Song of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

his rifle out of his saddle boot, put it to his shoulder, and began to fire as fast as he could pull the trigger and jerk the lever.
    Mack Maloney and Joey Jacobs, the two men closest to Evans, pulled pistols, leaned over the necks of their broncs, and rode at full tilt toward Falcon and the Kid, firing over their horses’ heads.
    A bullet tore through the shoulder padding on Falcon’s suit just as he pulled the trigger on his carbine. His bullet sped through the air, entered Joey Jacobs’ left eye, and blew out the back of his head, knocking him backward out of his saddle.
    A moment later, the Kid’s slug tore into Mack Maloney’s chest, shattering his breast bone and ricocheting into his heart, stopping it before Mack knew he was hit. He grunted, spitting frothy blood from grimacing lips, and slumped in his saddle.
    Evans pointed to Indian Bob, a half-breed Mescalero outlaw who rode with him, and yelled, “Kill those bastards!”
    Indian Bob and Curley Monroe both whirled their mounts around and charged toward the Kid and Falcon.
    Falcon’s carbine clicked on an empty chamber. “Damn!” he muttered. He was out of ammunition. In one motion, without slowing his horse, he booted the carbine and swung the Greener express gun around on its strap to his shoulder.
    Indian Bob’s pistol fired from thirty yards, the bullet nicking Diablo’s ear and scorching a shallow groove in Falcon’s thigh. He eared back the hammers on the Greener and fired both barrels from the hip without aiming.
    The big gun exploded, kicking back and almost unseating Falcon with the force of the twin 10 gauge shells filled with 00-buckshot. The .38 caliber size balls of lead flew in a deadly swarm toward Indian Bob. The molten slugs tore the left half of his horse’s head off, then continued on and took off Indian Bob’s left arm and leg at the joints, whirling him around and scattering bloody body parts into the desert sand. His body catapulted off his bronc to land in a cholla cactus, but he was beyond feeling any pain by then.
    Curley Monroe’s Smith and Wesson American pistol fired at the Kid from point-blank range as the two riders closed on each other. Monroe’s slugs tore into the Kid’s Stetson, sending it flying from his head.
    Without even ducking the Kid aimed and pulled the trigger on his Colt. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
    Closer now, Curley Monroe grinned, seeing the Kid’s gun was empty, and slowed his mount as he aimed at the Kid’s chest for another shot.
    Faster than a striking rattler, the Kid drew with his left hand and fired two quick shots, snapping them off left-handed without aiming.
    One of the slugs buzzed by Curley’s head, making him jerk to the side just in time to meet the other bullet as it entered his jaw, tearing the bone from his face, leaving nothing below his upper teeth but bloody tissue. He tried to scream in pain, but his throat was no longer there to make a sound.
    As he rode by Falcon, holding his ruined face in his hands, Falcon swung the empty Greener by the barrel, hitting Curley in the forehead with the stock, crushing his skull and putting his lights out for good.
    Evans and his two remaining hands turned their mounts around and leaned over their necks as they ran for their lives.
    Billy sighted on the back of Evans’ head and pulled the trigger on his Colt, but the bullet failed, a misfire, saving Evans’ life . . . for the moment.
    Falcon took his bandanna off and wrapped it around Diablo’s ear, which was oozing blood. The furrow in his thigh wasn’t bleeding at all, the heat of the bullet having cauterized the gash.
    He walked Diablo over to the Kid, who was resting his sorrel next to the bloody remains of Indian Bob, entangled in the cholla cactus.
    Falcon took out a stogie and lighted it with a lucifer. After he puffed it to life, he glanced down at what remained of Indian Bob and shook his