Shadow Falls: Badlands by Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff Page A

served with several men who had been part of the Army rescue team sent to find the Donners’ campsite—men who told stories of finding piles of gnawed boned cut with human teeth marks before into the eyes of the survivors who consumed the human flesh of their own family members in order to stay alive. Galen spared the Lindstroms this grisly tale for fear of terrifying the weary travelers—a courtesy he, himself, had not received.
    Galen often wondered about the Lindstroms and hoped they were still surviving their journey, though the conditions of the trail often worked against larger groups moving slowly. Groups who were easy prey for the many predators on the path—predators who spent their waking hours lying in wait for throats to slit.
    Shortly after the sun reached its peak in the midday sky, Galen came upon a wooded bluff, being extra careful to yank on the rope around Blue's neck to keep the nearly blind burro from going over the edge.
    “Whoa there,” Galen told Blue, staring over the hilly terrain below the rim. He unslung his waterskin and took a sip. The view was magnificent, but from this elevation the path seemed to wind on forever without end, disheartening Galen. His journey had barely begun and he could already feel the toll it was taking on his body. He needed a horse, but dared not consider trying to steal another given the last time he ended up rotting in a Texas jail.
    Perhaps there are worse things than dying , he thought. Given the choice between the gallows and what he feared lay ahead, Galen wasn't quite sure which was preferable.
    The road broke off in the woods sometime late in the day. The Lindstroms had mentioned this possibility, citing to heavy rains and other travelers’ search for the shortcut, causing them to forsake—and not further beat—the beaten path. Galen sighed and pulled Blue along as he looked for another fresh trailhead.
    He spotted fairly recent ruts in the dirt from another wagon. “What do you think?” he asked Blue who, as usual, gave no response.
    Now you have yourself talking to a deaf burro , Galen thought.
    From the look of the tracks, there had been more than one wagon. Galen knelt down and ran his hand over the ruts; though not a tracker, he reckoned they were very fresh. He began to relish the possibility of catching up with whoever it was. Human conversation would be nice—as would a cup of fresh, hot coffee.
    It was sunset and Galen still hadn’t found where the trail picked up, nor had he any sign of the travelers whose wagon tracks he’d been following through the woods. His feet ached and he sat on a rock to take off his boots, which were now falling apart after weeks of abusive walking. At some point they’d have to be replaced, which meant going into a town—which meant deciding whether or not to drink whiskey. He couldn’t even remember the last time the thought of a drink had even crossed his mind—a though that now raced as he sat there looking at his worn out boot. He took the other boot off and placed them on the ground before walking barefoot back to Blue. He unstrapped the saddlebags from Blue’s back; even without the bags, the curvature of the ancient burro’s back made old Blue look as if he was still carrying a heavy burden. Galen hunted around inside his bag and pulled out a hunk of jerky, which Blue noisily began eating.
    Running low on food, too , Galen thought as he dug for the last pieces of jerky. He’d have to do something about that as well. From what he could see, hear, and smell, there was definitely plenty of game in these woods.
    Blue tied up not far behind, Galen crept through the woods looking for jackrabbit, a Dragoon at the ready, the other in its holster. The thought of one roasting over a small fire made his mouth water. If he were lucky enough to get two, he’d treat Blue to something other than jerky. He crouched behind the trunk of a fallen tree and waited.
    He saw the white jack enter the small clearing,