Title:           A Fistful of Bits
Author:          Anonymous
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/uFR6adNu
First Edit:      Wednesday 14th of May 2014 11:23:52 AM CDT
Last Edit:       Wednesday 14th of May 2014 11:23:52 AM CDT

The town of Saddleback was nestled at the foot of the Aleutian Mountains: far west of Equestria in what the majority of folk simply knew as “Longhorn Country”. Not to say that a few ambling-type ponies didn’t make it that far; but for every mare or stallion that wandered into the land of beeves, there were a half-dozen minotaurs to glare them down and make them uncomfortable. The bulls, for their part, found this amusing and a pleasant way to pass the time. Except for Tinhorn.
 
Tinhorn enjoyed the company of ponies for other reasons. The first being that they generally didn’t know what to expect when travelling outside the comfort and security of their Princess’s fold. That made them easy pickings for gentlemen of his nature. That; and a good number of them were just plain ol’ trusting sorts. A trusting pony was a card-dealing beeve’s best friend, you could rob them blind and send them away with ‘nought but the shirts on their back, an’ as long as you did it with a smile they was none the wiser. They’d go back to their homes of sunshine and friendship, tell their mare- and coltfriends about what nice folks made their livings out west. An’ the next thing ya’ knew? Railcars full of ponies, ripe for the plunderin’.
 
It did Tinhorn’s heart proud, knowing that he was providing a service to these little foals and fillies. Who needed all that undue wealth weighing them down; certainly not them! Better they pay him for his agreeable company and witticism.
 
In the Sayaguesa Saloon he sat, a lean and weathered shorthorn; coat a tawny brown and beaten caps over what remained of his mantle. He dealt five-card stud to a group of three other folks: two mute miner-goats an’ the rangy general store clerk, Of them, Tinhorn was the clear superior. Sure, he’d let the grass-chewers think they was slick, taking an occasional small pot here an’ there. But by an’ large it would come out that he was the high cock on the table. The growing pile of bits sitting afore him was testament to that, much more so than the dwindling hillocks sitting before his adversaries.
 
Through the window of the Sayaguesa the sky had turned from livid orange to muted lavender. In the east, a ripe harvest moon the size of a grapefruit rose up over the badlands, and a cold wind blew in from the mountains to the north. To be perfunctory about it, it was well past quittin-time for an old stud such as himself. “Sorry fellas, but I’d best be headin’ on my way.” He rumbled as he himself upwards on tottering hooves. None of the assembled company complained unduly, they were generally agreeable themselves, and each felt their chances of winning escalate markedly with Tinhorn’s departure. They turned to their game as the aged bull grabbed for his silver-tipped cane and bowler. But as he began a slow saunter to the door, it swung open. A cold draft picked up for the briefest of moments, and in the archway stood a figure cloaked in shadow. “Don’t cut jes’ yet, partner. Sit an’ play a hand with me.”
 
His eyes were bleary with age and cheap cider, so it didn’t come into focus who had blocked the doorway until a few moments later. Soon enough, though, he made out the apparition. A pony, with a wide-brimmed hat and long red duster covering her flank. Her hair was long and pulled into a loose tail down her back. Suddenly, Tinhorn thought to himself that he *might* have a game or two left in him. After all, those Princesses to the East made such easy marks of their subjects! He grinned genially and lowed over his shoulder to the table, grunting to the assemblage “Deal us in the next hand, boys. An’ you--?” he said to the pony, “Look a tetch dry from the trail. Buy ya a round?”
 
“That’s be real gentlemanly of you, sir.” The pony said in a musical voice. She cantered to the bar, where the glower-eyed tender was just getting ready to call it a night. He knew better than to argue that point with Tinhorn, however, given the beeve’s checkered past, and silently set out to glasses. “A cider for myself,” he grumbled, “an’ whatever the lady’s having.”
 
“Ah’ll take a cider, too.” As the tender poured them both foaming cups the mare turned to Tinhorn and raised her mug to his. They clinked and drank long pulls. The tartness of the beverage quenching his thirst also happened to loosen his tongue, because before long he found himself asking the stranger all manner of questions, in the interest of her opening up and letting her guard down. He found the mare was a successful businesspony in Equestria, with an orchard and accompanying cider operation of her own that raked in thousands of bits annually. As such, she could afford to branch out and explore new avenues of profit from time to time, leaving the care of the farm in the capable hooves of her siblings. To that end, she said she was looking into bringing her own drink out this way, as she had already toppled the much-lauded Flim-Flam Cider Co. in her own country, and subsequently cornered the market there. She apparently also had the ear of royalty back East, an’ counted the fabled Princess Twilight a close personal friend. “Ah yeah, we’ve been on plenty of adventures back in tha day,” she drawled on. “But them’s are old mare’s tales, now. She don’ need my help as much these days, an’ that leaves me free to pursue… other ventures.”
 
“Such as?” Tinhorn leered. The game behind them had long since drawn to a close, but he shooed the small fish away. Now he was more eager to learn how he might foist a chest of bits or two out of this greenhorn entrepreneur sharing cups with him. He was positive a swindlin’ kind of bull such as himself could come up with something, given the time to do so. That left only one goal, keep the mare in Saddleback as long as he could, until he surmised a means of robbing her legally for more than a night at the tables.
 
“Well? Apart from tryin’ ta open up a branch of Sweet Apple Cider in these here parts, I’d also be keen on looking up some old friends of my ma ‘n Pa.”
 
Tinhorn cocked his head quizzically and looked a bit closer at her. The blonde mane did ring a faint bell in the back of his cob-webbed old head, but there were at least a score of such mane’s in Saddleback alone. The bright orange coat was somewhat familiar, but that didn’t necessarily have much to do with a pony’s lineage. The eyes, however…
 
Piercing and emerald, glowing like summer leaves after a light rain. He *did*know a stallion with eyes like that once, when he ran with Rawhide and the Mustang Boys. But that was ages ago, back when he was a young bull. Young, and much faster on the charge.
 
Sweet Celestia, did she know?
 
“Hrm, well. That’s certainly a noble pursuit, li’l mare…” he began to mumble as he slowly and—he hoped—not-the-least-bit-threateningly sidled himself from the stool. “An’ some other time, you’ll have to tell me more about them. But I’m afraid it’s well past this ol’ steer’s curfew. So if’n you’ll jes’”
 
“You ever heard o’ my folks, Tinhorn? Gale an’ Alexander Apple?”
 
He turned to her, his muzzle blanched as if he’d witnessed the dead rise. She was a dead ringer for her pa, now enjoying his leisure time in an impromptu bone orchard back the ways of that pissant ranch him ‘n his bad burned to ash and cinder. A coat of bright sunrise, eyes a leveled green like fabled arcane fire. The taut and oiled lasso he now saw peeking through her duster. And that thin, grim slash of a mouth. It was the same sneer Alexander gave Tinhorn when he hogtied the poor nag and left him to burn alive in the ranch. Paint said he listened for screams until there was nothing left but a charred frame. Alexander never so much as whimpered.
 
Unlike Tinhorn, who couldn’t stop himself from releasing such a sound now.
 
“Or maybe yeh’ve heard o’ some of his exploits?” The orange mare said as she slid from her post and trotted closer to him. “Seems way back in tha day, he was town marshal for a little cowtown a bit east o’ here. An’ when I say ‘cowtown’? I mean cowtown; as many beeves as ponies. Anyway, a group of rustlers began causing trouble. Gang o’ four led by this ol’ longhorn named Rawhide…”
 
She knew, by everything sacred the blasted filly knew! Tinhorn gulped and backed himself further towards the door, subtly pushing a chair in her way. Not that it slowed her down much, she just bucked it to the side and kept coming.
 
“As it turned out, Rawhide an’ his crew didn’t much care for lawpony-types. They rounded up outside his homestead an’ razed it to tha ground… With him inside.
 
“And Gale?”
 
Thankfully she got away, with her three young’ns in tow. Macintosh, the eldest foal. Li’l Applebloom, who couldn’t even walk yet. An’ the middle girl…”
 
She raised her dun hat and fixed him with a glare that could shatter adobe. “That’d be me, Applejack.”
 
By now he was in the street, silent and dark as gravesoil. Eyes bleared from fatigue and fear searched frantically for an exit, but wherever he chose to run she could catch him. Even under the best of circumstances a pony could outdistance a minotaur; especially one as elderly an’ soft as him. He had one chance, as Tinhorn figured. Barrel her down, stomp her into the dust before she could react, and get the Hay outta Saddleback. Just what he needed; a whole clan of vigilantes and lawponies tracking him down in his autumn years! Aw, weren’t no two ways about it, though. Best just to finish it quick.
 
With a frenzied bellow Tinhorn charged, lowering his thick skull and leveling it at the mare not ten yards distant. He closed that gap in a hare’s breath, but somehow she managed to buck out of the way. Not only that, but she delivered a sound two-hooved kick to his backside for his trouble. He stumbled in the dust of the street, but brought himself around with an agitated snort for another go. She made to buck aside again, yet this time he was prepared and swung his horns wide to catch her. The short, nubby mantle caught her between her rear legs and sent her toppling into the grit, and Tinhorn wasted no time in falling on her, aiming to finish the bout in a brutal and exclamatory trample.
 
“Thought—you’d—get—the—drop on ME!?” He lowed angrily as hoof after hoof crashed into the dirt. The mare dodged and rolled, but couldn’t fully escape the onslaught. A few clips of her assailants’ cloven boots found their mark; and each was accentuated with a grunt of pain. At this point he didn’t even notice. Nothing was going to stop Tinhorn’s frantic dance until the mare was pulped fully. That, or his bent and aged back decided t give out fully. As it were, that was about the time such an event was going to happen: an audible popping noise echoed quietly in the immediate vicinity as the bull suddenly went rigid. He snorted and cried out agonizingly as all momentum was lost. An eyeblink later, and he was a similarly-crumpled mess in the street, panting for breath and clutching futily at the lancing fire shooting up and down his spine.
 
Applejack crawled to her feet, out of breath and bruised a near-even purple under her coat. But no less full of piss an’ vinegar as she was when she lit out to find her folk’s murderers. She glared down at Tinhorn, who suddenly looked more fragile and helpless than he had a second ago, while he was doing a soft-shoe on her prostrate body. With watery eyes he looked up at her, pleading in his gaze. “I—I ain’t even fit to stud no more, li’l filly. Jeh-jes’ lemme go.”
 
“Ya could’ve let my Pa go.”
 
“An’ we should’ve! I told Rawhide ta jes’ let ya’ll walk away, but he—“
 
“Ya ain’t Rawhide, ya made the decision ta stand by him an’ watch him die!”
 
Thin trails of tears dripped down Tinhorn’s muzzle, he sobbed quietly. “But I didn’t.”
 
“No… No ya didn’t…”
 
Slowly Applejack undid her lasso from the belt strapped across her waist, and as she did so Tinhorn caught the glint of steel underneath. Five chambers, six-inch barrel, single action. A .357, he guessed by the size. And she wasn’t drawing it on him. Instead she was going for the rope. After rolling him on his gut she used said rope to deftly and quickly tie his hands and hooves behind his back. He gave an experimental tug, they weren’t moving without the help of a blade.
 
But in the street? “What’s this? Gonna burn me like we did your old man?”
 
“Weren’t plannin’ on it,” she muttered as she trotted around him, admiring her handiwork. “Oh, sure; the thought had crossed my mind. But in my travels, Tinhorn, ah learned that revenge ain’t worth the heartache it brings about. May feel good at first, but it’ll chip away at yer heart ‘till there ain’t nuthin left but a little chunk of hate. An’ I’ve been too many places, an’ done too many things to let myself get full of hate.
 
“S-so yer just gonna leave me, then?”
 
“That was the plan, yep.” She grinned genially at him, not unlike the grin he favored her with upon their first meeting. “Call it a favor, an’ in return? You can do something fer me.”
 
Tinhorn struggled against the lasso yet again, with even less impressive results. It was knotted with a tight double-hitch, the sort that got snugger the more you pulled against it. With a final grunt, satisfied he was well and truly stuck there, he rolled on his side and fixed her with his own baleful gaze. “What might that be?”
 
“If’n ya get outta that an’ run into Rawhide before I do,” she beamed down at him. “Than tell him Applejack can’t wait to meet him.”
 
[END THE FIRST]