Dead Sand: Part 3- The Razing of the Carefree Cowboy

Hello, everyone! Sorry it's been a while since I posted. Life got kind of busy. All feedback is appreciated, and thank you all.

The Count was enjoying his stay at The Carefree Cowboy. It was a more upper-class saloon, where the wood paneling floors were covered with lavish red rugs made of Masagoan silk whose softness could be felt even through the sole of his riding boots. Curtains, green as emerald and lined with gold embroidering fashioned in the twirling and twisting shapes of leaves and vines draped over the solid, polished oak eating and gambling tables that sat nestled in the corners encircled by booth seats made of soft, longhorn leather. The drinks ranged across the scale, to the ubiquitous Jack’s Nine Whiskey to the finest of Champaign’s. There were even exotic drinks, displayed in a elaborate, multicolored glass bottles that bore strange named brands such Asmodale’s Brine, Wicker’s Coldkind Tarot, and Ka-Tet Three. But as for the Count, he had chosen to slake his thirst with a beverage of his native land: a dark brown, big and foaming Hauser’s Lager.

Even the clientele reflected the saloon’s highborn air; most were businessmen and women dressed in fine suits and elegant dresses. The bar girls also looked more respectable, as they did not sport the low-cut bodices that marked most ladies of the night in the Wilds. Their skirts went lower as well, and no tassels hung from their boots. And their hair was kept in a tight bun and was not allowed to hang loose whatsoever. But the Count did not doubt they still concealed those daggers and small pistols beneath the still tempting skirts. As it has been said, what a woman kept from a man just made him want it more.

“And who would you be, stranger?”

The fair vixen was hair as fair as flax, with eyes that were colored a rich brown, like that of chocolate. She carried her tray, loaded with drinks, with one hand as graceful as a flamingo balanced itself on one leg. The Count admitted to himself she had a beauty equal to that of highborn princesses that still lived in his home country of Duskland. But beauty or not, he had not the time for women or much drink. For something he sought lay not but half a day’s ride away. Yet, he decided to indulge the conversation.

“Count Jorhan von Skade.” he said, not an ounce of pride missing in the title.

The woman seemed intrigued. “A Count? Really?”

“My lady, my blood is as noble as zee golden eagle that soars over zee highest of mountaintops.”

The woman clapped. “Ooh! And a poet I see!” The woman set the tray of drinks down on the bar and took a seat next to the Count. The Count finished his drink and smiled to himself. Perhaps he would have time for women after all.

“Where is your accent from?”

“Mein accent is from zee noble country of Duskland.”

“Oh, it’s so exotic!” Her brow furrowed in thought. The Count could literally see the lights flickering behind her eyes as she put thoughts together. A feat, he guessed, the fräulein was not accustomed to performing. “Duskland? Ain’t that the country over the Great Ocean that we went to war against?”

“It iz indeed.” The Count said, finishing his lager. The woman giggled.

“What iz so funny, fräulein?”

“Well, I was just a girl when it happened, but I still remember all the mean names we had for ya’ll. Schinklers, dungenheads, and so many more.”

“Iz zat so?” the Count said, anger seeping into his tone. The lady immediately retracted her words. “Not that you’re any of those terrible things. I mean, you don’t look like one. Especially with that unique face of yours.”

“Why, zank you.”

“Mind if I touch it?”

“Not at all.”

And so, she ran her hand across the naked jawbone of his face. Naked, as in no flesh. In fact, there was no flesh whatsoever covering his face, for it had all been removed in an incident that still mystified even the Count. Whatever happened, one day he had found himself with every trace of skin, down to the muscle, removed from his face, and instead replaced with a solid, bleached-white, semi-crystalline cellular-based substance that had taken the shape and structure of his skull, removing all hair and flesh in the process. His eye sockets were left wide and dark too, since all the flesh around them was gone. But his eyes were still there, their irises transformed to a bright, fanatical crimson. The transformation had also borne a peculiar effect to his now skeleton-face. A muted, almost ethereal glow emanated from his visage, triggered by light so low as that of a candle. It made his skull look like it had been carved from pure crystal; hauntingly beautiful from every angle.

The Count could see the fascination with his skull in the girl’s eyes as she caressed him. One would think she was gazing upon a diamond or a wild star in all its sublime beauty, yet the lightness of her fingertips was redolent of the care given when allowed to feel a delicate sculpture made of glass.

“So, how did such an interestin’ thing like you end up in this backwater, stink-hole of a place?” she said, flirtatiously.

“Zat is a long story, fräulein.”

“That’s alright.” she said, sliding her hands up his arms. The Count raised his barebone brow. “I assure you I’ve got the time.” she said.

The Count smiled, but with no lips, it was nothing but teeth with no visible change across his face. “I do not doubt you, fräulein.” He downed his last of lager and let his mind reach back into the memories.

“I used to own an estate in my home country. I would keep creatures zere; exotic creatures, beautiful creatures.” his red eyes were alight. “ferocious creatures.”

“And what would you do with these creatures?” Her voice had fallen faint, mesmerized.

“I would hunt zem.” He turned to her, red eyes intense and piercing. “There is nothing more invigorating in the world than the feeling of the chase, fräulein. Nothing.” He looked away from her and his voice became distant. “To hear ze beating of your own heart as your boots pound ze earth, chasing somezing zat could end your life as well as you could end it. To feel ze power of desperation, of ze survival instinct; it is where man’s nature truly incarnates itself. Where we are at are strongest.” He looked at her again. “Zat is why am here. To hunt.”

The saloon girl rested her head on her hand while her fingers walked up his shoulder. “And what are you hunting?”

“Another hunter who has already caught ze prize, but not claimed it.”

“Lana!”

The interrupting shout rang across from the barroom. All the gentlemen and ladies turned their heads at the caller, who was a well-dressed man, sporting a fine coat over a white and red plaid colored shirt with a necktie colored a fiery crimson. A mustached that curled perfectly across his face, and eyes that glittered like a tiger’s under the wide and circular brim of his hat. The candlelight made the clean brass of the bullets riddling his belts give off a golden sheen. The Count’s smile only widened at the sight of this man. His smooth looks, his air of confidence and ownership over his surroundings, and his self-constructed superiority that marked his every movement, from each step he took to how his hands rested on his hips just within drawing distance of his gun’s handles, told the Count this man thought the world of himself.

Yes. Which will make it all the easier to kill him. The Count thought. Arrogance bred miscalculation, lack of vigilance, and overestimation as well as underestimation; all are fatal when tampering with life and death. This man would die quickly and simply.

“You messin’ with my girl, hombre?” he said.

The Count leaned back, amused at this charlatan. “Nein, mein freund. Your lady here was ze one taking an interest in me.”

“I don’t frikkin’ believe that.” His hands flashed to his guns and out they came from the holsters. He brought their barrels level with the Count’s chest, only to the see the Count training a gun on him. It was an odd piece of killing machinery, not a cylinder-fed-six- shooter like most guns were. It had no visible way of loading from what the gunslinger could tell, but it was a firearm; of that he had no doubt.

“I suggest you put your guns away. Slowly.” the Count said.

Now the gunslinger smiled. “I don’t think so, pal.” From every table near, men got to their feet, drew their guns, and aimed at the Count. At least two dozen men now aimed their guns at the Count’s shining skull of a head. The gunslinger laughed. “My name’s Kilroy “Black Smoke” McGraw, partner. And I don’t care where you’re from or what kind of pinch-snuffin’ royalty bighead you are, but no one messes with my Lana.”

The Count cackled. It was a sound that sent a tangible wave uneasiness throughout the saloon. Everyone who heard it grimaced as the lipless, pale and boney jaw of the Count tremored with the laughter. The Count straightened his officer’s cap. “I do not scare easily, Herr McGraw.” The Count raised his skeletal neck, the light travelling up the length of each bone with a celestial elegance, and called at the top of his sharp-tipped voice. “SIEGFRIED!”

Out from the shadows came a shape. The hissing retractions of the hydraulic joints accented each of its steps as the great mechanical legs stepped into the light. Its broad and flat metal chest was easily as wide as that of two well-built men, and its arms were the size of fence posts. Two ports of light functioned as the eyes on a smooth, featureless head, occasionally checkered with rivets that held the sectioned steel plates of the cranium together. A sort of fin arched over the scalp and to the back of the skull, serving as a sort of nose-bridge between the optics. It had no moveable mouthpiece to serve as a mouth, but instead four black, parallel slits.

“Ja, mein Herr?” the automaton said, the voice mechanical, yet possessing an accent with a deep, grim tone that resonated from deep within the armored chest. The cold blue lights of its optic ports glowed icily and without the faintest flicker of emotion or acknowledgement. No fear, no pity. Only obedience.

“I have enemies. Dispose of zem.” the Count said, waving his hand as if dealing with a fly.

“Ja, mein Herr.” And Siegfried raised his arms.

McGraw didn’t hesitate. “Gun ‘em down, boys!” The Count grabbed Lana by the arm and swung her and himself over the bar. She yelped as the bullets rained and the guns roared. Liquor bottles shattered and glasses exploded, sending a hail storm of glass and shot-away wood into air. Screams mixed with the gunfire, creating a chaotic cacophony as the crowd stampeded out of the Carefree Cowboy. The bullets bounced off the automaton like pebbles to rubber. All the while, Siegfried stood statue-still. His metal hands retracted into his big arms with a subtle sawing sound, and in their place came dual, six barrel rotating guns.

Every one of the outlaws’ eyes went wide. McGraw shouted. “Dow—“ but the word had barely left his mouth when a bullet entered it, blowing his neck and spine to pieces. Siegfried turned on his axels and sprayed the saloon with gunfire, making bloody ribbons of the outlaws. Bodies went flying as the bullets tore into them, sending guts and gore across the ornate walls and once clean oak tables. Men fell to the floor screaming and holding their innards in their hands, while just fell and never moved. Those that tried to run were cut down like a swarm of June bugs by the sun on a summer morning; they never had a prayer.

By the time the smoke had cleared, the Carefree Cowboy had become a human slaughterhouse. McGraw lay on the floor, eyes wide with the bottom half of his face missing. All his gang was dead. Somewhere a candle fell from its shot-up sconce and struct a curtain, setting it ablaze. Dark smoke soon rose as the flames caught fuel and speed with all the flammable fabric, wood, and spilled liquor. The Count and Lana came out from behind the bar. Lana had her nose and mouth covered with her arm as she looked over the carnage.

“You killed them…you killed them all.” her voice had in it the signature tremor of fear for those who had just seen their first slaughter, yet it was overtaken with a sort of sublime awe.

“Yes. Zat is what Siegfried, my eternal compatriot, is designed to do. He is one of the finest of my homeland’s killing machines; sadly, he is also one of ze last.” The Count’s red and lidless eyes saw the flames eating the saloon’s woodwork around them.

“Come, we do not want to die here.” he took Lana by the hand and ran out through the batwing doors with Siegfried lumbering behind them.

They stopped outside and watched as the flames took the Carefree Cowboy. The flames were arching high and upward into the afternoon sky, becoming one with the burning gold of the sun that penetrated the ivory clouds. A terrible, apocalyptic beauty was in the fire as it burned, consuming the saloon down to the last splinter. The flames roared and crackled in destructive harmony, sending the smoke clouds upward beyond.

“Do you see ze beauty of fire, Lana?” the Count asked.

“Y—yes…I do.” the saloon girl said, disconnectedly.

“My people knew the beauty of fire.” the Count said. He turned to the girl. “I must leave you, my dear. But one day, if the Fates so allow it, I will cross paths with you again. Zat I promise.”

She nodded, tears streaming out of her eyes; she said nothing.

The Count turned to Siegfried. “Come, Siegfried. We go now to Buzzard Creek.”

“Ja, mein Herr.” the automaton said. The flames made his steel body suddenly glow bronze; his eyes gained an even colder light.”

“Very good.” The Count holstered his pistol and let Lana slide to the ground; she still watched the fire.

The Count turned his back to her and walked away with Siegfried at his side. “We have prey to catch.” the Count said, straightening his cap.