Shadow Falls: Badlands by Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff

night, he thought of Cyril’s cold eyes. His fellow soldier became a man whose sole motivating force was to cause as much pain and chaos as possible. The Stranger realized now that it was those eyes and that face he had thought he’d seen momentarily through the closing door of the Sagebrush jail.
    And Cyril was no ghost. As far as the Stranger knew, Cyril was still out there—and still searching for him.
    He thought again of that moment on the street in Veracruz, watching in horror as Cyril took the little Mexican girl by her long, dark hair while he cut into her head with the bowie knife.
    “Jus’ like we did wit them Injuns,” he turned and grinned at the Stranger, holding the bloody scalp in his hand.
    Three years had taught him that he could not evacuate this memory from his mind.
    “It can’t be him,” the Stranger said under his breath. The level of inhuman behavior those men had displayed that night, and many other nights, chilled his blood. He knew it would not be beyond the scope of Cyril’s savagery to have engineered the carnage he saw back at Sagebrush.
    The footfall sounded again. The desert played tricks with your ears—the Stranger knew. In the dark it was difficult to judge distance—and from within the shoal, direction was impossible.
    He thought of Blue, contemplating momentarily if the untethered animal could be the source of the steps. But as his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light of the moonless sky he made out the shape of the sagging old burro where he’d left it within the waterless river.
    A footstep came again, this time slightly louder. Whatever was out there was drawing closer.
    Slowly the Stranger lifted towards the rim of the shoal, knowing full well that if his own eyes were adjusting to the dark, the eyes of the on-comer would have been well adjusted by now.
    Raising just one eye above the berm, he peeked out. Nothing. No movement. He glided his hand across the ground until he found one of the loaded Dragoons.
    Another footstep—the loudest yet. He fully exposed his head, wanting to get a good look.
    It’s entirely possible they don’t know you are here , his mind told him.
    He cocked his head, trying to hone in on the noise. Minutes passed, he guessed, then what seemed like an hour. He tried to keep awake, his mind bordering on delirium, but unsated exhaustion pressed on his eyelids.
    He relented: the Stranger sat back against the shoal and let sleep overtake him.
    But before he could sink into the beckoning unconsciousness his mind desired, he heard it again: a footstep, and another, and another. As he scrambled in his semi-awake state to look over the top of the berm, his unrested hands dropped the pistol onto the dirt. The direction of the footsteps became apparent.
    They were coming from up a gully a hundred yards away. And they were definitely moving towards him.
    Faster now, and even faster yet.
    The Stranger pointed the gun up the dry riverbed, which hooked sharply past a large outcrop of rocks.
    Fifty yards.
    His eyes saw it before he blinked, but it took another before it registered: a thin rim of yellow light bending around the outcrop. Salient light in the middle of darkness.
    Forgoing any more caution, the Stranger thumbed back the Colt’s hammer and crouched down, feeling in the darkness for its mate; he kept his eyes on the light, relying only on touch to locate the pistol.
    Twenty-five yards.
    The second Colt was nowhere to be found.
    Damnit , the Stranger thought. Quickly, impatiently, he gazed downward, hoping his eyes would help his hands. His spotted the second Dragoon behind his feet.
    When he looked up, he gazed directly into the yellow ball of light coming from the center of the lantern. It was as if it radiated only at him.
    His eyes, having adjusted to total darkness, lost they’re focus—the lantern’s owner obscured.
    Fifteen feet.
    The Stranger lifted the guns and squeezed both triggers. The twin clap of black powder thunder and muzzle flash