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Something was growing inside him, something sown on the day of his mother’s death and watered by all the cruelties he had suffered since.
The man who should never have existed
In the spring of 1863, half-dead from fever and hunger, Zachariah stumbled upon a camp in a canyon.
A small fire was burning. A rabbit was roasting on a stick. A rifle rested on a man’s knee.
The man was Mexican. Old. Grey hair. Scars. His gaze carried the weight of too many deaths.
« You look like death, boy, » said the man. « Do you plan to die in my camp? »
« I don’t intend to die just anywhere, » Zacharie murmured. « Not yet. »
The man smiled — a thin, knowing smile.
« Good. Dying is easy. »
He threw some meat to Zechariah.
The man’s name was Joaquín Esperanza, a name that, according to authorities in three Mexican states and two U.S. territories, belonged to a man who had been dead for more than ten years.
Joaquín had once been a legend. A ghost of the frontiers. A killer of soldiers, thieves, and settlers who had seized lands that did not belong to them. Exhausted by vengeance, he faked his death and disappeared into the mountains.
He had come here to forget.
Then Zachariah arrived.
« You have the eyes, » said Joaquín one evening.
« What eyes? »
« The eyes of someone who has already decided to kill. »
He asked Zechariah who he wanted dead.
And for the first time in years, Zacharie spoke.
He told her everything.
When he had finished, Joaquín stared at the fire.
« Wanting revenge is exposing yourself to death, » he said. « You’re angry, but you’re unprepared. »
“Then teach me,” said Zechariah.
Joaquín hesitated.
« I came here to escape the violence. »
« Then why did you save me? »
The old man’s eyes shone.
« Because I used to be you. »
He nodded slowly.
« I will teach you. But once you begin, there will be no more peace. »