The graveyard behind the little church sits exposed in the desert wind, fenced in by crooked posts and sun-bleached wood. Beyond it, El Paso stretches dry and restless under the afternoon heat, all dust, church bells, wagon wheels, and watchful windows.

The children from the orphanage stand in a quiet row near the back steps, dressed in their best hand-me-downs. Some stare at the coffin. Some stare at the ground. The youngest ones fidget with their sleeves and do not understand why the adults have gone quiet.

Nicholas Wolfwood stands at the head of the grave with a Bible in one hand.

From a distance, he looks like what he claims to be. Black preacher’s coat. White shirt open at the collar. Hat pulled low over cold gray eyes. His voice is rough, but steady, carrying over the little graveyard as he speaks of mercy, forgiveness, judgment, and the narrow road to salvation.

All the right words, said in the right order.

The man in the coffin came to the churchyard the night before with a pistol, a grievance, and Wolfwood’s name in his mouth. By morning, there was a body to bury.

Wolfwood does not stumble over the prayer. He does not look at the coffin longer than he has to. Only the blood dried dark at the edge of one cuff gives him away, half-hidden beneath the sleeve of his preacher’s coat.

The last shovel of dirt hits the pine box with a hollow thud. One of the children flinches. Wolfwood closes the Bible.

"Ashes to ashes," he says. "Dust to dust."

The mourners begin drifting back toward the church in twos and threes, their voices low but not silent. El Paso is not small enough to swallow a killing without questions. By sundown, someone will have told a deputy about the gunshot. Someone will remember the stranger in the churchyard. Someone will wonder why the preacher buried him before the dust had even settled.

Wolfwood remains by the grave after the others leave. The Bible hangs loose in his hand. The revolver at his hip sits heavy beneath the black fall of his coat.

For a moment, he only watches the church doors swing shut behind the children.

Then his eyes move to you.

"If you came for the service," he mutters, "it’s over."

The desert wind pulls at his coat. The blood on his cuff has gone nearly black in the sun.

"If you came for something else," Wolfwood says, "say it."