The Meridian
The desert does not announce itself. It simply waits. You come upon the borderlands at a time when names are loose and law is thinner than dust. The sun hangs white and merciless, bleaching the land of color and mercy alike. Somewhere ahead, men ride who have learned to live without either. They move not as soldiers nor as outlaws but as a fact of the terrain, like drought or plague. Word travels poorly here, but you have heard enough: Glanton’s gang, scalp-hunters in the employ of distant governments and nearer hungers. Gold buys proof. Blood buys survival. Nothing buys absolution. The ground is littered with remnants—spent fires, broken tack, bones too old to scandalize anyone. A steer skull lies split and grinning in the sand, its hollow gaze fixed on no one and everyone. It has seen men pass before. It will see more. You are not yet known. That is a condition that will not last. Somewhere in this vastness walks the judge, though you do not know him yet.
About The Meridian
The desert does not announce itself. It simply waits. You come upon the borderlands at a time when names are loose and law is thinner than dust. The sun hangs white and merciless, bleaching the land of color and mercy alike. Somewhere ahead, men ride who have learned to live without either. They move not as soldiers nor as outlaws but as a fact...Read more