By William W. Johnstone
The Oklahoma Panhandle is 100 miles of lawlessness and probability: a no man's land designed to split Texas from pro-Union Kansas. via this desolate strip rides mythical gunslinger Falcon MacCallister, a tender Indian boy by way of his aspect. at the back of him lies a scene of horror left via outlaws who'd ambushed a small wagon teach. As he searches the Panhandle for the killers, Falcon enters a hurricane of greed, thievery, and betrayal that has its roots in lengthy, sparkling bands of metal. a brand new railway is penetrating this opposed land - making a few humans wealthy, a few humans useless, and sending a gunfighter and a boy on their lonesome brutal journey to revenge.
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Additional resources for Blood of Eagles (Eagles, Book 8)
Glossy black-and-white eight-by-tens. Some kind of a surveillance situation. “You were a military cop for thirteen years,” Eliot said. “Fast-track promotion all the way from second lieutenant to major. Citations and medals. They liked you. You were good. ” “More than very good, actually. ” “I was riffed,” I said. ” Duffy repeated. “RIF, reduction in force. They love to make acronyms out of things. The Cold War ended, military spending got cut, the army got smaller. ” “The army still exists,” Eliot said.
The kid said nothing. I put both empty Colts into my coat pockets and slid out. Tried the Maxima’s doors. “Find me some wire,” I said. ” I nodded. Said nothing. ” The kid looked blank for a second and then came to and scouted around. I emptied the Anacondas and tossed the twelve spent shell cases into a garbage container. The kid came back with a three-foot length of electrical wire from a trash pile. I stripped the insulation with my teeth and made a little hook in the end and shoved it past the rubber sealing strip around the Maxima’s window.
I could see a faint brown smudge in the air about twenty miles away. Probably pollution coming up out of Portland. The city itself was hidden behind a headland. Then the oak door opened again and the guard stepped smartly aside and a woman came out. She was Richard Beck’s mother. No doubt about that. No doubt at all. She had the same slight build and the same pale face. The same long fingers. She was wearing jeans and a heavy fisherman’s sweater. She had windblown hair and was maybe fifty years old.