Dead Sand: Part 2-Buzzard Creek: Section 1

Hello, everyone! Here's the second part to Dead Sand. It's got to be divided a bit differntly, due to word restriction here on ABCtales. But anyway, hope you enjoy!

To reach the town of Buzzard Creek they had to pass a Giant. And in the sand it sat, decrepit and decaying, a monumental husk of an ancient race, long ago vanquished by forces unknown, other than Time. It had died with a palm outstretched toward the sun while sitting cross-legged on the desert floor, its other hand resting on its knee, looking all too much like a beggar, pleading for one more granting of mercy by the sun. Its gaping, toothless and abysmal maw opened infinitely toward the heavens, yearning for something long ago forgotten. And its eye sockets, empty, still searched, endlessly. The eons-thick bones of its massively colossal body were colored a deep umber that only shone with an invigorated luster, similar to that of quarts or alabaster. It was as if the titanic skeleton were not decaying at all, but being preserved by the desert, for all to see; a testament of the all-consuming power of the dry sands, on which it sat alone, surrounded by the boundless arid expanses.

The two of them passed just out of reach of its miles-long shadow which spread like a wide lake of darkness over the wastes. The face of the sun passed between the spaces of its outstretched fingers, and for a moment, was held in the palm.

Dance could only look on in wonder as they passed the long-dead colossus. After a while, he spoke. “Do you think the legends are true, Hawthorn? Of what they say of the Giants?”

“That bein’? There’s a lot of things people say, Dance.”

The thief ignored the jibe and went on, still speaking with a note of awe. “Of them ruling the desert and the Continent, before we ever came?”

“I think there’s a lot of things about this land we have yet to understand, Dance.” The bounty hunter said,

“But being out here for so long, you must have heard something.”

“Everyone has there tales. The Ankari say they were gods of a long-dead people that fell by their own hands, while the Gavrokans say they made the world and everything in it. The Jkassa say they came from the stars and ruled the world with darkness, then died by something unknown. The stories are endless.”

“Do you think one of them is the truth, though?” Dance asked, realizing how uncharacteristically persistent he was being. Only now did he notice he had drifted closer to the edge of the Giant’s shadow.

Hawthorn still looked at the Giant skeleton as he spoke. “As I said, there’s a lot of things we don’t understand. And probably never will.”

So they rode on, leaving the Giant to drink the sunlight. And never once, until the thing was far, far out of sight, did Hawthorn take his eyes off the Giant as it sat in the dead and whispering sands.

It was high noon by the time they reached Buzzard Creek’s border. It was so named because of a narrow stream that cut through some arroyos to the south, lending the town some passable farmland that yielded sparse fields of corn, some melon, and eggplants. Beyond that, it was sweltering patchwork of a dry-goods store, a barber shop, a tailor, and a livery stable. There was also a fairly well-to-do hotel with the name of Haven Hotels.

Hawthorn thought it was wise to rest there for the night, while Dance stayed at the Marshal’s office, as always. When they stepped inside the doorway, they found the deputy rather than the marshal himself. “Hello?” the deputy said laden with exhaustion right before he coughed out a storm, handkerchief over his mouth. He curdled snot as he took in a breath.

“I’ve got a prisoner I need locked up for the night.” Hawthorn said.

The deputy looked up at them now, and his eyes widened expectantly. “You’re—“

“Yes, we both know who we are.” Dance said.

“Just get the keys and help me lock him up. That way we both are spared his damn mouth.”

The deputy obeyed and nervously floundered for the keys in the desk drawer. They walked Dance to his cell and locked it up with that signature, banshee screech of the old iron bars going shut. Dance sat down on his cot with all the manner of a trained dog without a single complaint or protest. “Is there anything I can read?” the thief said.

“I—I—I” the deputy sneezed violently. A trickle of blood started running from his right nostril. He quickly expunged it with his hankie. “I’ve got some books in the back.” The deputy went off, and a moment later came back with some penny novels and a philosophy treatise. And the Bible.

“Here’s what I got.” he said, his voice now raspy.

“That’ll do.” Dance said. The deputy slid each of the works through the bars, and Dance took them kindly. “Thank you.” he said, and went straight away to reading the first of the novels.

Hawthorn walked back with the deputy to the desk. “And another thing.” Hawthorn said, stepping outside for a moment then coming back in. In his hand, he held a sack that was dirty and wet. Flies were swarming around it like locusts to a cornfield, whilst a foul and nauseating odor suddenly suffused the entirety of the airspace in the office.

The deputy went another shade of pale and green. “What is that?” covering his nose and mouth with the bloody hankie.

“This is the head of one Roman Caulfield.” And he dropped the sacked head on the desk. “I’m here to collect on it, since I’m in town.”

The deputy lifted the opening of the bag just a bit to look inside. That was all it took. He bolted from his seat and out the door, slamming it behind him. Hawthorn heard the muffled sound of vomiting through outside. The deputy came back in after little while, wiping his mouth. He sat down and made sure to keep the head out of sight as much as possible.

“I’ll have to collect the bounty from the bank.” he said, weakly.

“Sure. Where’s your marshal?”

“At the saloon, talkin’ to some folks.”

“Thanks.” Hawthorn said, and left the marshal’s office.

Before he stopped by the saloon, he took his horse over to the bank. There, he unstrapped the saddlebag that held the object, and carried it with him inside. The bank was clean and empty, the afternoon sun casting a neutral light through the windows. Hawthorn sauntered up to the desk and tapped the bell. The teller came out from the back a moment later. He was a young man who wore a look of absolute ambivalence. On his head was a dusty derby hat, and set of round oversized spectacles covered his light brown eyes.

“Yes?” he said, utterly monotone.

“I’ve got something here I need ya’ll to keep in a vault. Should just be until tonight.”

The teller eyed the bag that Hawthorn held. Though it wasn’t explicit, Hawthorn could sense a touch of curiosity in those plain eyes. “That’ll be ten dollars.” the teller said.

“Right.” Hawthorn handed him the fee and followed him back to the vault room. The teller unlocked the vault with his key and opened the door. Hawthorn stuck the bag inside and the teller sealed it behind him. No questions asked.

“Obliged.” Hawthorn said, and left the bank for the saloon, which stood just across the way.