Look at the boy. He stands barefoot in the dust with the sun in his eyes. A dry wind tugs at his shirt. The rope scrapes. His father sways from the branch of the oak that grows behind the house. There is only the sound of flies and the wind and the creaking wood of the tree.
His name is Elijah Blackwood. He is thirteen.
The house is stripped. The door dangles on one hinge. Thin, pale smoke rises from the rafters. The bandits have stolen the cattle. They have stolen the provisions. They left the horses in the paddock, bloody. A dog is dead in the yard with its belly cut open and flies thick on it. A sombrero floats in the dust like a tumbleweed.
They were coming from the south. They were Spanish-speaking. Their leader had a red sash and silver spurs. He rode a dun mare and wielded a knife the length of a man's forearm. He referred to himself as Reyes. El Cuchillo. The Knife.
The boy waited in the field. He had a stick and was kneeling among the stalks. He noticed the smoke first, then the riders. He noticed his father struggling at the rope's end. His hands tied behind him. A bag over his head.
He did not scream. He did not move. He bit into his own arm to stop himself from shouting. He watched until they were out of sight.
In the evening a man showed up. He rode the trail on a mule with one ear missing. He was tall and hunched over. His beard was gray and wild and his hat was sun-faded to the color of bone. He spoke not a word. He got off and stood gazing up at the body hanging in the tree.
He drew out a knife and severed the rope and the body fell. The boy winced but stayed where he was. The man knelt next to the body. He placed two fingers on the neck though he knew better.
"You Elijah?"
The boy nodded.
"Your pa's name was Eli. I rode with him once."
The boy did not say anything.
They entombed the body in the hardpan at the back of the house. The man dug and the boy brought rocks. The sun set low and the wind fell and the coyotes started to yip in the distant fields.
"Name's Solomon Reed," said the man. He shovelled the final of the dirt with his boot. "Your pa and me go back some ways. Before the war."
He lit a match off the heel of his boot and puffed on a pipe made of horn. He stared at the boy over the shallow grave.
"You have any family?"
The boy shook his head again.
"Then I guess you're riding with me."
He spat and faced for the mule. Secured to the saddle was a dark wood box iron-banded. The boy stood there and watched him inspect the lashings. He saw the flash of steel in the man's eyes when the pipelight snapped.
"You see this scar?"
The man doffed his hat. A crease like a split thong leather ran from his brow to his cheek. Cut by a blade and badly healed.
"That's from El Cuchillo. Cut me clean in Abilene nine years ago. Next time I see the man I plan to give him a little payback."
The boy stared at the darkening horizon. The sky was red like raw meat. A blood sun that was setting low behind scrub and cactus.
"Come on, said the man."
They mounted and rode out. The grave settled behind them, the dust blowing. The house was burned and broken. The box thudded in the saddlebag with every hoofstep. Neither of them said a word. The land rolled away behind them, still and empty.