He reached the mission in the last light. The walls stood broken against the evening sky and the desert rolled away in every direction trackless and cooling and the mountains to the west were black against the red horizon. He led his horse through the ruins and tied it in a stand of dead cottonwood where a stone trough held rainwater gone brackish. The horse drank and he unslung his rifle and walked back through the roofless nave.
The judge sat on a block of hewn stone with his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. He was enormous and bald and pale as something untombed and he wore a long coat buttoned to the throat and he smiled when the man entered.
Good evening, said the judge.
The man stopped. He held the rifle across his chest and did not speak.
You are welcome to rest here, said the judge. Water for your horse and the walls will keep the wind off. Sit.
The man did not move.
I have been waiting, said the judge. Not for you specifically but for someone. The desert sends them through eventually. Men fleeing or men hunting. It makes little difference. Sit down.
I'll stand.
The judge watched him with pale eyes that did not blink. He reached down and lifted a scorpion from between two stones and held it in his palm where it raised its tail and turned in small circles. He studied it and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger and wiped the remains on the stone.
Do you know what this place was, said the judge.
A mission.
The Spanish built it to bring God to the savages. They imagined prayers had more power within walls. The savages burned it. What does that tell you about the efficacy of walls?
I ain't here for your philosophy.
No. You came because you are three days from water and your horse is lame. The desert makes pragmatists of us all. But you are here now and I am here. Humor me. What are you doing out here.
The judge reached into his coat and withdrew a small notebook. He opened it and began to sketch the broken archway behind the man without looking up.
Surviving, said the man.
An interesting word. The judge drew in his book. And how does one survive.
By being harder than what's trying to kill you. I've put down seventeen men and I'm still here. That ain't luck.
Seventeen. The judge looked up from his notebook. You think violence is arithmetic. That survival is a ledger where credits outweigh debits.
It's kept me breathing.
Has it. You are alone in the desert with a lame horse and three rounds in that rifle. You have not survived. You have simply not yet died. There is a difference.
The man shifted his weight and glanced toward the doorway behind him. The judge watched him and smiled.
You're looking for an exit, said the judge. But you came through the only one. He closed the notebook and returned it to his coat. You believe you have earned your life through violence. That competence protects you. It does not. Survival is not a skill. It is an accident repeatedly deferred.
Keep your philosophy.
The judge's smile did not change. You could shoot me. You will not. Not because you are prudent but because you are afraid of what happens after. Shoot or lower the rifle. Indecision is death.
The man raised the rifle and fired. The report cracked through the stone and echoed into the desert and the judge moved. He was incredibly fast for his size and the bullet sparked off stone where he had been sitting and he was on the man and he tore the rifle from his hands and swung it like a club and the stock shattered against the man's face and the man fell.
The judge stood over him. His face was broke open and blood ran from his nose and mouth and he could not rise.
The judge bent and lifted him by the throat. The man struggled and kicked and clawed at the judge's wrist but the grip did not waver. The judge carried him to the doorway and held him against the frame.
Seventeen men, said the judge. You miscounted.
The judge's fingers tightened and the man's vertebrae parted with a sound like green wood splitting and his legs kicked twice and were still. The judge released him and the body fell and he stepped over it and walked into the desert and sat on a stone outcrop and opened his notebook and wrote by the last light.
The stars emerged cold and white and the body lay in the doorway. In the morning the judge was gone. Horse died in the day's heat. By autumn wind had covered the bones and in spring the poppies grew.