Summary
A lone rider slices through the ochre dusk of a half-imagined frontier—his silhouette a paper-cut against a sky bruised by gossiping vultures. The man, known only as Tracer, drags behind him a cartography of guilt: a blood-stained wanted poster, a cracked compass that stutters south, and the memory of a woman who vanished into mirage. The town he enters, Dry River, is a skeletal congregation of sun-bleached façades where the saloon’s piano seems to play only in diminished chords. Here, the marshal wears a star fashioned from melted railroad spikes, the banker counts coins by their echo, and every mutt knows the scent of a soul in arrears. Tracer’s arrival detonates a chain of whispers: he is either the avenging angel promised by dime novels or the very renegade who torched the settlement of Juniper Flats. William E. Wing’s screenplay refuses to settle the matter, preferring to let moral sediment swirl like silt in a flash-flood. Over six reels, alliances knot and unknot—Franklyn Farnum’s Tracer trades gun-barrel stares with Duke R. Lee’s granite-jawed cattle baron, while Vester Pegg’s consumptive deputy keeps coughing up clues faster than he can pocket them. Mary Anderson materializes as Lila, a photographer who traps ghosts on silver plates and who may be the only map out of this purgatory. Pedro León’s mute wrangler, Prince the horse who out-acts half the cast, and a chorus of dust-caked character actors orbit the nucleus of violence until the climax, where the eponymous trails dissolve into alkali nothingness and the surviving characters ride into an intertitle that reads simply: "Some distances cannot be measured in miles."
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