Someone Came With Her, Part 10

	“I guess,” you say guardedly.  “Wait.  How did you know--”

	He chuckles.  “--know you ain't a local?  It's simple: you don't dress like one.”

	You blink.  “Look, if it's rude for me to go around without clothes, I--”

	Now it's his turn to look baffled.  “No, no.  I'm talkin' about hats!” he says cheerfully, tipping his Stetson at you.  “Name's Ten Gallon, proprietor of Appleloosa Outfitters. We've got the finest frontier apparel in the west—or the east!  And we've got a convenient location, too!” He points at a rickety little shop to your left.  It's wedged between two larger buildings like a popcorn kernel stuck between teeth.

	“I might pay it a visit,” you say.  In an alternate reality, perhaps.

	He beams.  “Make sure you do,” he says, trotting over to the store.  “We've got a clearance sale on dusters!”

	As mildly annoying as that encounter was, it takes the edge off your anxiety somewhat.  If aggressive sales tactics are the worst you have to fear from the stallions of Appleloosa, that will make things monumentally easier.

	You continue onward, looking for the saloon.  Appleloosa is just like you remember it from the show: a quaint little frontier town almost small enough to fit on a football field. The main street is the only road of any significance, lined with  stereotypical frontier shops.  Squinting from the glare, you spot a rugged wooden building with a large sign showing a salt shaker.

	That's the saloon, no doubt.  You allow yourself a little smile as you trot to the front porch.  At least this town isn't hard to navigate.

	You take a deep breath and push through the weather-worn batwing doors.

	The interior is dim, lit only by sunlight spilling through the doorway and the dusty windows.  There's a few pool tables off to your left, and at the far side of the saloon is the bar proper.  It's a varnished slab of dark wood that's clearly seen better days, and a mustachioed earth pony is wiping it off with a soiled rag.

	More accurately, he's pretending to clean the bar top.  His attention is focused on three other occupants of the saloon, watching them with wide eyes and tight lips.

	Perched on the bar stools with body language as friendly as gargoyles, two stallions spit fiery accusations and insults at each other.  The third patron, a white-furred unicorn, massages his forehead as he sips from a chipped tumbler.

	He looks distinctly familiar.  Is he Fairweather?  Not wanting to mistake him for someone else, you shyly walk up to the bar and take a seat a comfortable distance away.

	“That's a goldarned lie!" the nearest pony cries. He's a slim red pegasus with a chili pepper cutie mark, his watery blue eyes wild with rage under the bangs of his messy black mane.

	"You know what I think?" the earth pony sitting next to him hisses.  "I think you're protesting too much."

	"Fairweather!" the pegasus cries, looking over at the third patron. "Help me out, here! You saw what happened! Tell 'em he's wrong!"

	"You're both wrong," Fairweather sighs as he takes another slug. “We all slipped up.”

	"Can I interest you in a drink, ma'am?" the bartender nervously offers. You barely suppress a jolt of surprise: you almost forgot he was there.

	"Thanks,” you say, “but I don't have any money on han--er, hoof."

	He sets a salt shaker and a glass of water down in front of you, smiling sheepishly. "It's your lucky day--we're offerin' free drinks to first time customers."

	You hesitate for a moment before realizing this might work to your advantage. You have no idea how you're going to bring yourself to walk up to Fairweather and tell him about what happened to you, so a little liquid courage might be handy.

	"Thanks," you say to the bartender, smiling in what you supremely hope is not a coquettish way. His cheeks go red for a moment before he nods and darts away like a skittish minnow.

	You're starting to think the free drink policy doesn't apply to stallions. Sighing, you gracelessly grasp the shaker between your hooves and sprinkle some salt into your glass.

	"There's no use dwelling over it," says Fairweather. "We're not even sure what we saw."

	If you had a built-in Curiosity Alarm, everyone in the bar would be deaf.

	"What did you see?" a smooth feminine voice asks. It takes you a moment to realize that you were the one who said it.

	Fairweather does a double-take before he flashes you a grin. "Good to see you're still kicking around.”  His smile falls when he sees your drink. “But I'm not sure you're ready for that much salt..."

	Confusion reigns for a second.  Suddenly you realize that you were so distracted that you practically emptied your salt shaker into your drink.

	Like most mortal beings, you've done more than a few stupid things in your lifetime. What you do next is a worthy addition to your Golden Book of What the Fuck Was I Thinking.

	"I can handle myself," you say, and then you gulp your drink down in one fell swig.

	The experience is much like trying to snort salt like cocaine.

You.

Just.

Don't.

Do.

It.