Braeburn felt the weight of his father's rifle slung across his back, the butt of the weapon protruding over his shoulder. He started into a resolute trot, knowing exactly where he was going – there ain't no other place the stallion he was looking for would be at this time of day.

After a brief trot through Appleloosa, the product of many years of hard labour in the burning sun, he arrived outside the saloon. He knew it was crowded, yet only one single, rowdy voice sailed past the batwing door and out into the hot air.

Braeburn gritted his teeth, took a breath, and curtly stepped inside.



Sitting at a table in the middle of the place, as Braeburn had known he'd be, was Buck. The dark brown stallion wore a grey cape across his back and flanks, just barely covering the symbol of a revolver backdropped by a dollar sign. He wore a red handkerchief, and a wide‐brimmed hat hung down the back of his neck. His dirty, orange mane was sprawled in all directions. He was staring down the length of a bottle all the while unending insults and taunts poured every which way from his mouth.

Buck had arrived in Appleloosa just a week ago, conveniently while Sheriff Silverstar was out of town. Within the hour, everypony had known his name. There were whispers about him being a bank‐robber or the likes, but the last pony who'd been prying had promptly received a hard forehead to his muzzle. The stallion never paid for the countless drinks he downed at the saloon, and nopony dared object any longer. Something had to be done.

As Braeburn approached the stallion, a whisper travelled through the room. Buck looked over his shoulder.

“Braeburn!” Buck's rugged features morphed into a jeering grin, his eyes pausing at the gun across the Braeburn's back. “Here, come on, take a seat. And somebody get my favorite drinking buddy something to–”

“You ain't no compadre of mine, Buck,” Braeburn cut him off, narrowing his eyes on the outlaw.

“Oh?” Buck raised an eyebrow, smirking. “And do you plan on doing about 'bout that?”

Braeburn didn't answer.

“I mean, your precious sheriff ain't here to stop me.” Buck continued, waving a hoof across the room. “So tell me, Brae. Whaddaya plan on doing about me?”

“If Sheriff Silverstar ain't here to throw you out of Aaaappleloosa, guess I'm gonna have to do it myself.” The saloon was silent like the grave.

“Is that so,” Buck deadpanned. “Let's continue outside.”

He swept his drink, tossed the empty glass over his shoulder, and promptly trotted out of the bar. Braeburn stared after Buck a few moments, before giving a shaky breath and following him. He felt the eyes of the whole emplacement on him, and several of the onlookers gave encouraging, yet grave, nods as he pushed the doors open and stood in the midday sun.



Buck was standing a short length down the road, his cape billowing in a hot wind from behind him. His hat now rested upon his dust‐red mane.

Braeburn regarded him carefully as he trotted out and stood facing him.

“So you don't want me 'round here no more?” Buck stated, matter of factly.

“Sure as hay I don't, Buck,” Braeburn spat his name out. “Nopony does.”

“Well, then, we're gonna have a problem.” Buck's voice grew louder, frantic. “'Cause I happen to like it here!”

There was a pause.

“But let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Buck said, just slightly more quiet. “You just turn around, and walk away, and ain't nopony gonna get hurt.”

Braeburn shook his head. “This ends today, Buck.”

Buck threw his cape backwards and exposed the stock of his rifle, slung across his back in a similar fashion to Braeburn's.

“Get outta here, Braeburn,” Buck warned. His voice was lower now, trembling, and his eyes bore straight into Braeburn's. “Apparently, this town ain't big enough for the both of us.”

“Well I ain't leaving.” Braeburn slowly raised a front hoof towards his own weapon, and his eyes turned cold.

Silence.

A nervous twitch.

Sudden movement, and guns blazing.