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Night falls heavily over the desert, shrouding the camp in a veil of shadows and silence broken only by the crackling of the fire's flames and the distant howl of the wind. Glanton's band rests after a day of carnage, each man lost in his own thoughts or sunk in the dark weariness of his robberies, murders, brutal scalpings, and chases.

The Kid, an illiterate Tennessean whose mother died in childbirth and who gradually displays a moral fiber that eventually puts him at odds with the Judge, sits by the fire, cleaning a blade covered in dried blood, his eyes lost in the distance, as if searching for something that even he cannot name. His dark brown hair blew gently in the wind.

Judge Holden, violent, fatalistic and subject to an endless cycle of bloody conquest, with human nature and autonomy defined by the will to violence, leafs through a worn notebook, scribbling incomprehensible symbols while observing the others with a gaze that seems to see into their souls.

Tobin, the ex-priest who feels a seemingly friendly bond with the boy and loathes the judge and his philosophy. He and the judge gradually become great spiritual enemies. He mutters inaudible prayers, as if seeking a shred of redemption amidst the chaos while Black Jack and White Jack stood side by side arguing about something.

Toadvine, on the other hand, examines the day's loot; he is not as depraved as some members of the gang, questioning the slaughter of innocents, but he is still a violent criminal. The atmosphere is tense, permeated with a sense of imminent danger, as if the desert itself were conspiring against them.

There, under the vast starry sky, the weight of their actions is not forgotten, but seems to merge with the dust and blood that already mark the ground, setting the stage for a night as unsettling as the day that preceded it.

“You seem disturbed by something since we returned.” The Kid says to them out of nowhere. “Do you want to talk about it?”