Blood of Eagles
William W. Johnstone
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The Greatest Western Writer Of The 21st Century
From USA Today bestselling novelist William W. Johnstone, author of the acclaimed Mountain Man and Preacher series, comes Blood Of Eagles, the eighth book in his extraordinary epic saga of the American West. . .
One land. One law. One legend.
The Oklahoma Panhandle is one hundred miles of lawlessness and danger: a no man's land designed to separate Texas from pro-Union Kansas. Through this desolate strip rides legendary gunslinger Falcon MacCallister, a young Indian boy by his side. Behind him lies a scene of horror left by outlaws who'd ambushed a small wagon train.
As he searches the Panhandle for the killers, Falcon enters a storm of greed, thievery, and betrayal that has its roots in two long, gleaming bands of steel. A new railway is penetrating this hostile land--making some people rich, some people dead, and sending a gunfighter and a boy on their own brutal ride to revenge.
crazy as a loon, and it was like having a coiled rattlesnake around all the time. Still, he had never found a man better with a gun, and that could come in handy. Where they were going, he’d need guns around him. He went back to his maps, turning over details in his mind, just as Sypher had laid it out. It was a beautiful plan, but complicated. Still, all he had to do was pull it off and he’d be a rich man. The nine thousand dollars from the Kansas Pacific courier was only seed money. The real
shrugged. “Let’s just get the damned acreage sold. Sypher needs documentedlandowners to swing the railroad this way.” “No problem.” O’Brien grinned. “There’s a sucker born every minute. Soon as the roads thaw there’ll be customers showing up. I’ve got a cash buyer coming from Winfield, interested in that bottomlandsection south of here. Hackberry Meadows. I hope it’s ... ah ... unoccupied when my buyer gets here.” “It will be,” DeWitt growled. “Obermire’s going out there tonight. We’re through
followed. The trace they took in the rising grasslands said they didn’t expect anyone to be watching them. Of course, it would be difficult to conceal a Staake Overland traveling across open country behind a five-team splay, but they made no effort to stay off skylines in that wide open country. They rode like men accustomed to having their own way and taking it. He found where they had camped below a caprock butte, and it was the careless camp of travelers who saw no threat in the land around
were silhouettes—a dozen, then a dozen more, then more than could be counted at a glance. Some of them were mounted, many were not. They came onward, plodding down the long slopes where spring grass was greening. Men, women, and children they came, with their meager stock and a few old wagons, and they carried the tools and weapons they had at hand. “Those folks might make neighbors, if you’ll let them,” Falcon said. “The man in the lead there is named Iverson. He and his folks have tried their
away. It’s like Falcon MacCallister told Cassius—the grabbers won’t stand long against settlers that have neighborswillin’ to—” Rufe’s words were cut off by the flat echoes of gunfire. His horse shied, spun, and danced and he fought to stay aboard. Then he saw Elijah’s mount hightailing away, its saddle empty and its skirts flapping. For a moment he couldn’t see Elijah. Then he did. His brother lay in a heap, half-hidden among the broken stubs of a clump of scrub cedar. Even before he saw the