dime-novel for young boys

                                            >the buffalo looks you in the eye and snorts contemptuously before stalking away

                                            >another drunken brave repeats the performance

                                            >and another

                                            >this goes on for you don't know how long

                                            >your affected contempt becomes real contempt as it becomes clear that the buffalo only intend to try to scare you

                                            >but one of the young braves is somewhat more drunken than his fellows

                                            >he swerves erratically and comes very near to goring you by accident

                                            >and that tears it

                                            >no more of this nonsense

                                            >drawing upon the lore of those great spiritual ancestors of the western cowboys, the bordermen of the Ohio River Valley who lived and fought more than a century ago, you deliver an imposing bellow which causes some of the younger bulls to flinch

                                            "Enough! The mannish chief has no patience for the antics of calves! If the mannish chief is to meet his end, let it be at the horns of a real warrior!"

                                            >a dark-eyed buffalo maiden - scarcely more than a calf herself - stares at you with wondering eyes

                                            >the young braves, previously so eager to charge at you, now shuffle their great hooves uncertainly

                                            >considering that your only real-life experience with Indians has been with docile, peacable Navajos, you'd like to think it somewhat impressive that you've commanded the Patchy herd to a stunned silence

                                            ~"Anon."

                                            "What?"

                                            ~"I really wish you hadn't said that."

                                            "Why's that, old fellow?"

                                            ~"See for yourself."

                                            >a massive, painted buffalo warrior - perhaps even bigger than the ones which roam the American plains - is now pawing the ground some fifty feet away from you

                                            "I see."

                                            >the creature gives a bovine bellow

                                            >and charges

                                            >faster than thought the creature is almost upon you

                                            >and it's not swerving away!

                                            >unable to maintain your stony composure, you manage to channel your terror into a furious glare

                                            >and those great horns make impact

                                            >say

                                            >come to think of it, this warrior is a great deal bigger than the buffalo you've wrangled in your native land

                                            >his horns are pressing into the tent on either side of your torso

                                            >the grizzled hair on his scalp is brushing against your belly through your shirt

                                            >that mighty warrior lifts his head to scowl into your eyes

                                            >and finally, he departs with a snort that leaves your poor face covered in sticky fluids

                                            >the buffalo are evidently finished with you

                                            >and they proceed to give Braeburn the same treatment you've just received

                                            >he doesn't quake any more than you did

                                            >he does, however, wisely keep his mouth shut

                                            >the sky is darkening when the chief bellows the command to stop

                                            >"The trials will resume tomorrow. Thus says the Patchy."

                                            >and so

                                            >with more than a few angry snorts in your direction

                                            >the herd retreats to its tents for the night


                                            >darkness falls

                                            >the sound of shuffling from the tents quiets down

                                            ~"Anon."

                                            "Hm?"

                                            ~"Have you tried slipping out?"

                                            "No. No I hadn't thought about it."

                                            ~"Just as well. I haven't had much luck with it."

                                            >for a moment, you flex the muscles in your forearm to their fullest width

                                            >and after years of wrangling every beast the plains and deserts of the west have had to offer, from wild horses to bears, that's very wide indeed

                                            >the tightly woven grass rope stretches but little, if at all

                                            >it could be days before you've stretched out the loops wide enough to let your hands through

                                            "Ah, it could take quite some time."

                                            >Braeburn sighs

                                            ~"We could be here for quite some time. The buffalo who live closer to Appleoosa say the Patchy herd are downright ghastly."

                                            "What do you reckon we're in for?"

                                            ~"At least three more days of being toyed with, each day more ghoulish than the last."

                                            >silence falls

                                            >you gaze up into the stars

                                            >wondering if, perhaps, your native land rests upon one of those twinkling lights

                                            >you promised Bolly you'd be home tomorrow...

                                            "Braeburn."

                                            ~"Hm?"

                                            "Tell me about her."

                                            ~"About who?"

                                            "Your sweetheart."

                                            >a soft sigh escapes your companion

                                            ~"Her name is Black Bolly."

                                            "Is that right?"

                                            ~"Sure is. It's not her coat that's black, mind you. Her coat is white like that there moon up there. It's her mane that's black. It's like... volcanic glass."

                                            "She sounds like a very pretty mare."

                                            >though what you mean by "pretty mare" is probably somewhat different from what this smitten stallion would mean by it

                                            "Oh, she is. If you saw her at night, under that full moom up there, you'd almost think she was a... spirit of some sort."

                                            >you think back to your own Bolly

                                            >you've thought of her beauty in supernatural terms as well

                                            "I'm sure we will see her."

                                            >Braeburn doesn't answer

                                            >he only shakes his head

                                            "We still live."

                                            >in the encampment

                                            >a small head pokes its way out of one of the tents

                                            ~"Well, best be quiet if you're hoping to live any longer."

                                            >with careful steps a relatively small and slender buffalo makes her way out of her tent

                                            >it's that dark-eyed buffalo maiden!

                                            >with trepidation, she makes her way to the tent where you're bound

                                            >you stare her down with the same grim glare you gave to the braves

                                            >but still the maiden advances

                                            >soon she's examining your face up close with curious eyes


                                            >"Are you really... a chingachgook?"

                                            "I am not."

                                            >she flinches at your harsh tone

                                            >but she gathers up her courage to ask another question

                                            >"What are you?"

                                            "I am a man."

                                            >the little buffalo frowns

                                            >"Mannish chief... but Tenderhoof does not know 'man.'"

                                            "You wouldn't. My friend Braeburn assures me that we aren't very common in these parts."

                                            >Tenderhoof looks at Braeburn, who is eyeing her with the same stony stare you are

                                            >and she looks back at you

                                            >"Why did you come here?"

                                            "My friend's mare was taken from him. We tracked the kidnappers to these grasslands."

                                            >Tenderhoof's eyes widen

                                            >"White mare? With black mane?"

                                            ~"Yes! Yes, that's her! Tell me, did you see her?"

                                            >"I saw her."

                                            >the buffalo maiden scowls

                                            >"Saw her with Jim Beam. Tenderhoof hates Jim Beam."

                                            ~"So do we, Tenderhoof. So do we."

                                            >"Jim Beam brings firewater. Makes father mean."

                                            >you take back something you thought earlier

                                            >this is very much like a dime-novel indeed!

                                            >you grasp the opportunity before you eagerly

                                            "If you'll let us go, child, we'll make sure Jim Beam never makes another barrel of firewater again."

                                            >that dusky-eyed buffalo maid's eyes grow in wonder

                                            >and she all but trips over herself rushing into the tent

                                            >first, Braeburn is able to stand on all four hooves again

                                            >then, you feel a set of teeth tugging at your bonds til at last they slip off

                                            >you pull your hands in front of you and gratefully rub your wrists

                                            "Free. We're free, Braeburn. To think we might have been held here for days."

                                            ~"And we haven't a moment to waste. Which way, Anon?"

                                            >you scan the clearing with eyes which you've trained by tracking the desert's craftiest mustangs through its darkest nights

                                            >looking for either your trail of broken grass-stalks, or some sign that ponies had been through the camp

                                            >you grin

                                            >looks like you won't be needing the trail back to the river after all

                                            >even with all the trampling the buffalo have done today, the distinctive trail of a small group of ponies is apparent on the far side of the camp

                                            "This way, partner."

                                            >you're about halfway to the trail when you realize you're being followed

                                            >and wheeling around, you see

                                            >Tenderhoof

                                            >smiling brightly up into your face

                                            "Ah, it appears we tried to leave without thanking you."

                                            >you kneel down to the buffalo maiden's eye-level

                                            "Thank you, Tenderhoof. There'll be no more firewater in your village, we promise."

                                            >"Tenderhoof wants to come with you."

                                            "What? Why ever would you? You're growing into a fine young cow; any of the braves in this village would be very lucky indeed to have you for a wife."

                                            >you don't actually know by what beauty standards buffalo cows are typically judged, but flattery tends to work with young girls

                                            >but Tenderhoof shakes her head

                                            >"Tenderhoof does not love any brave. Tenderhoof loves a chief. A great mannish chief."

                                            >something inside you groans

                                            >how like a dime-novel indeed!

                                            >Braeburn taps you on the shoulder

                                            ~"We don't have time to argue about it. Look there!"

                                            >a great, shaggy head is poking out of a tent and looking blearily around

                                            "Hell! We're going now. For the love of all that's good, Tenderhoof, please don't follow us!"

                                            >and so, without a second glance

                                            >you and Braeburn dash into the tall grass


                                            >the journey through the grasslands is nerve-wracking

                                            >every dry stalk seems to hide a herd of buffalo behind it

                                            >but the grass thins out as the ground grows paler

                                            >when the sun rises over the horizon, a small ruby dot, you can see that the grasslands are turning to salt flats

                                            >eventually, a pale morning hangs over your head

                                            >and a snow white plain lies beneath your boots

                                            ~"Say, pard."

                                            "Yes, pard?"

                                            ~"You don't happen to see that old river anywhere with those horse-hunting eyes of yours, do you, pard?"

                                            "No, pard."

                                            ~"Shoot."

                                            >of course, you understand Braeburn's concern

                                            >the walk ahead might be tolerable with a few shady spots to rest at along the way

                                            >and without that, it would probably be fine with ready access to water

                                            >but you lost your canteen when you fell down the Grand Canyon

                                            >and Braeburn's hasn't been filled since you were following the river

                                            >returning to those buffalo-haunted grasslands is obviously not an option

                                            >fortunately, even Braeburn can make out the tracks that have been cracked through the salt crust on the ground ahead of you

                                            >unfortunately, even the ancient, squinty-eyed buffalo chief could make out the tracks you're cracking through the salt crust behind you, if he should choose to track you

                                            >you venture a step toward a jagged mountain range in the distance

                                            "There's no way out but forward."

                                            ~"Yup."

                                            >conversation dies as you trudge on across those barren, ivory fields

                                            >and the sun climbs higher

                                            >and gets hotter

                                            >it's a good thing, you reflect, that Tenderhoof ended up not following you

                                            >she was probably startled into inaction at the sight of her elder looking around, and just lost you as you dipped into the tall grass

                                            >a good thing, indeed

                                            >these flats are certainly no place for a young girl of any race, even a dusky-eyed buffalo maiden

                                            >the salt crunches underfoot like hot snow

                                            >the firmament overhead shades to a slightly more vibrant shade of blue as the sun approaches the apex of its daily journey

                                            >the mountains in the distance loom closer

                                            >but on foot, they're still hours away

                                            >nearer though, a smaller shape looms

                                            >you've been debating in your head whether it's real or just a mirage

                                            >it's hard to tell

                                            ~"Say, Anon."

                                            "Yes?"

                                            ~"Let's ask the folks in that tent up there if they'll spare any water for us."

                                            >it's real then

                                            "They could be buffalo or rustlers or somesuch."

                                            ~"I know, partner. If it comes down to that, well, it's better to fall in a fight than it is to fall under this heat."

                                            >several long minutes later, the pair of you trudge up to the tent

                                            "Why, but there's nobody here."

                                            >Braeburn already has his nose in the tent

                                            ~"There's canteens in the tent. I hate to be a water-thief, but…"

                                            "Better a water-thief than sun-bleached bones."

                                            ~"Exactly."

                                            >"I reckon y'all kin be both."

                                            >before you have a chance to identify the third party

                                            >a lasso falls around your neck

                                            >and you're yanked to the ground by it


                                            >"They said you'd be comin' with a monster, Braeburn. Didn't think he'd be such a big, ugly brute, ahuh."

                                            "Why, I ought to-"

                                            >you'd been crawling to your hands and knees

                                            >but a quick yank with the rope put an end to that

                                            >to think you'd be the first man who was lassoed by a horse!

                                            ~"Ringo Lariat! When you cleared town, even I didn't think you were low enough to fall in with rustlers."

                                            >somebody spits, but with a faceful of salt and sand, you can't tell who

                                            ~"Guess I was wrong."

                                            >"Ahuh, I reckon ya were. Thirty bits a month buckin' apples for you just don't beat rustlin' 'em for Beam. It's a simple mathematics."

                                            ~"So what are you gonna do, Lariat? Your rope is already on my partner, and you never could stand up to me in a fair fight."

                                            >"I reckon I could take you right about now."

                                            ~"Oh, you'll fight a tired, thirsty traveller, will you, you coward? And just what would you prove by that?"

                                            >another spit

                                            >"Wait right here."

                                            >you look up in time to see the lasso being secured around a tent stake

                                            >and your captor disappears inside the tent

                                            >immediately, you move to the simple task of untying yourself

                                            >no doubt Ringo Lariat never caught a quarry with fingers before!

                                            ~"Hold it, partner."

                                            "Why, whatever for? Now's our chance to escape, isn't it?"

                                            ~"We need that water if we want to make it to the other side of the salt flats."

                                            "And how do you intend to get the water?"

                                            ~"The outlaw doesn't live who doesn't dream of being the stallion who whipped Braeburn."

                                            >Lariat emerges from the tent and tosses Braeburn a canteen

                                            ~"One for my pard too."

                                            >"Ahuh, let's see how this fight goes before we see about givin' water to monsters."

                                            "Beam's more a monster than Anonymous here."

                                            >Lariat doesn't answer

                                            >Braeburn takes a long draft of water, and seems instantly reinvigorated

                                            >your partner drops the canteen onto the salt

                                            >and glares at his adversary

                                            ~"It's your tent, Lariat. We'll start this thing whenever you're ready to."

                                            >"Wal, I reckon I'm ready…"

                                            >the outlaw claws at the ground

                                            >and charges

                                            >"Now!"

                                            >Braeburn kicks the canteen, and dodges Lariat's charge with a leap to the side

                                            >the precious water-vessel lands directly at your feet

                                            >this does not go unnoticed by Lariat

                                            >he makes a lunge for the water

                                            >"I said, no water for the-"

                                            >in a flash, it's all over

                                            >Braeburn leaps upon his distracted enemy

                                            >and Ringo Lariat is pinned to the ground

                                            ~"Now, I think we saw how this fight went. Anon, help yourself."

                                            >you grasp the lasso around your neck and loosen it like a necktie

                                            >"Why, but that's a fearsome monster you've got there!"

                                            ~"Quiet, you rustler."

                                            >having slipped free of the rope, you stoop down for the water and take a long, grateful drink

                                            "A bit warm, but I feel strong enough now to run to those mountains and throw them! But tell me, pard, there's just one thing I'm wondering. What are you going to do with that there rustler?"

                                            ~"That's a fine question, pard. Tell me, what is it they do to rustlers and kidnappers in your America?"

                                            >you quickly prepare a nice little line about hanging

                                            >but you never get a chance to utter it

                                            >Lariat gives a cry of wrath and begins to struggle beneath Braeburn's grasp

                                            >"Kidnapper?! I'll own to rustlin' your trees, Braeburn, but I ain't never been a party to no kidnappin' my whole life!"

                                            ~"Oh no? I've had fully half a dozen eye witnesses tell me they saw a posse of Jim Beam's thugs make off with my sweetheart just two nights ago."

                                            >"Your sweetheart? But say, isn't that…"

                                            >the ghostly-white stallion shakes Braeburn off his back with a roar and a leap

                                            >"Black Bolly! So that's why they sent me away from the hideout to wait for you!"

                                            >the enraged outlaw rears and throws his coal-black mane to the wind

                                            >"As if I'd be a party to the kidnappin' of my own sister!"


                                            >Lariat ended up giving you that water

                                            >and now, on the other side of the salt flats, he stands with you and Braeburn

                                            >"There's a hidden pass in that there bluff. It'll take you straight to the hideout."

                                            >the white outlaw bows his head

                                            >"I'll go in irons or whatever you want after this is all said and done, but in the meanwhile, Braeburn, let me go with you."

                                            >Braeburn tilts his head

                                            ~"Punishment? Whatever for? And why wouldn't we want you to come with us?"

                                            >Lariat frowns

                                            >"I'm a rustler, plain and simple. And thanks to my foolishness, my own sister has been dragged off into the desert by a pony I called boss. I've been a right scoundrel, and I'll put myself in irons for it if noone else will."

                                            ~"Rustler?"

                                            >Braeburn looks at you

                                            ~"Anon, do you see any rustlers around here?"

                                            >you shake your head

                                            "No. I only see the stallion who gave us to drink when we thirsted and led us straight to the outlaws we were after. A good pony, I'm sure."

                                            >"Shoot, fellars. You mean all that?"

                                            ~"Sure we do, Ringo. We're almost family now, you know, and family sticks together. Besides, my poor Bolly would be terribly upset if her brother wasn't at her wedding."

                                            >Lariat starts

                                            >"So it's settled then! You're marryin' my sister!"

                                            >you lose track of the stallions' joyous conversation as a pang shoots through your heart

                                            >you told Bolly Benson you'd marry her the next time you see her

                                            >but when will you see her?

                                            >with no reccolection of how you came to this strange land, how can you ever return home to her?

                                            >and, with the papers proving Jim Dene's guilt doubtless blowing around the bottom of the Grand Canyon, what will become of her father's ranch?

                                            >but even as you think on your troubles, your keen horse hunter's eyes are at work

                                            >and there, seemingly from the solid rock of the bluff

                                            >the unmistakable sight of an equine muzzle

                                            "Say! We're being watched!"

                                            >the nose slips away even as you point to it

                                            >your companions' gazes follow your finger, and Lariat snorts

                                            >"Why, that's where the hidden pass is! We've been spotted!"

                                            >the three of you dash to the opening of the pass

                                            >but there's no sign of your ominous watcher

                                            "Say, Braeburn?"

                                            ~"Yes, Anon?"

                                            "Do we have a plan for storming an outlaw stronghold where we're expected?"

                                            ~"A fairly simple one. You're a big, frightening fellow, so you tussle with the bulk of the outlaws. There's not too many of them, are there, Lariat?"

                                            >"There was maybe a dozen or so when I was last there."

                                            "If they're all as small as you two, that should be fine."

                                            >"Frightenin' fellar indeed."

                                            ~"All right. From there, I ensure that Beam doesn't escape, and Lariat makes off with Black Bolly."

                                            >Lariat coughs

                                            >"Ah, wouldn't it be more appropriate if you were the one to elope with Bolly, bein' her sweetheart and all?"

                                            ~"I'm the leader of the posse. I can't be the one to run off."

                                            "Oh, come off it, Braeburn. She's your betrothed; it's only fitting that you whisk her off into the sunset. It's a better ending for the story, if you will."

                                            >Braeburn sighs

                                            ~"All right, fine, but only because there's no time to argue. Come on, we have to get there before they have time to lay a trap!"

                                            >and with that

                                            >the three of you disappear into the jagged mountain range


                                            >in all your years of wild horse-hunting, you never dreamed to see the day when you'd outrun galloping horses

                                            >but the stubby-legged ponies lag slightly behind you as you take long, powerful strides down the mountain pass

                                            >the outlaws are going to act fast once they learn of your presence

                                            >so you have to get to their camp even faster

                                            >the pass widens out into a veritable chasm

                                            >and there, directly ahead of you, a small herd of desperadoes rushes forward to form a defensive line

                                            >instinctively, you lower your center of gravity

                                            >outstretch your arms

                                            >and speed up

                                            >cries of "Monster!" bounce into the chasm walls as you make your approach

                                            >and then

                                            >impact

                                            >the little ponies didn't stand a chance against a hurtling, athletic, American man

                                            >Braeburn shouts a quick thanks as he and Lariat dash past you

                                            >you attempt to go after them

                                            >but already, the outlaws are rising to their hooves and grappling with your legs

                                            >soon, you're striving merely to stand up against the writhing mass of hide and hooves

                                            >roping buffalo on the plains wasn't half so vigorous an excercise as wrestling with a dozen Equestrian outlaws at once!

                                            >but, though you can't follow your companions on foot, you can at least follow them in gaze

                                            >or, rather, occasional glances in their direction

                                            >at the other end of the chasm, a big, nasty-looking stallion clutches a rope between his teeth, which loops around the neck of an impressive white mare

                                            >the outlaw, doubtless Jim Beam himself, tugs on the rope, doubtless trying to lead his prisoner to some secret exit

                                            >but the proud mare, who must be Black Bolly, tugs back with all her might at the sight of her rushing rescuers

                                            >Bolly manages to slow down Beam just enough...

                                            >Ringo Lariat pounces on Jim Beam

                                            >Braeburn races to the aid of his sweetheart, loosening the lasso from her neck and taking the time to exchange what looks to be a few sweet words with her

                                            >but Beam manages to throw Lariat from his back

                                            >Lariat shouts something at Braeburn

                                            >Braeburn shouts something back

                                            >and then

                                            >he and Bolly come racing back in your direction

                                            >a few desperadoes reach out for them as they pass, but you manage to restrain the grasping hooves

                                            >now, since it seems Braeburn and Black Bolly managed to escape

                                            >how do you do the same?

                                            >a glance at Lariat proves disheartening

                                            >it seems that Beam managed to overpower him

                                            >Lariat now sits tied to a tent-stake

                                            >worse still, Jim Beam is now charging for you

                                            >Beam is abnormally large for an Equestrian pony - about the size of an American pack-pony, by your estimate

                                            >you could wrestle him on your own

                                            >but with a dozen desperadoes on his side, it's too much

                                            >you're shoved to the ground

                                            >someone starts to stick a lasso over your head, but Beam interjects

                                            >"No, no, no. Get them lassos over them thar claws of his. He'll be able to untie himself otherwise."

                                            "You're smart for an outlaw."

                                            >"An' you're talkative for a monster."

                                            >the outlaws manage to get ropes on your wrist and roughly drag you to the camp

                                            >at Beam's direction, the ropes are tied to tent-stakes on opposite sides of you, forcing you to lie spread-eagle on your back

                                            >"Wal... a turncoat an' a monster. An' your little farmer friend left you behind."

                                            >neither you nor Lariat deigns to dignify Beam with a response

                                            >"Ahuh, strong an' silent types, eh? Wal, it's startin' to get dark out, so I reckon I'll just leave you two brick walls outside for the night. We'll figger out what to do with you tomorrow."

                                            >the outlaw lets a menacing pause hang in the air

                                            >"I'm  thinkin' mebbe I leave you out on the salt flats, check up on you in a week or so."

                                            >the gang of rustlers laughs at this

                                            >and over the desert, darkness falls


                                            >the outlaws, bootleggers and apple rustlers, proceeded with their evening in much the way you expected

                                            >that is, whiskey, cider, and violence til the instant their boss ordered lights out

                                            >and now, in the silent desert night

                                            >the desperadoes sleep like the dead

                                            >but out of that still darkness

                                            >a voice

                                            >"Anonymous, you asleep yet?"

                                            "How could I possibly sleep like this, Lariat?"

                                            >that's not, of course, to say that you aren't tired

                                            >two days of wandering this strange desert

                                            >two nights of sleepless captivity

                                            >you've hardly an ounce of strength left

                                            >all the same, sleep is impossible while you're stretched out on this rocky chasm floor

                                            >"I figured you couldn't."

                                            >breathing is beginning to hurt

                                            >"I sure couldn't."

                                            "I bet you couldn't."

                                            >"Say, pard, you got a plan for gettin' out of here?"

                                            "Beam is a fool. His own plan will be enough to get us out of here."

                                            >"You mean leavin' us tied up on the salt flats?"

                                            "Sure. Once Braeburn gets your sister to safety, he's sure to come back for us."

                                            >"Safety? You mean like Appleoosa?"

                                            "If that's the nearest town, then yes."

                                            >"Two day's walk from here to Appleoosa."

                                            >a pause hangs in that still, dark night

                                            >"Two day's walk back, too."

                                            >four days

                                            "I don't know."

                                            >"Don't know what?"

                                            "I don't know."

                                            >you stare up into the brilliant, cloudless sky for a long time

                                            >but out of that starlit silence

                                            >a voice

                                            >"Say, Anonymous."

                                            "What is it?"

                                            >"There's a buffalo sneakin' into the camp."

                                            "A buffalo?"

                                            >you strain your neck to look, but can't get a good view of anything on the ground

                                            "What's it look like?"

                                            >"Small. Why, it's a little buffalo maiden!"

                                            >Tenderhoof!

                                            >in all America, the only man who could move more silently than a wild horse hunter is an Indian

                                            >you have a feeling that in Equestria, the same may hold true for the amber-eyed buffalo maiden

                                            "Be quiet, she's a friend."

                                            >"A friend?"

                                            "A friend, I'm sure of it."

                                            >you stare into the starry sky for a little while more

                                            >and then, in the darkness

                                            >something severs the ropes


                                            >you sit up and rub your wrists gratefully

                                            >sure enough, the little buffalo maid Tenderhoof stands next to you with adoring eyes

                                            >casting your glance over in Lariat's direction, you see Braeburn helping him get the lasso off of his neck

                                            >everyone freed at last, the four of you take a moment to exchange silent smiles

                                            >and you steal from the outlaw camp without detection

                                            >beyond the mountain pass, the salt flats, lit by the moon, appear as white and alien as the surface of that celestial body which now graces them with silver light

                                            ~"I suppose I owe you two an explanation for why I didn't come sooner."

                                            >you exchange a glance with Lariat

                                            "I thought the rescue seemed timely enough."

                                            >but Braeburn continues on as though he hadn't heard you

                                            ~"My only thought was for Bolly. I'd almost forgotten I'd left you behind."

                                            >"Wal, I certainly hope you got my sister someplace safe before stormin' a rustler hideout."

                                            ~"Alas, no. Bolly thought of you as soon as we reached the grasslands, and refused to go another step til I came up with a plan to rescue you."

                                            >"That's when Tenderhoof found them!"

                                            >the little buffalo maid kicks at the earth

                                            >"Tenderhoof wanted to see great mannish chief again..."

                                            >Braeburn nods

                                            ~"And a plan was formed."

                                            >Lariat begins to scowl

                                            >"Now wait a minute, if Bolly wouldn't go home, then..."

                                            ~"Oh, she's hiding around here somewhere."

                                            >a sweet, soft voice emanates from nowhere

                                            /"I'm not hiding."

                                            >no, not nowhere

                                            >it's difficult to make her out against the eerie, ivory salt flats

                                            >but there, standing just behind Braeburn

                                            >a breathtaking white mare, with a mane like volcanic glass

                                            /"You just didn't see me."

                                            >Braeburn about-faces rapidly

                                            >and Black Bolly smiles

                                            ~"Well, I reckon I'll just have to never let you out of my sight again."

                                            /"Oh, come off it for a moment. We'll have plenty of time for romance once I've properly thanked the rest of my rescuers."

                                            >Black Bolly trots past Braeburn to stand before Ringo Lariat

                                            >a pair of white phantoms in the moonlight, brother and sister press their necks together in what you assume is the Equestrian equivalent of a warm embrace

                                            /"Will you be... staying in town for a while, Ringo?"

                                            >"I reckon I'll have to, what with my sister's weddin' comin' up soon."

                                            >the two of them smile into each other's faces for a bit

                                            >then, Black Bolly approaches you

                                            /"Now, Mr. Anonymous, what manner of creature are you exactly?"

                                            "Me? Why, I am a man."

                                            /"I'll have to tell my foals stories about the friendly man who saved me, then."

                                            >Braeburn guffaws joyously at that

                                            ~"Foals!"

                                            >but Bolly's smile fades

                                            >and she looks at you in a way that makes you feel...

                                            >homesick

                                            /"But say, don't you think it's about time you went home to your own Bolly?"

                                            >it never occurs to you to ask how she knows about your Bolly

                                            >your only thought is to exclaim your desire

                                            "How I wish I could!"

                                            >without a word, the ethereal white mare smiles

                                            >and rears on her hind hooves enchantingly


                                            >the next thing you know, all is dark

                                            >no, not dark

                                            >your eyes are just closed

                                            >upon their opening, you see that you're high up on some sort of narrow, rocky ledge

                                            >the last traces of a rosy sunrise linger in the morning sky over the rim of the Grand Canyon, which is, surprisingly, above you

                                            >a broken thorn bush pricks your back from beneath you

                                            >other than that, however, you feel remarkably refreshed

                                            >a snort from behind catches your attention

                                            >the ledge seems to incline upwards behind you, seemingly leading all the way up and out of the Canyon

                                            >somewhat above you, Braeburn eyes you curiously

                                            >but there's something strange about him

                                            "Why, Braeburn, you've grown gigantic!"

                                            >the tawny stallion whinnies happily

                                            "But say, couldn't you... talk?"

                                            >your prized mustang shakes his head and snorts

                                            "No... it was a dream then."

                                            >slowly, you rise to your feet

                                            "But what a dream it was, Braeburn! You were there!"

                                            >the intelligent animal's eyes sparkle

                                            "But of course you were there, weren't you, you faithful old beast?"

                                            >somewhere overhead, a bird of prey cries out

                                            >the rich, red rock of the Grand Canyon sparkles in the sunlight

                                            >and the mighty Colorado, small as a babbling brook from this height, continues on its ruddy way far below

                                            "But say, was it only that? A dream? I wonder..."

                                            >Braeburn whinnies loudly and lowers his head

                                            >what is he, gesturing at something?

                                            >following the direction the tawny mustang's snout is pointing in, you notice something lying at your feet

                                            >the papers

                                            >undisturbed and intact, the papers

                                            >the papers proving Jim Dene's guilt!

                                            "We haven't a moment to lose, Braeburn! I promised Bolly I'd be home today at the latest!"

                                            >the stallion snorts, seemingly satisfied

                                            >you hastily mount the powerful steed

                                            >he knows what to do before you tell him

                                            >and the two of you are racing out of the Canyon

                                            "Hyar, Braeburn! We'll see that Jim Dene in irons yet!"