The speak-easy was closed, or so the sign said, but behind the vacant façade the Sheriff could hear the tinkle of liquor hitting the bottom of a glass. He knocked on the door, two sharp taps, and inside someone cursed softly.

"You gonna open these doors, Braeburn, or do I have to buck my way in?"

There was silence from the other side, and then, "Come in if you want, Sheriff. I'm not stopping you."

The Sheriff hesitated. He didn't quite know what to expect when he entered. There might be a trap. It didn't seem likely, but then Braeburn hadn't seemed to type to put another stallion in the dust either, and he'd been wrong on that count.

He shook his head. He would have to take the chance.

The Sheriff pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

After the antiseptic brightness of the desert, his eyes could make out only shadows and darkness. He focused on his hearing, searching for the faint rustle or click that would signal an attack.

Nothing.

The Sheriff let himself relax.

Once his eyes adjusted, the Sheriff picked his way over to the bar and pulled up a stool. Beside him, sitting in front of an empty bottle, sat his suspect.

He was an earth pony, his mane and coat the colour of corn husks. He slouched against the counter like an empty sack of wheat and hid his face beneath a hat that had obviously been well-cared for. There was a faint whiff of apples about him as well as something bitter. The whiskey? It didn’t matter; what mattered was that he didn’t appear jittery or aggressive -- just tired.

No sense waiting.

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “It’s impolite to wear your hat inside, Braeburn. Didja Pa not teach you that?”

The stallion let out a bark of laughter. “Sheriff, in all honesty, I think I’m in enough trouble already. I don’t think a li’l bit of bad manners is going to make much of a difference.”

“I s’pose not. Still.”

Braeburn sighed, took off his hat.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Braeburn’’s face twisted in confusion. “I got him right in the face, Sheriff. He didn’t see it coming. No time to react. I took him down, and nothing I say can change that.”

“No, it can’t,” the Sheriff said, picking his words carefully. “But it can change what happens next. Be honest with me. Why did you do it?”

“Honesty . . .” Braeburn toyed with the rim of his hat. “You ever wonder how arrogant we are?”

“Us?”

“Ponies.”

The Sheriff shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“We walk this land like we own it, but up ‘til recent times this land was wild and dangerous. Not a place for pony folk.” Braeburn smiled sadly. “Now look at it. We’ve got a prosperous town and an orchard and the best dance and music in the West. This land ain’t nothing like it was and no one cares.”

Braeburn looked down, and the Sheriff saw with some surprise that he was close to tears. “‘Cept that isn’t true. I care. I can feel the difference we’ve made and the difference we’re making, and I know it ain’t right. Earth ponies are meant to live with the land. We’re meant to nurture it, not demolish and rebuild it how we see fit, like that pony from the Company would have us do.”

The Sheriff rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Then why didn’t you jus’ tell him that?”

“I tried to, but he wouldn’t listen. Called me an ignorant hick.” Braeburn glowered. “So I went home and I baked myself a pie, and . . . well, you know the rest.”

The Sheriff nodded. “Was that an Apple Family recipe?”

“Yeah.” Braeburn cocked his head. “How’d you know?”

“It was evidence. The flavour might have been important.”

Braeburn looked at him, then laughed and shook his head. “I’ll bake you another if it gets me outta jail.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said the Sheriff. “I ain’t gonna lock you up, but I do need you to come with me and apologise to that company fella. And then I want you to talk to him again. Be passionate and patient. He’ll listen.”

“Will he?”

“He ain’t evil, son. Just ignorant.”

Braeburn took a deep breath and placed his hat in its rightful place.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s have ourselves a chat.”