A Pony and Her Man

	In the late afternoon, an aching and aging man sat himself down to nap in the shade of a cottonwood tree.  The tree was the tallest thing around out here on the Great American Prairie.  The man covered his eyes with his hat, to shield them from the low angle sunlight reflecting off the water of cool nameless river burbling before him.  You could call the man a cowboy, you wouldn't be wrong.  You could also call him a gunslinger, a hustler, a cattle rustler, an outlaw, a deputy, a graverobber, a mountain man, a killer, a savior, and a father.  He was all these things and more.  If there was one thing John Marston was not, it was deaf.  He could here the soft thud of shod hooves on sandy clay soil, coming up on him.  Underneath his poncho Marston reached for his Navy Colt .45, without betraying a hint of movement above.  He listened closely.  He couldn't hear the sound of spurs, or anything else signifying a rider.  If somebody was trying to sneak up and stick a knife in him, they were going about it in a very strange fashion.  Marston waited until he got closer, and then sprang up quick as lightning.  The gun's barrel was pointed at the target before anything else.  A half second later Marston was standing, ready to kill.
	There was a lone dun horse standing before him.  No, just a pony.  He was wearing a saddle and heavy saddle bags, but no rider.  This was very strange.
	“Ain't a young colt like you got more sense then the sneak up on a dangerous man like me?” he called out.
	“Ah ain't a colt, mister.  Ah'm a filly.” He lowered the barrel of his gun.  She slowly raised a hoof to adjust her hat.  Two long blond pigtails fell out from underneath.  “And you just said you was dangerous.  Are you Marston?  A Mr. John Marston?  Sometimes known as 'Dead Eye' Marston in St. Louie and points west?”
	What fresh hell was this, Marston thought.  One more naïve kid out to revenge fallen family?  Marston couldn't remember murdering any ponies.  At least none that didn't have it coming.
	“I suppose you tracked me down to settle some sort of old score?  Well you've got another thing coming if thats what you aimed to do,” he said.
	“What?” she replied.  “Oh no, nosir.  Ah aim to hire you.  You're a bounter hunter, ain't ya?  They say you're the best for miles.  I need you to hunt someone for me.  I can pay you well.”
	A toothy evil grin slowly spread across Marston's face.  It just kept growing.  He burst into laughter.  “Hire me?  As a bounty hunter?”  He choked on his laughter. He holstered his iron and slapped his knee with his hat.   “What did Horace the Horse steal your salt lick?  Did he run off with Clarabelle the Cow?  Did he leave all the baby farm animals destitute?” Tears were streaming from his eyes.
	The pony could have kicked the man's skull clean off his neck, judging by the look of anger on her face.
		“Ah need you to kill somebody for me.  A splash overo by the name of Black Hoof.  I'd ask you to bring him to justice for me.  But I'm not sure I understand the definition of justice here in your america.”  Marston stopped laughing.  “He's hurt an awful lot of ponies.  Ah can pay you 200 dollars.  American dollars.  Greenbacks.”
	His right eyebrow raised just a bit.  “That's an awful lot of money, little missy.”
	“And I can trade you with hooch,” she added.  She shook one of her saddle bags.  Glass bottles clinked together.  I brought it along for trade.”
	Marston's eyebrow raised a little bit more.  “Hooch?  You mean whiskey?”
	“No,sir,” the pony said.  “It's applejack, we make it back on the farm every winter.”
		“Applejack?”  Marston laughed again, “Applejack?  Really?  I didn't know people still made that moonshine.”
	“Now listen here,” she was angry again, “this stuff is just as good as any fancy Kentucky cornjuice.”
		“Yeah,” Marston added, “and it will rot a hole in your gut ten times as fast.  Listen, missy, do your Ma and Pa know you're out here trading in moonshine?  They're going to tan your rump raw when they find out.”
	All expression dropped from her face.  “I can pay you ten thousand dollars, Mr. Marston, sir.”  All expression dropped from his.  “I've got it in gold.  I'm not used to your American dollars, and I ain't sure how the exchange rate works.  But this here saddle bag,” she shook the other saddle bag, “is full of Equestrian bullion.  It's at least ten thousand dollars.”
	John Marston was getting tired of this exchange.  Ten thousand dollars could by him a mansion in any city in the country, and he could retire for the remainder of his life in comfort.  He wasn't going to take the money.
	“I don't think you understand the situation here, Applejack,” he said derisively, straight to her face.  “I ain't no bounty hunter.  Not anymore.  I'm through killing for money.  It's never brought me anything but trouble.”
		“Futhermore,” he raised his voice to scold her, “this ain't no game.  You oughta be ashamed of yourself, parading around like this, talking to bounty hunters.  You should head back to your Ma and Pa.  They're probably worried sick about you.  Head back before I switch your rear myself.”
	He spun around and walked off through the prairie grass.  He wasn't in any particular hurry to get anywhere, except away from this damn fool filly.
	“He killed my Ma and Pa!” she cried after him.
	Marston stopped dead in his tracks.  He turned his head but didn't look her in the eyes.  “He killed your Ma and Pa,” he repeated.
	“Black Hooves, sir.  He killed my Ma and Pa.  Murdered them cold.  Black Hooves come by, looking for room and board for the night.  He tells my Pa he could pay him a few bits.  My Pa let him in.  He woulda let him stay for free, Mr. Marston, sir, my Pa was a kind pony.  So he stayed the night.  And that morning after breakfast, my Ma asked him 'bout those bits.  Black Hooves, he just laughed.  He just got up and murdered the both of them.  Cold blood.”
	She looked up at John Marston.  He had already turned around come back to her.  He looked down at her from above.  This was just about the toughest little filly he had ever met, and there were tears in her eyes.  He couldn't blame her.  “And he spared your life?”
		“No, sir, Mr. Marston.  Me and my little sister were out in the orchard that morning, bucking apples.  But my big brother, he saw the whole thing.” Her composure failed and she broke into tears.  “He was hidin' in the pantry.  He saw that pony murder my parents.  And he ain't been right since.  Now don't you think nothing bad about my brother, Mr. Marston.  He's a good brother, the best there is.  But he just don't talk anymore, sir, not like he used to.  It's like when Black Hooves murdered my Ma and Pa, he murdered a piece of my brother too.  I s'pose I don't make a lick of sense.”
	“No,” Marston replied.  “Actually, I think I know exactly what you mean.”
	There was a long pause.  The pony sniffed the composure back into herself.  Bees buzzed their way home for the vanishing afternoon.
	“You said this outlaw was a splashed white olero?” Marston finally asked.
	“Yes sir, Mr. Marston.” the pony said, suddenly filled with hope.
	“Wears his mane extra long?  Keeps his tail braided in the style of the wild ponies of west Equestria?”
	“That's him, that's the one!” she smiled.  “Do you know him?”
		“Never met him.  But I know another outlaw, rides a horse of that description.  Stewart Stikowski.  Calls himself Black Stewart.  But most folks call him Stewy Stinker.  Drives him plum loco,” Marston was grinning now.
		“And do you know him?”
	“Only by reputation.  We try to keep outta each other's hair.”
		“And what do you know about his reputation, Mr. Marston, sir?”
		“Well, Miss Applejack.  According to reputation, he's holed up right now with his gang in Pottersberg, north of here.  And according to the reputation of the Texas Rangers, as far as I've heard, they're sending up a posse to Pottersberg as we speak, with the express purpose a taking him into custody.  At least as far as I heard.  Now if both of these reputations are true, than if Stewy Stinker has any sense in him, he and his posse will be high tailing it to Sisko.  Probably on their way as we speak.  They'd be taking the old settler's trail.”
	The man and the pony looked into each others eyes.  There was a long, long pause.  Cottonwood seeds drifted between them, being blown from the tree on a cool breeze coming off the river.  They were turning gold in the lowering sunlight.  A lone coyote sang in the distance.
	“We can still catch them,” Marston added.
	“We'll have to ride.”
	“We'll head due west, when we come to the Sweetleaf, we follow its course and get them before they get to the ferry.”
		“No, sir.  That'll take us four days.  If they're pushing it, they can make it to Sisko by then.  There's a rail line, they could disappear anywhere.”
		“Then we take Gloomy Gulch.  We'll meet them in three days.”
	“No sir, Mr. Marston.  If we take the Gulch, we'll come out to meet them in...”
	“Jawbone Flats.” They both spoke simultaneously.
	“There's barely any cover at all.  Not out on Jawbone Flats,” the pony said skeptically.
		“There ain't any cover at all, Miss Applejack.  But that means they won't have any cover either.  If we can come up on them and get in rifle range before they see us... Well, we'll have a dozen or so targets and they'll only have two.”
		“Ah don't know much math, Mr. Marston, but that sounds pretty risky.”
		“Well then lets get going before I start thinking about the odds.”
	Marston saddled up in a hurry.  The pony struggled under his weight and he got back off.
	“Well have to travel fast,” he said.  “Travel light.”  He took off one of her saddlebags, the one with the booze.  He chucked it into the grass.  Bottles broke.  He walked around his little pony and began undoing the other saddlebag.  He looked inside first.  Here he found at least fifty thousand American dollars in minted Equestrian gold.  He hefted the bag over to the tree and sat it down in the same spot he had tried to take his nap.
	“No time to bury it,” he told Miss Applejack on his way back from the tree.  “Let's just hope nobody finds it before we get back.”
	He got back in the saddle again, and meant to dig in his heels.  She took off with a start before he could do so.  All he could do was hold onto his hat with one hand, and the reins with the other.  They took off west, liked greased lightning.  They both whooped out in new found exhilaration, and new found friendship.
		They left behind a fortune in gold, and a tall old cottonwood tree.  It was the tallest thing out here on the Great American Prairie.  The sun was just beginning to set.