The unfathomably large skeleton rises from the desert floor, its dark violet hue glistening in the sun. Within the bony confines of the fallen deity, there resided a town. The settlement emanated a profoundly strange and enthralling atmosphere. It was almost as if it possessed a magnetic pull on the very essence of the human soul. A man made his way toward the town, his long, lanky figure cutting through the sandy wind. His stark white hair and lengthy overcoat billowed behind him. 

In the depths of his mind, a faint, reptilian-sounding voice urged him on. "Continue forward, Dawson. Do not stop." Unfazed by the howling gale, Dawson pressed on. As he drew closer to the settlement, he found himself encountering all sorts of peculiar individuals. Lunatics, deformed hags, circus performers, and snake-oil salesmen. This place drew in the strangest of people. 

As Dawson made his way towards the settlement, a worn-out sign creaked in the gusts of wind. The sign, barely hanging on, displayed the name "Wrathrun." Dawson's thoughts echoed in his mind, "I'm in the right place, no doubt about it." Amidst the howling of the sandstorm, a subtle rattling sound emerged from the ground nearby. Reacting swiftly, he jerked his foot back, narrowly avoiding the striking rattlesnake.

In a frantic blur of dust and blood, he crushed the snake under his boot, turning it into a gruesome mess of red and brown. Examining his boot, he noticed fresh punctures where the snake's fangs had pierced, narrowly missing his big toe. "These boots wouldn't protect me from a sharp rock, let alone a goddamned snake. I hope this town has a cordwainer." The color of his voice sounded like fresh sandpaper. He spoke with the timbre of a teenage boy, yet the harshness of life had given him a subtle smoker’s rasp.  

As the sun hit its peak above the horizon, it casted a deadly glow over Wrathrun. As Dawson finally set foot inside the town, a newspaper vendor hurriedly approached him. His moldy hat and disheveled hair bounced as he ran. "This week's newspaper! Grab one while you can! Only 8 cents!" Irritated, Dawson retorted, "Save your breath, buddy. Just point me to the shoemaker and spare me the sales pitch. Do that, and I might consider buyin' one of your papers." Dawson's bright, blue eyes began to pierce right into the salesman's soul. 

The vendor eagerly jabbed a finger and said, "Head down yonder, look for 'Cordwainer Johnson.' He'll sort you out with new boots in no time!" "Thanks," muttered Dawson as he began to walk away from the persistent vendor. "Wait! Aren't you gonna buy a paper?" The stranger turned around, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I said I 'might' consider it. Considered. And I decided it wasn't worth the copper. I'm not tossing 8 cents on that trash. Think I'm a fool?" Before the salesman could muster a reply, Dawson pivoted on his heel and strolled toward the shoemaker's shop.

The voice in the back of his mind began whispering to him again, urging him not to let the opportunity slip away. Dawson found himself muttering out loud, "I need new boots first. Then I'll get the bastard. Not like you care anyway. You just enjoy conflict." As he stepped into the shoemaker's building, the homeless beggar outside gave him a strange look. He heard Dawson's muttering.

"How about you pay mind to your own problems, considering you don't have a damn roof over your head," Dawson said, voice filled with venom. Recovering his composure, Dawson approached the bootmaker, who spoke with an exotic accent similar to those obsessive tea drinkers to the east. He offered to take his measurements. The shoemaker's short stature became evident as he scurried to gather his tools, barely reaching the counter where they were kept. 

Curiosity piqued, the shoemaker inquired about Dawson's prematurely white hair and the purpose of his visit to Wrathrun. He refused to divulge any information to the shoemaker. "Are you at least willing to tell me your name, sir?" 

Dawson merely sat there and let the shoemaker take his measurements. As the shoemaker measured away and climbed onto the ladder in the back of the workshop, Dawson took a moment to admire the boots on display. When the shoemaker hopped down from his comically tall ladder with a beautiful pair of boots. The stranger's expression changed in surprise, almost as if he was shown the answers of the universe itself, breaking his stoic demeanor.   

"How much are those? I have to say, I'm impressed with the craftsmanship." The cordwainer placed his hands within his apron pockets. "Usually, I'd charge three dollars for a pair like these, but since they perfectly fit your measurements, I'll give them to you for a dollar and eighty cents," the cordwainer squeaked, a friendly smile on his face. "That's quite kind of you. I don't think I could pass up an offer like that. You've got yourself a deal, friend."

Dawson extended his hand, reaching out for a handshake, as the shoemaker carefully placed the newly crafted boots onto the table in front of them. "My name is William Johnson! Well met, friend!" They shook hands, and the traveler, looking down at William in hesitation, introduced himself. "Buck Dawson. It's nice to meet you, Will." 

William responded with sheer joy. His face lit up as he shook Dawson's hand more vigorously than he was before. "I hope you come back soon. Preferably not for new boots. Those are quite nice ones, and I'd hate to see them ruined." "No promises, bud. But I'll try my best to keep them in good shape." Buck turns around, offering an impish grin as he prepared to continue to his next destination. 

"By the way. Where is the Sheriff's building?" Recognition came over William’s face after hearing this. "Oh? I knew you were a bounty hunter! You just had that look about you! The Sheriff's office is a left turn and a straight walk from here. You can't miss it!" Buck continued to walk out of the door. "Thanks, Will." The cordwainer, now hopping with joy, waved goodbye. "Stay safe, Buck!"

The heavy doors swung open as the determined bounty hunter barged through them, his new boots echoing on the wooden floor. Following the cordwainer's directions, Buck soon arrived at the Sheriff's office. The front of the building was adorned with wanted posters, each displaying the images and names of notorious criminals. Dawson's gaze fixated on one particular face. "Michael Winston. Your time has come," he thought to himself as he stepped through the Sheriff's door.

Seated at the desk was a robust man, engrossed in various papers. Time had etched its mark on him, evident in his bushy, handlebar mustache and matching eyebrows. With a mostly bald head and gray hair interspersed with hints of auburn, it was clear that the man had seen many years. His weathered face bore the weight of frustration and weariness.

"I take it you're the acting Sheriff around here?" Buck inquired. "I suppose that would be me, yeah. Sheriff Macon at your service," he replied with weary sarcasm. His voice had the booming tone of a lion past his prime. "Where's the guy at?" Dawson asked. Frustrated, the Sheriff responded, "What guy?" Dawson started to raise his voice. "Cut the shit. You know exactly who I’m after. Every soul that steps into this office is itching for information on that devil. I'd bet 40 dollars on it right this moment." Dawson’s resolve was being tested, and he refused to lose. An ominous scowl came across Macon’s face. 

"Run along kid. He ain't worth losing your life over." Dawson started to yell. "I'm not your 'kid!' Spare me the lectures, old-timer!" Macon became animated in his anger. "Unless you've got a secret army tucked up your ass, you're outgunned."

"I don't need an army."

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Macon's face twisted into anger. His mustache began to noticeably shake as he spoke, his jowls quiver. "Don't feed me that line! Heard it before. Seen too many fresh-faced fools laid to rest. Do not make yourself another notch on Winston’s belt. Even if I was 30 years younger I wouldn't invite that kind of anger on myself.”

“I’ve stared down far worse than Winston. I’ll manage. If he won’t surrender and come with me, then I guess his corpse will have to go instead. Now, where is he? I’ve got matters to settle." He slammed his fist up on the sheriff's desk in exasperation.

Sheriff Macon stood up, now towering over Dawson. “I don't think I made myself clear enough to make it through that thick skull of yours. You’re walking right into death’s embrace. Can’t dictate your choices, but I sure as hell can offer you advice, and I would suggest you take it. Reality’s a harsh bitch, and if you press on, she’ll collect her dues sooner than you think. Consider your next decision wisely, and you may live to see 30, kid."

 Dawson was shouting at this point. "How about you quit calling me that? I'm 43, asshole. Tell me where he's at, and I'll be on my way. You're not gonna put him down. Might as well let me do it." The Sheriff threw his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, and sat back down, having given up. “He’s holed up at the saloon. Keep walking straight down the road, and you'll probably see some drunks out front, either fighting or having passed out. Hope you fare better than the rest. Truly do.”

Buck turned back towards the door, and before he left, he uttered “Save your breath old-timer. If the show was on the other foot, I wouldn't be shedding a tear for you.” A smirk came across his face as he walked out the door, and Macon dropped back down into his chair. He held his hand over his brow in what was a premature mourning of the soon-to-be slain gunslinger. 

Dawson's relentless search for the saloon came to an end when he stumbled upon three inebriated men outside an enormous, rundown building. Ironically enough, two of them were engaged in a drunken brawl, while the third lay in a pool of his own vomit. They managed to do both of the things that the sheriff warned him about. "Alright, let's get this over with," Dawson muttered to himself as he gained his composure and marched past the intoxicated men. With determination in his eyes, he spotted a table occupied by nine men, all of them looked rough and unruly except for one. 

Seated at the far end of the long, weathered table was a man whose strikingly handsome features and clean-shaven face separated him from the rest of the rowdy bunch. One of his eyes was clouded with blindness, its lifeless gaze contrasting sharply with his other, hazel iris. As Dawson entered the saloon, the man's still-working eye seemed to follow his every move. Dawson noticed this and took a seat at the table next to the group of unruly men. 

A young girl, her blue-striped dress covered in dirt, hurried over to the stranger with a desperate expression on her face. She appeared to be no more than 11 years old and had delicate, mouse-like features. As she approached the new customer, she tilted her pointed nose slightly upwards, looking up to him. "What would you like to drink? We have almost anything you can think of!" Her voice was high-pitched and matching a locomotive in its speed. "I'm good on the drink, little lady. You might want to leave for a moment," the man advised. The barmaid wrinkled her nose in annoyance, as if she had caught a whiff of something unpleasant. 

"Mr. Albert said that people who come in gotta order a drink. If you don't, I gotta tell you to get out." Her tone matched her expression, more monotone and lifeless this time around.

"Alright then, I'll have the cheapest shit you got." Buck reached his hand down and playfully ruffled the girl's hair. "Now run along for a few minutes. If you hear some loud noises, don't get in the way."

"You're kind of an ass mister, but it's your funeral." She shrugged, scampered back behind the bar and spoke to the seedy bartender. Presumably, the 'Mr. Albert' that she referred to earlier. Once the child had gotten out of the way, Buck stood right up with a quickness about him. He paced over to the table where the distinguished man sat with his group. 

"Alright, Winston, time for you to make a choice. You're either coming with me, or you're getting an unmarked grave and your head will be my trophy. The decision is yours." The thug closest to him turned to face the bounty hunter. "Who do you think you're talking to?" "Calm down, I've got this handled," their leader reassured. Winston slowly rose to his feet and made his way over to Buck with a self-assured swagger.

“I’m sure you’re already aware of this, but for the sake of introduction, my name's Michael Winston, but you can call me Mike," He exuded the air of those fancy plantation owners in the southeast, with his accent and manufactured charm. The words flowed from his mouth as if from a river. His glistening rings caught the light as he extended his hand to Dawson, offering a handshake. "Are you joining me or not Mike? Let's make this snappy." Dawson replied, now holding contempt within his words. "Oh, absolutely not. Good heavens, no. But I believe we can come to some sort of arrangement. No need to make this a bigger deal than it is.” A look of delight spread across Buck's face after hearing this. "An unmarked grave it is."

Before anybody could tell what happened, a crack shattered the tension in the room. Winston stumbled backward, a crimson river flowing from his abdomen. "That bastard fucking shot me. Holy fuck, he shot me.” Clutching his stomach he retreated towards the back of the saloon. The single gunshot crescendoed into an uncountable flurry of bullets as the remaining men fired back at the stranger.  

The bounty hunter flipped a large table and leapt behind it, glass and various kinds of alcohol flew in all directions as ammunition ripped through the air. The few customers there were, fled from the establishment, screaming in terror. "All you bastards are dead! You're gonna be holier than the virgin Mary when I’m done with you!" Buck hollered as he peeked his head over the table, returning fire. The hunter noticed that the girl from earlier was huddled on the ground as she held a tin dish over her head for protection.

"God damn it. I warned her to stay out of the way," he muttered, his grip tightening on the cold steel of his revolver. "It ain't my fault if she ends up dead. Should've heeded my advice.” With swift, practiced movements, Dawson emptied his revolver, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy. The report of the gun echoed through the smoke-filled saloon, drowning out the panicked shouts and cries of the wounded. 

Four of the thugs crumpled to the ground, their lifeblood staining the floorboards beneath them. Amidst the chaos, Buck's sharp ears caught the sound of a girlish whimper. His gaze flickered toward the floor, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the mousey girl from earlier as she nursed a bullet wound on her arm. For a fleeting moment, hesitation gripped him, a pang of guilt tugging at his conscience.

But there was no time for second-guessing. With a decisive leap, Dawson vaulted over the bullet-riddled table, his muscles coiled with tension. Ignoring the sharp pain that flared in his shoulder, he scooped up the barmaid in one swift motion.

As he dashed toward the door, a primal instinct surged through him, driving him forward with relentless purpose. "Per maiestatem Carcosa!" he bellowed, his voice a defiant cry against the encroaching darkness and fog of gunsmoke.

In a flash of blinding, yellow light, a barrier of shimmering energy materialized before them, a shield against the storm of bullets that rained down upon the bounty hunter. Time seemed to slow to a standstill as the deadly projectiles collided with the translucent wall, their lethal momentum halted in mid-air.

With the girl cradled in one arm and his other outstretched before him, Dawson's fingers curled into a clenched fist of raw power. In a symphony of violence, the once-immobile bullets were unleashed in a furious torrent, hurtling back toward their origin with unstoppable force. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and chaos reigned supreme as the saloon descended into a maelstrom of blood and fury. Buck let go of the girl and she ran outside of the saloon. 

 With blind fury, Buck shouted, shattering the silence. "Where are you at Winston! Let's not make this hard! Your buddies are all dead. It’s now just you and me." A scared yelp came from behind one of the tables. "Fuck you bright-eyes! You ain't taking me!" The once-pronounced swagger in his voice was now completely gone. His tone was harsh and shrill with fear. He was like a wild dog, backed into a corner. All his bravado had vanished. 

Buck ran his blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back as he slowly paced the room. "The longer you hide, the worse it's gonna be, buddy! I'm gonna take both of your kneecaps, then your fingers. Then I’ll break your arms. Then, when I feel like you've had enough, I'll take your head with me to the Sheriff's office to collect my money. Won't that just be fuckin' lovely! You could have just been staring at the inside of a jail-cell. Now even that one good eye of yours won't be staring at a damned thing." Winston jumped out of hiding, gripped by fear, and he raised his gun towards the gunslinger.