Eq Renaissance Part 7 (Ed)

The Sheriff

    “Thanks for comin’, son.  I’m glad to you could make it.”
    “My pleasure, Sheriff.  I hope it’s nothing bad.”
    “Yeah, well, I’d like to hope it weren’t bad neither, but it is.”  Sheriff Silverstar had a thick, long moustache on his lip.  Sometimes he would curl up the ends into a handlebar.  Other times he left  it to just hang down over his mouth.  It did something to his voice.  It didn’t exactly muffle his speech, it only sort of softened it.  It added a kind of air of matter-of-factness, an old timey sort of wisdom that let you know you were dealing with a good, honest man.  He’d always shake your hand too, when talking to you, even if you saw each other every day.
    “What’s up, Sheriff?”
    “I’m forming a posse, Braeburn.”
    Braeburn leaned back in the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk, tipping it back on two legs.  He whistled softly.
    “Why call me in special like?  You coulda rang the church bell, had the whole town here in minutes.”
    “Well, see, the thing is, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to deputize you.  Technically I’m going to deputize the whole posse.  But out of all the men in Appaloosa, Braeburn, I trust you the most.  I want you to be my right hand man.  My lieutenant or leftenant or whatever the hell they call them.  You’re a good man, Braeburn.  And I’d like to know you’re there behind me before we ride.”
    “I’d be honored, sir.”
    “Thank ya.  You’re a good man.  That’s a precious commodity these days, what with the war and all.  It ain’t making my life easy.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Just about every decent, able-bodied man has headed back east to sign up and fight.  Present company excepted, of course.”
    “Sure,” Braeburn said.  “To be honest, I was thinking of signing up myself.  But... there’s just too much going on here for me to up and leave.”
    “Uh huh.  I can understand that.”  The sheriff smiled.  His moustache hid it, but Braeburn could still tell from how his cheeks perked up.  “Anyway.  With them heading back east, every two bit scoundrel and coward is heading out this way.  There’s talk of a draft.  I guess the authorities back east are cracking down with an iron fist on every little infraction.  Crime has become unpatriotic.  It helps the enemy, don'tcha know.  So the outlaws just go where there is no law.  I gather it’ll all be getting uglier before it gets better.”
    “So we’re forming a posse. But who we rounding up?  I mean, I ain’t heard of nothing happening in Appleoosa.”
    “No,” Silverstar scratched his moustache.  “Not in Appleoosa.  We’ll be heading deep into Indian Country.”
    Braeburn looked at him skeptically.  “A little outside your jurisdiction, ain’t it, Sheriff?”
    “Yessir, well out.  And I don’t like it much.  But the outlaws are Equestrian.  N’ some of the victims is Equestrian.  Those that ain’t?  Well, they don’t deserve to get hurt either.  Way I see it, it’s our responsibility to go round them up before they cause more trouble.  Things are less than peachy between us and the tribes, so the sooner we do it, the better.  I’ve already gotten Chief Thunderfeet’s blessing on this.  He’s given us full leave to move through his territory.  That ain’t easy for him, son.  Letting an armed band of Equestrian men through his territory?  I’d ask him for help, but he’s already given enough.”
    “When do we leave?’
    “Now don’t get too excited.  We’ll leave tomorrow, first light.  It’s going to be a long trip, so we’ve got to prepare.”
    “Who are we after?  Some kind of gang?  What have they done?”
    “You probably won’t believe it when I tell you.  Some of it don’t make much sense.  The first time they showed up was at Lucky Sevens Mine.”
    “That’s the copper mine way out by Jawbone Flats?”
    “That’s the one.  It’s owned by big upper crust types back east in Manehattan.  Never was that profitable to them.  So our gang first turns up there, but get this...  they get hired on there as laborers.  Then they start organizing the workers.”
    “They what?”
    “Yup.  They start acting just like union agitators.  They start spreading rumors about going on strike.  Demanding better pay, better working conditions.  Now, as soon as the big wigs back east hear about that, they don’t like it one bit.  So they send out some muscle to suppress the agitators.  Only these weren’t your typical agitators  They had more muscle than the muscle, and they were itching for a fight.  There was violence.  Men got hurt, mostly the muscle.  Sure enough the whole mine winds up on strike.  Only instead of meeting demands, the owners just shut the mine down.  They barred it up and everything.  Put all the miners out of work.”
    “I don’t get it,” Braeburn said.  “Where’s the angle?  Where’s the pay?  It’d be easier robbing a stage coach or a bank or something.”
    “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.  But here’s the catch.  They had all of these out of work men, right?  Angry?  Nothing to do?  So what happens?  They instigate an Indian War.  They start messing with the local Indians.  Taking pot shots at them.  Harassing white women and claiming it was the Indians that done it.  Soon enough, instead of a bunch of out of work miners, you’ve got an armed militia.  And a federal government sending out wagon loads of money and guns.”
    “Could that even work?”
    “There have been Indian Wars over less.  Rogue River.  Fraser Canyon.  I figure they would have gotten away with it if only Indian Wars hadn’t become so unpopular in Canterlot at the moment.  I guess Celestia’s got bigger fish to fry overseas.  The guns and money never came, and our gang of outlaws up and skedaddled before the shit hit the fan.”
    “What happened to the miners?” Braeburn asked.
    “Surrendered.  Before they knew it they found themselves surrounded by a couple thousand Braves from a half dozen different tribes.  They were sent packing.  No dead, praise the lord, but it sure came close.”
    “And the outlaws?”
    “Next time they show up, they’re hiring themselves out as trail guides.  They were guiding settlers down The Great Trail.  Claimed they could show them a short cut for a higher price.  Most of the settlers didn’t trust them, but a half dozen or so wagons took them up on their offer.  Instead of leading them to the promised land, they led them straight out into the desert and promptly got lost.”
    “They meant to rob them?”
    “I suppose that was the plan.  Only they already had all of their money anyway.  The crooks themselves were lost.  Ended up taking the best horses and oxen the settlers had, and just took off for themselves.  Abandoned them right then and there.”
    “Did the settlers make it back to civilization?”
    “They did, though it wasn’t easy.  They come back skin and bones, nearly dead of thirst.  Some of them did die.  Poisoned water.  Cholera.  Those kinda things happen on the trail.  But I don’t think it would have been so bad iffin’ they hadn’t been misled.  That’s almost murder, I suppose.  Though you can’t really hang a man for it.”
    “No offense, Sheriff.  But these outlaws seem like the sorriest sacks that ever rode west.  Good for causing trouble an’ sowing chaos.  But there must be worse out there.  These guys sound damn near incompetent.”
    “Yeah, well, again.  I woulda said the same thing myself.  Up until yesterday.  That’s when the telegram came in on the wire.  I suppose the news will break hard soon enough in town.  And when it does, I won’t have no problem raising a posse.  But until it does, I’d appreciate it if this don’t leave this room.  Braeburn, there’s been a massacre.”
    All four legs of Braeburn’s chair landed on the floor as he leaned forward.  The smile that he wore on his face almost perpetually was gone.  He was all ears.
    “Missionaries.  Not just the missionaries, but their families too.  A hundred and fourteen in all.  They was in a wagon train, heading west, planning on converting the heathens.  They had stopped at a watering hole out in some godforsaken badlands when they were attacked.  There... were no witnesses.  When the massacre was discovered, the wagons had been circled for a fight.  Every last one of them was dead.  Only, here’s the thing.  They didn’t die in no fight.  They found white flags.  The missionaries had surrendered.  They had come out of their circle single file, unarmed.  And they all ended up shot in the back.
    “It was the same gang of outlaws,” Silverstar said.  “Only the made the scene up to look like Indians had done it.  They stuck arrows in the wagon sides.  Scalped some of the dead.  That sort of thing.  Not only had they killed them, and robbed them, they were trying to instigate another war.”
    “Pardon me for asking, sheriff.  But how do you know it was them, and not the Indians?”
    “Because, Braeburn, it was the Indians that found the bodies.  I spoke to them myself.  They told me everything that the gang had gotten wrong.  And I believe them too.  As for the gang, there had been a pair of bounty hunters on their trail.  And they swear up and down that this gang was in the right place and the right time for the massacre.  They’re spooked now.  They gave up the trail.  It’s up to us now.  We’re the best bet to putting an end to them.”
    “That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Sheriff.”
    “Can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that, Braeburn, and that you’re on board.”
    “Do we know who it is exactly that we’re dealing with?”
    “Some of them,” the sheriff said.  He pulled open a drawer on his desk.  “Not all of them, but we know some.”
    He laid some papers on his desktop, and Braeburn bent over to look at them closely.  They were wanted posters, complete with mug shots.  The one on top was just about the ugliest cuss Braeburn had ever seen.  His face was covered with acne scars, and he had a deep under bite.  The caption read, “Wanted.  Rover Pyezon.  400 bits.”
    “Now that reward’s gone up to eight hundred,” Silverstar told him.  “And that still applies if we take him, and the others.  We’ll divide the reward up equally between all the members of the posse.  Maybe I could get you an extra share if you want.”
    “Nah,” Braeburn said.  “Wouldn’t be fair.  What was this character wanted for?  I mean, before he joined the gang?”
    “Rape,” the sheriff answered.  “Kidnapping.  Extortion.  Now he’s wanted for murder.  He had a nasty reputation before all this started.  This slinky bastard is so twisted, he’ll eat nails for breakfast and shit out corkscrews.”
   Braeburn flipped to the next poster.  This next criminal was just about the fattest man he had ever seen.  “Shouldn’t be much of an effort to catch up to this fat son-of-a-bitch,” he told the sheriff.
    “Don’t let looks fool you.  That there is Francisco Fernandez de la Fido.  He ain’t just fat, he’s six and a half feet tall.  He’s built like a mountain.  Slow to get moving, they say.  But once he starts, there’s no stopping him.  The rumors say that he once tried to steal a fish from a she-bear.  Ended up shacking up with her through winter, then left her in spring with a couple a mongrels and a broken heart.”
    Braeburn snorted.  “Must have been a near-sighted she-bear.  Damn near blind.”  He flipped to the third and last poster.
    “And that would be Snake-Eye Spot,” Silverstar said.  “Ugly little cur, ain’t he?”
    “What was his reputation?  What was he wanted before this all happened?”
    The sheriff shrugged his shoulders.  “Accessory.  Don’t know what he done exactly, except he likes to follow these other guys around.  Some kind of lackey.  I guess there ain’t anybody else that wants him around.  Looks like the kind of guy who would ask you to help him find his lost dog, then would slide a knife right into your back as soon as you turn, don’t he?  Sure doesn’t look like he’d be much trouble in a real fight.  But he’ll dangle from the gallows with the rest of them though, if I have anything to say about it.”
    “Who else?” Braeburn asked.  “There must be more.”
    “Fella that goes by the name ‘Blackhoof.’  I don’t have a picture of him.”
    “Indian?”
    “So they say.  Though I don’t know what tribe.  None of them will claim him.  He’s been running from the law for years now.  They say he’s tall and thin as a rail.  Head full of jet black hair.  Straight.  Hangs down to his knees in braids.  He’s a known murderer and rapist.  Cruel as the devil.  They say there ain’t a single ounce of kindness in that man.”
    “Who else?”
    “That’s all we know for certain.  They say they’re about a dozen strong, give or take.  The others might be dangerous, may just be dumb hicks dragged along for the ride.  The sort they might hire on for one hit, then part company.”
    “Who’s the leader of this outfit?  There must be one.”
    “We don’t know.  There are rumors.  Real shady rumors.  They contradict each other as often as they lead.  They just don’t make sense, to be honest.  I don’t put much faith in them.”
    “How about a name?  Gangs like this like to have a name.  They love the notoriety.  They live off fear.”
    Sheriff Silverstar took a deep breath.  “Yeah,” he admitted.  “They got a name.”  He rubbed his brow with the palms of his hands, as if he didn’t really want to say it.  He laid one hand down on his desk and rapped his knuckles.  With his other hand he hooked a thumb around his gun belt.  “They call themselves... The Dogs of Discord.”
    Braeburn stared at the sheriff.  Then he rested his hands behind his head and rocked back onto the back legs of the chair.  The big goofy smile returned to his face.  “Really?”  he asked.  “You’re serious?”
    “Hey,” Silverstar shrugged his shoulders.  “I just arrest them.  I don’t come up with the names.”
    “So we leave at first light.  How many men are we bringing?”
    “As many as we can.  Two dozen or more.  We’ll be gone for days, so we’ll bring a lot of gear.  Probably bring a chuck wagon and a cook.”
    “Mmhmm.”
    “And... we’ll be deep in Indian Country.  So... I thought it would be best if... we brought an Indian guide.”
    Braeburn tossed back his head and laughed.
    “What’s so funny?” Silverstar said, smiling again beneath his moustache.
    “You know,” Braeburn said.  “You could have just asked.  You didn’t have to butter me up with all that ‘yer a good man, I want you at my right hand’ business.”
    Silverstar chuckled.  It was a deep, throaty laugh that suited his appearance.  “Now all that’s true, sonny boy.  Although, I admit, there would be a certain other advantage to having you on the team.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Hey, now.  You said there was a reason why you didn’t sign up for the war, but you didn’t say what that was either.  I’m pretty sure we both failed to mention the same thing.”
    “You got me there, sheriff.”
    “So she’ll do it?”
    “I’ll have to ask real nice like.  Maybe butter her up a bit myself.  But I’m pretty sure she will.”
    “Great!” the sheriff said, standing up from the desk.  He stuck out his hand as Braeburn stood up with him.  They shook on it.
    “We’ll be here, sheriff.  Bright and early.  Err, dark and early I guess I could say.”
    “God bless the both of you, son.  With the two of you on our side, we’ll lick ‘em yet.”

    Braeburn took the dusty trail back up to the little cabin he had built up on Orchard Ridge.  It wasn’t exactly a mansion.  It leaked when it rained.  It got too hot in the summer, and they’d only get the slightest of breezes, despite being high on the ridge.  If a strong wind ever did come along, they’d probably have to worry about it falling over.
    The soil wasn’t much good.  They grew a little vegetable garden out back that didn’t produce much, even with all the water they were constantly hauling up the hill.  Still, it was home, and it was a start.  He hadn’t built it up here without some reason.  If he left his house, he could walk up a short incline and then he’d be at the top of the ridge.  To the east he could see the desert valley and his beloved Appleoosa, all laid out as pretty as a surveyor’s map.  To the west, he could see the orchards, the river, and way out into Indian Country.  The view was their favorite part.  That, and the privacy.
    Braeburn stopped Calico a few hundred yards before his front door.  He tied her to a ponderosa pine, and put her feed bag on.  He could have hitched her up to the post on the side of the house, except he had a little game in mind that he had yet to win.
    He walked quietly up the trail.  The thick sand and dust silenced the falls of his boots.  He wasn’t wearing any spurs to give him away.  He didn’t much believe in spurs, and besides, Calico was a smart enough horse that he didn’t need any.  He crept close to his cabin, and stopped in the shade of the outhouse to scout it out.  Nothing stirred.  Their dog, a lanky yellow mutt, was sleeping on the front porch.  He lifted his head as his owner approached, then set it back down and went back to sleep.  Braeburn quietly took off his boots before he climbed the steps to the porch.  He was careful not to step on the boards that squeaked - they had given him away before, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.  He stopped at the doorway.  She had left it propped open to let out the heat.
    She was right there in front of him, her back to the door.  Braeburn just watched her for a moment.  He stuck his left wrist up high on the frame of the door and leaned into it a bit.  He hooked his right thumb into the hip pocket of his denim jeans.
    She was working at the counter.  It couldn’t properly be called a kitchen counter, because the cabin was so small it only had the one room.  She was grinding corn in a large stone mortar and pestle.  They’d be having corn bread with their supper tonight, or maybe johnnycakes.  It made Braeburn’s mouth water just thinking about it, although that wasn’t even the object of his current desires.  She had made her long, reddish-brown hair up into a single, long braid after he had left in the morning.  It was starting to come loose now.  It was naturally curly and as untameable as her spirit.  The ponytail bounced as she worked with some effort at the pestle.  Her shoulders were bare, and her cinnamon-colored skin matched her hair.
    Braeburn slowly crept forward.  The house felt as hot as an oven.  His feet made no noise as they trod.  She was tall.  Not quite as tall as him, but close.  Her arms and legs were very skinny.  Her hips were fairly narrow too, and Braeburn reached his hands out to grab them.
    “Gotcha!” he said, while gripping her tight from behind.  She burst into giggles when he started kissing her neck.  “After all this time, I finally managed to sneak up on my Indian Princess.”
    “Ha!  White boy, please,” Little Strongheart laughed.  “I heard you tying up Calico to that tree way down the road.”
    “Oh, yeah?  Sure you did.  Then how come you jumped when I grabbed you.  And what are these?  Goosebumps?  It must be a hundred degrees in here.  You ain’t cold, are you?”
    “If I’m surprised, it’s only because I’m surprised at how excited you are to see me.”
    “Hmm?”
    Strongheart pushed her butt back into the front of Braeburn’s trousers.  She was obviously referring to his manhood, already big and hard, easy for her to feel through his tight jeans.  He kissed her.  It was a bit awkward, as she had to turn her head to the side to find his lips.  Their kiss suffered none the less for passion.  Their tongues slid into each others' mouths, finding the sweetness they had both longed for since early that morning.  Braeburn ran his hands up the inside of her leather tunic.  He was grateful that she hadn’t adopted the complicated undergarments that the white ladies back in Equestria wore.  His hands found her two perfect breasts and squeezed them.  He could feel the fleshy nubs of her nipples on his palms, and the ring of tiny bumps that circles her areolas.  Her nipples grew erect as he held her.
    They broke their kiss in a series of wet smacks.  “Are you excited to see me too?” he asked.
    “Mmm,” she moaned.  “Why don’t you check and see for yourself.”
    His eyes nearly popped out of his head, he grew so excited.  Under normal conditions, Braeburn was calm and collected.  Now he fumbled madly at his belt.  He got it undone and unzipped his fly.  His pants and shorts dropped down around his ankles.  As she stripped off her tunic, he grabbed at her skirt and started to hike it up.  It was a long, pretty white woman’s skirt they had bought on one of their occasional trips into town.  It had caught Little Strongheart’s eye in a store window, and Braeburn had splurged and gotten it for her.  She didn’t often show interest in things Equestrian, but when she did, he spoiled her.
    Now the skirt was up over her hips and Braeburn was looking down at her flawless bronze ass.  He slid his pink erection up between her cheeks.  Oh yes, she was every bit excited as he was.  He felt a cool inverted pool of wetness.  He slid himself into her, and almost lifted her feet off the ground.
    Little Strongheart bent over the table as he worked.  First with her arms straight and her palms flat on the table.  Her back was arched and she let out soft moans and cooing noises.  As their love making wore on, she bent over further.  She placed her forearms down on the rim of wide, polished mortar.  Her voice changed to more animalistic grunts and little high pitched squeals; it was interrupted only by a wet smacking and Braeburn’s heavy breathing.  Her fingers, with nothing else to do, unconsciously wrapped themselves around the long, hard granite pestle.  She squeezed and twisted at it as her body was rocked with throes of ecstasy.
    Braeburn had her long, braided ponytail gripped tight with both hands.  As his hips worked on their own, he undid the little strip of leather that she had tied to one end.  He slowly started to unbraid her hair, then he let it fall all over her back.  He ran his fingers through it.  He loved it.  At night in bed he would bury his face into it before falling asleep.  He let it fall to her sides.  She reached up and pulled it down around her shoulder.
    Now her bare back was exposed to him.  It looked as if it were carved out of the purest stone.  Every graceful curve of her body seemed to exemplify feminine beauty to him.  Her shoulders.  Her shoulder blades, now sticking out a bit.  The long shallow valley of her spine, that stretched down the length of her back.  It passed down through where her waist narrowed, and where her hips swelled.  Her back rose again at her buttocks.  Each cheek was round and soft, and jiggled now from the force of his exertion.
    Braeburn grabbed her hard around her waist.  He used every ounce of strength he had left.  Finishing was easy now.  He bellowed, and the sweat dripped off his long, shaggy bangs.
    He had known other women before Little Strongheart.  White women.  Painted ladies from the town’s brothel.  They had always insisted that he take it out and finish on a blanket or towel or anywhere besides near them.  When he had been courting Little Strongheart, he had done the same, only because he didn’t want to burden her with child.  On those occasions that he had, unwittingly, finished early and inside, he had always felt bad about it.  He had always worried for weeks about hearing unexpected news.
    Now, though.  Now things were different.  Now that she was his young, loving bride, it didn’t matter anymore.  It was only natural.  It was how it was supposed to happen.  He hadn’t thought it could ever feel better, but it did.
    Little Strongheart arched her back until she stood up almost straight, with him still deep inside.  His gasping, sweating face appeared over her shoulder, and she reached up around his head with her long arm.  She took of his hat and and threw it on the table, then she returned her hand to run her fingers through his moppy hair.  He chuckled once as he caught his breath, only now realizing he hadn’t taken off the hat.  He slid his hands back up her chest.  She was as sweaty as he.  Her breasts were slick and slippery under his palms.
    “Mmmm,” she sighed.  “I’m glad you came home early.  I’ve been waiting so long for you, my love.”
    “Actually...,” he gasped.  “I came back... because... I had to butter you up.”
    “Hmm.  Butter me up?  Is that what you call it now?”  She flexed her cheeks and loins, to let him know that she liked it.  “You need to come home early more often.  You butter me up once in the morning and two times at night.  That’s not enough.”
    “What I mean is... I came home... to talk to you...  I need to ask ya something.”
    “Well,” she said.  Little Strongheart leaned forward a bit and he could feel himself slowly sliding out. She spun around, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.  “How about we lie down in bed.  You can hold me in your strong arms.  Then you can say your words and ask your questions.  Then you can butter me up again.”

    The posse left Appleoosa before the sun even came up.  The sky was a dark blue, only growing lighter on the eastern horizon.  Twenty seven men in all had come out to join.  All of them were armed.  Some were armed to the teeth.  Some old fool even brought an enormous, old fashioned punt gun.  The sheriff made him leave it behind.  It was too big and too heavy to travel with.  Besides, they were hunting outlaws, not flocks of game birds.
    He also stopped to remind the men that they were to arrest the Dogs of Discord if they could, not shoot them.  Still, they were bringing plenty of ammunition, just in case.  And food.  They were bringing not one, but two wagons filled with supplies.
    Men from all over town, and the surrounding countryside, showed up to ride.  There was the banker.  The bartender from the saloon.  The coffin maker had set up six fresh pine coffins outside of his shop, and declared he was going to fill all of them with men that he shot personally.  There were railroad men.  There were cowboys.  A few professional bounty hunters showed up, feeling it was safer to collect the reward in a group, rather than risk trying it for themselves.
    Braeburn rode up front near the sheriff.  Little Strongheart rode behind him, and kept her long, delicate arms wrapped around his body.  She had no horse of her own, and Calico was strong enough to carry the both of them.  She was just about the best horse that Braeburn had ever known.  As for the sheriff, he rode a jet black stallion.  Once a wild horse, he had been almost too ferocious to tame.  Now he and the sheriff seemed to have a working respect for each other.  Still, that horse scared most of the men in the posse, and hopefully would scare any outlaws even more.
    An hour on the trail and the sun had crept up and lit their world.  Chilly banks of fog were slow to burn off.  Another hour and they came to the banks of the broad river.  It was the site of the ferry crossing, only there was no ferry.  The mooring ropes had been cut.  The closest fording place that the posse knew of was fifteen miles downstream.  Little Strongheart said she could lead them on an easy trip to a ford only ten miles upstream.
    Sheriff Silverstar vetoed the idea.  They were already going slow enough as it was.  Heading ten miles to the ford, then getting back to the trail would take a full day, and that was more time than they had.
    It took them three more hours to get the wagons floated across the frigid river.  Then they had to swim the horses.  Everybody was cold and wet and miserable once on the other side.  They set off again on the trail, feeling they they had just wasted an enormous amount of time with little to show for it.
    Still, as they journeyed, their spirits began to rise.  The weather was growing warm, and the noon sun dried the clothes on their backs.  They ate lunch in the saddle.  Braeburn enjoyed a roast beef sandwich.  That kind of food wouldn’t last for long on the trail.  They would soon be getting into the hardtack and corn pone.  The posse started to feel like things were going their way.  They hoped that the missing ferry would be the one big disaster of their adventure.
    By mid-afternoon they were a respectable fifteen miles into Indian territory.  On the ridge of a hill, they spotted an old cabin, more shanty than anything.
    “Now who would live way out here?” one of the men asked.
    “Ain’t that old Coot’s place?” asked another.
    “I do believe it is,” said the bartender.
    “What on earth is he doing out here?” somebody asked.
    “Prospecting,” grumbled the surveyor.  “Has an old claim.”
    “Huh.  Coot must be nuts.  There can’t be anything valuable here.”
    “No,” said the surveyor.  “There’s gold.  Not much.  He’ll never get rich.  But he comes into my office every now and then with a few dollars worth of gold dust.  I pay him for it and he goes about his business.”
    “Yeah,” said the bartender.  “His business is coming into my saloon and getting drunk as a skunk.  He spends every last dime and I have to throw his ass out.  I guess he comes back here to pan for more.”
    “And the Indians put up with him?”
    “He’s never been a problem,” Little Strongheart said.  “He’s been out here as long as I can remember.  We leave him alone.  He seems harmless to me.”
    “That he is,” drawled the sheriff.  “That he is.”
    As if on cue, they watched a distant figure emerge from the shack.  He came rushing down the hill, headed straight in their direction.  The posse stopped in its tracks and waited for him to catch up.  They could smell him coming from a ways off.  He hadn’t bathed in weeks.
    He ran in amongst the horses and riders, looking wild-eyed at each and every person.  He spun around with his jaw dropped open.  He had only a few rotting teeth left, and one big gold one.  He pointed angrily at the various members of the posse, as if accusing them of doing wrong.  When he saw Little Strongheart, he made a little bow and tipped a hat that wasn’t there, but still shot daggers from his eyes at all the men.
    “Howdy there, Crusty,” the sheriff tipped his real hat.  “You been staying out of trouble lately?”
    “You!” the old drunk pointed at the sheriff and rushed up to him.  “You!” he pointed to Braeburn.  “You! You!  You!” he bellowed at the other deputies.  Some smiled as if he were a clown.  Others were disgusted by his appearance.  “All of you!  I know exactly what'cher doing here.  An' no good can come from none of it!”
    “If you think we’re here for you, Crusty, you can relax,” the sheriff said.  “We’re just moseying on through here.”
    “Yer going after them Dogs!” he screamed at the sheriff, who only gave the slightest sign of surprise.  “Turn back!  Go back to Appleoosa.  Go back to your homes.  You can’t catch the Dogs.  They come charging straight outta hell, an there ain’t no stopping them.  They’ll kill the lot of ya dead.”
    “Now how did you know we were after them?” the sheriff asked.
    “Cause I seen them!” the old man got up close, and the sheriff almost flinched from the smell of whiskey on the man’s breath.  The posse all shot each other glances, wondering if crazy old Crusty Coot might be useful for something after all.
    “What?”  Silverstar barked.  “When?  Where were they headed?  How many were there?”
    “Not two days past,” the old timer said.  “I seen them with my own eyes.  I’s up in my cabin, minding my own business when they come thundering down this here trail, heading in the same direction you are now.  How many?  Could have been a dozen.  Could have been a thousand, it makes no nevermind.  They were a whole legion, straight outta hell.  There’s no stopping them, sheriff.  I seen them out my window.  Pure evil, they was.  Not something of this world.  They ain’t human.”
    “Did you talk to them?”
    “Nossir.  Nossir, I didn’t step one foot out my cabin until they were long gone.  They’ll send shivers up your spine just by looking at them.  Each one was worse than the last, and that leader was the worst of all.
    “The leader?” Silverstar asked, now utterly intrigued.  “Could you give a description?”
    “Ugly!” the old timer answered.  “And tall.  A real monster.  He musta been... musta been... eight feet tall!”
    The sheriff’s shoulders slumped in disappointment as his posse started to laugh.  “You crazy old fool,” he chastised the man.  “Eight feet tall?  You expect me to believe that?  Could he fly?  Could he breathe fire?”
    Laughter rolled, and Crusty pointed his finger back at the sheriff.  “Don’t you laugh at me!  I seen him.  It’s the truth.  That man is eight feet tall if he’s an inch!  Maybe nine!  Only he ain’t no man.  He’s... he’s... well, he’s some sort of wizard!”
    Some of the men nearly fell out of their saddles they were laughing so hard.  “I tell ya, sheriff, he’s the devil himself.”  The sheriff rolled his eyes.  The prospector turned to Little Strongheart, the only person not wearing a smile.  He approached her with his finger stretched out.  “He’s a demon, I say.  A demon!”  Strongheart squeezed harder around Braeburn’s waist and ducked back a bit behind his shoulder.  She didn’t find anything funny in this.  The poor old man looked completely serious to her.
    “C’mon, boys,” the sheriff shouted.  “They’ve been through here alright, but there’s no good reason to stick around.  We won’t catch up to them by talking to this old coot.  So let’s ride.  Heeya!” He kicked his horse into a canter, and the posse thundered away, leaving the lonely old drunkard in the dust.
    “You’ll see!” he shouted after them.  “You’ll all see!  You’ll all be burning in the lake of fire, and he’ll be laughing over you.  Then you’ll see!”
    Little Strongheart was the only one watching him as they rode away.  Once out of view, she turned her head to speak to her husband.  “I don’t know why you men were laughing at him.”
    “Cause he’s a crazy old drunk, that’s why.”
    “I think you Equestrians should take better care of your elders.  That’s what I think.  They have wisdom.”
    “Not all of them,” Braeburn smiled.  “Some of them are just as foolish as the young, especially when drunk.”
    “You still didn’t have to laugh at him.  What if he’s right?”
    “You mean what if we’re dealing with an eight foot tall devil wizard?  I don’t think that’s going to be likely, sugarcube.  But I guess we’ll deal with that problem when we come to it.”

    For three more days of their long journey, they saw signs that the Dogs had been through this way.  There were campfires left behind, some still smouldering.  They found the burnt ruins of a building along the trail.  It could have been a farm house.  It could have been a way station.  They didn’t know, and they didn’t know who had owned it.  There was a body, beaten and shot through the temple.  His body had been stripped of all possessions, including anything identifying.  The posse couldn’t determine if it was another one of the gang’s victims, or one of their own that they had killed for some unknowable reason.  They came across an Indian boy, alone out on his spirit quest.  He said he had found the murdered and raped bodies of a homesteader family, and had decided to pursue the gang in order to get revenge on them, all by himself.  Little Strongheart had scolded him; he was too young to fight, and old enough to know better.  She sent him off in the other direction with tears in his eyes.
    On the fourth day, they stopped dead in their tracks.  Before them stretched an endless wall of rocky foothills.  Rounded rocky pillars stuck up out of the earth, almost looking like fingers of some buried giant.  Anything could be hiding in that maze: vipers, cougars, or bandits.  There was one narrow defile that passed through it.  It had been a stream once.  It had carved a box canyon.  Now it was the only trail through.
    “We go around,” Little Strongheart said.  “It will take two days.  A day and a half if we leave the wagons.  We cannot go through.”
    “No,” the sheriff grumbled.  He looked out across the hills, left to right.  “No.  We go through.”
    “Sheriff, no!” Strongheart warned.  “It’s an ambush.  We can’t.”
    “We have to.  We’re going through.”
    “Sheriff.  This gang must know by now they’re being followed.  They’ll have left behind some men to guard this trail.  A handful of men could fight off a whole army.  It’s certain to be an ambush.”
    The sheriff turned to her and looked into her eyes.  His stare pierced into her soul and out the other side.  “I know, darling.  I know it’s an ambush.  But if we don’t stop them here and now, they’ll only kill more people.  Everybody here signed up to fight.  Their victims never asked for it.  These desperadoes will only fight on their terms, and I’m sick of chasing them.  We’re going in.”
    “Sheriff,” Strongheart whispered.  “Please.  No.”
    “I’m in charge here, little lady.  I’m sorry, darling, but I ain’t going around.  I’m going in if I have to do it myself.”  He kicked his horse into motion, and headed towards the defile.
    The other riders hesitated for a moment, watching him lead the way, then started to follow him in.  The men shivered once inside the canyon.  It was hot out, but the shade of the high rock walls gave the illusion of a chill.  It grew dead quiet.  There were no birds chirping or bugs buzzing.  Every little noise of the group seemed to echo off the walls.
    Shod hooves thumped into the sandy floor of the canyon.  There was the clicking noises of hammers and lever-actions as men prepared themselves for a fight without being told.  That was, perhaps, why the silence felt so deep.  There was no chatter anymore.  Every man kept his mouth shut and stared intensely at every nook, cranny and ledge in the rocks.  Little Strongheart reached back and pulled Braeburn’s Henry rifle out of the rolled blanket.  She handed it to him over his shoulder.  He, in turn, pulled his revolver from his belt and handed it back to her.  She didn’t care for either weapon, but at least they were both armed.
    They pushed on.
    There was a sharp crack.  The way it reverberated among the stone, it sounded indistinguishable from a man stepping on a dried stick.  Every man knew that wasn’t what it was.  Braeburn caught a glimpse of movement far down the length of the canyon, and halfway up the wall on a sheltered ledge.  He turned to the sheriff to yell a warning, but before he could get a word out he was interrupted by the terrible thunder of returning fire.  Every man in the posse was opening up on that ledge with everything they could.  Puffs of white stone powder erupted all over the rock wall.  The ambushers ducked behind cover and disappeared.
    He felt Little Strongheart slipping off of Calico.  For a horrible fraction of a second, Braeburn thought she had been hit.  Then he spotted her running across the narrow valley floor, ducking as she went, and running into a crevice, out of the way of fire.
    “Strongheart!” he shouted.  “Wait for me!” He leapt off his horse and followed her into the crevice.  He only got a few feet in before he looked up and saw her climbing up the rock wall.  Climbing wasn’t exactly the right word for it.  She seemed to be jumping up the rock wall.  She was finding little ledges and leaping from one to the other, always moving her way up.
    Braeburn pulled himself up the same wall.  He was considerably slower, no matter how fast he tried to climb.  He dragged himself up over the lip of the wall, and found Little Strongheart was already leaving him behind again.  The massive stone fingers were sticking straight up.  Between them was a far drop which spelled certain death for anybody who lost their footing.  Strongheart didn’t even slow down.  She was gracefully leaping from one to the next.  Braeburn followed after her, although there wasn’t anything graceful about him.  His arms were stretched out far from his side, waving in an effort to keep his balance.
    He knew what she was trying to do.  She was trying to outflank the ambush.  She wanted to get behind them and catch them at their backs.  Braeburn realized it could work if they didn’t fall to their deaths first.
    The canyon turned to their left, and they crouched down above where they thought the ambushers were hidden.  They peeked over the edge, and found they had guessed correctly.  The gang members were crouched down behind some boulders on a ledge not more than ten or fifteen feet below them.  There were maybe five or six of them.  Little Strongheart and Braeburn hadn’t been spotted.
    Braeburn got up on his knees to take his shot at them.  It was almost unfair.  It was practically at point blank range.  Then he was immediately forced down onto his belly again when he heard the angry hissing and buzzing of bullets.  His own men were firing in his direction.  The ambushers had the superior position, but the posse had superior firepower.  The gang was getting off perhaps a single shot to every fifty that the posse was laying down.  It was perfect covering fire, if only Strongheart and Braeburn could avoid getting hit by it.
    Braeburn’s cheek was pressed into the jagged granite.  He was looking into his wife’s face, whose cheek was pressed down in the same fashion.
    “We’ll have to jump,” they both said together, and simultaneously nodded in agreement.
    “One,” Braeburn said.
    “Two,” Strongheart called out.
    “Three!” they both shouted.
    They leapt up as bullets shot all around them, and they jumped down onto the ledge together.  Braeburn landed well.  His legs bent hard, then his knees straightened again as if they were springs.  He had landed right next to one of the surprised desperadoes.  To close to shoot, he reflexively swung the butt of his repeater and clobbered the man right across the temple.  He went down cold with a sickening thump.
    Strongheart landed harder.  The revolver fell from her hand, and went skittering across the stone face, out of reach.  She recovered faster than Braeburn could imagine.  She was up and with her left hand, she reached across her waist, and pulled the tomahawk from her belt.  With her right hand she reached back across and pulled the long knife out of its sheath backhanded.  The man closest to her never had a chance.  He never even saw her coming.  She ducked low and drove the axe blade into the thickest, meatiest part of his calf.  He fell backwards with a scream that was silenced when Strongheart drove the dagger down through his neck.
    With Strongheart ducked low, Braeburn had a clean shot of the next man on the ledge.  He pulled the trigger, and a dark red hole opened up in the man’s chest, right above his heart.  He collapsed in a dead lump.
    Braeburn had to pull the barrel upwards as Strongheart stood up into the field of fire.  Three men were out of the fight. He couldn’t shoot the fourth with Strongheart in the way.  He aimed for the fifth man.  Fired.  Missed.  Fired again and that man went down screaming.
    The fourth man in line saw Strongheart lunging towards him.  He swung his shotgun towards her.  He fired, but missed when she ducked and somersaulted, ending up behind him.  She drove her tomahawk into his back and wrenched it out again  He turned again, his mouth open in a scream.  She slashed at his face with her knife and ripped both of his cheeks wide open.  His jaw seemed to open even wider.  He fell down to the rock and as his mouth filled with blood, she split his skull open with her tomahawk.
    Five men were down at their hands.  Braeburn ran forward, ducking as bullets were still flying over his head.  Then he saw the sixth man.  It was the little one from the wanted posters.  He jumped from his hiding spot, a knife in his hand.  Little Strongheart turned just in time to keep from being killed outright.  He landed on her back and they grappled.
    Braeburn stood up straight.  His rifle at his shoulder.  Bullets sped past his face.  They nicked at his clothes.  He peered down the site of his gun.  The man had his arms around his beloved’s neck.  His knife was pointed directly at her face.  She had both of her hands at his wrist, trying to push it away.  The knife point was getting closer and closer.  She fought as hard as she could, but he was simply stronger than she.
    Braeburn looked through the sites with a single, wide-open eye.  He could see her struggling face.  He could see the man’s face.  He saw his wife’s face again, scared like he had never seen it.  He watched her open her mouth in a scream as the man bit into her shoulder.  He saw the man’s face again.
    Braeburn’s finger moved inwards, just a hair.  His gun roared.  It was the loudest, most confusing noise he had ever heard.  Through his watering eyes, he saw a small dot appear in the center of the man’s forehead.
    The man fell down.  Little Strongheart squatted behind a boulder.  Braeburn did the same.  The posse was still shooting.  “Hold your fire!” Braeburn screamed.  He lifted his hat up above the boulder and waved it.  “Hold your fire!” he repeated.
    Braeburn heard the same thing repeated again and again.  At first he thought it was an echo, but then realized the posse was shouting it.  They held their fire.  The fight was over.  He and Strongheart stood up and surveyed the damage.  Five men were dead, including ‘Snake Eye’ Spot.  The sixth,  the one Braeburn had hit, was unconscious.
    The posse was thundering up the valley on horseback to meet them.  Strongheart and Braeburn slid down a steep slope to the canyon floor.  A couple of the men got off of their horses and raced up the same slope, shouting as they went, to check the dead for themselves.
    “Six men,  Sheriff.” Braeburn reported.  “Five dead, one’s wounded.  He might tell us where the others ran off to.”
    “Is anybody hit?” Sheriff Silverstar roared above the noise of the cheering men.  He had to repeat himself.  The fighting had left the men in chaos.
    “No!” came the cry of a single man.
    “No!” cried another.
    “I’m fine!” said a third.
    “There ain’t nobody hurt?” the Sheriff called out again.  There were scattered replies.  Nobody had been hurt.  “Oh, thank god,” Silverstar muttered.  Braeburn noticed how pale he had turned.  “Thank god, no one’s been hurt!”  The sheriff slumped over in his saddle.
    “Sheriff?” Braeburn yelled.
    Silverstar fell out of his saddle and landed hard on the ground.
    “Sheriff!” Little Strongheart screamed.
    All the men rushed forward to be at Silverstar’s side.  Braeburn and Strongheart had to shove their way through the crowd.
    “Sheriff?” Braeburn asked, getting down on his knees.  Somebody had already placed a jacket underneath the man’s head.  Braeburn ripped open the sheriff’s vest.  His shirt was dark with blood.  “Shit!” Braeburn cursed.
    “It’s OK,” the sheriff murmured.  “Ain’t no one else that got hurt.”
    “There ain’t that much blood,” Braeburn reasoned.  “Maybe it ain’t that bad.  We’ll get you home.  You’ll make it, sheriff.”
    “Dammit, Braeburn, you dumb optimist.  I’m done for.  I’m bleeding on the inside.  I’m gut shot.  Don’t you know what that means?  The only hope I have left is that I go quick.”
    “Sheriff, don’t say that.  I think...”
    “Shut up, Braeburn,” the sheriff grumbled.  There was a smile beneath that moustache, but his eyes seemed blank as he stared up at the gray sky.  “Listen to me instead.  I meant what I said.”  He reached up into his vest pocket and pulled something out.  “You’re a good man, Braeburn.  The best that I know.  You’re a better man than I am, at any rate.  A natural leader of men.”  He seized Braeburn’s hand and wouldn’t let go.
    “I’m done, Braeburn,” he said.  “But this fight, ain’t.  I want you to see it through to the end.”
    “Yessir,” Braeburn promised, his voice breaking.
    “Good man,” the sheriff whispered.  “I’m just...”
    “Yes, sheriff?”
    “I’m just glad...,” he struggled to take another breath.  “I’m just glad that there weren’t no one else that got hurt.”
    The sheriff was silent.  He took no more breaths.  Strongheart reached down to his face and closed his eyes for him.
    His hand fell from Braeburn’s.
    Braeburn looked down.  It was covered in blood.  Yet underneath those streaks of blood was a beautiful, shining silver sheriff’s star.