Song of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

head.
    â€œTough luck, fellah. I suspect a thing like that’ll ruin your entire afternoon.”

Twelve
    Falcon almost laughed at the expression on Dick Brewer’s face as he and the Kid rode up to the Rio Feliz ranch house. Brewer was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and smoking when they came within the light from several lanterns on the porch supports.
    He jumped up and ran to the door. “Mr. Tunstall, come quick! It’s the Kid, and he’s got a whole passel of bodies with him!”
    Tunstall came to the door, pipe in hand, and gave Falcon a quizzical look when he saw the horses with dead men thrown over the saddles strung out behind him.
    â€œGood evening, Mr. MacCallister. You and the Kid have some trouble?”
    Falcon smiled, thinking Tunstall was just like all the other men from England he had met . . . aloof, imperturbable, and prone to understatement. Well, he would beat him at his own game.
    â€œGood evening, John,” Falcon replied as he dismounted. “No, no trouble. Why do you ask?”
    Tunstall took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Diablo. “I see you’ve wrapped your kerchief around your horse’s ear, and I notice a tear in your right trouser leg. I suspect there’s been foul play of some sort.”
    Falcon laughed. No one could best the British at being laconic.
    â€œWell, John, I see what you mean. These men,” Falcon said, pointing over his shoulder at the bodies on the horses, “were rustling some of your cattle. They had the misfortune to try and do it in front of the Kid and me.”
    The Kid swung his leg over the saddle horn and jumped to the ground, eyes bright with excitement.
    â€œThese galoots’re part of Jesse Evans’s gang, boss. He was with the rustlers and seemed to be callin’ the shots.”
    Tunstall nodded, thoughtfully. “And Evans got away?”
    â€œYes,” Falcon said, “along with two or three of his men. They weren’t too happy about the welcome the Kid and I gave them.”
    â€œDick, would you get Juan and some of the boys to take care of . . . this mess, please? And have Carlos come and take a look at Mr. MacCallister’s horse’s ear, if you would.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Brewer replied, looking at the Kid and smiling.
    Falcon saw the Kid return the smile. He remembered the Kid telling him that he and Brewer had become very good friends over the past couple of weeks and had taken to spending their off days together, fishing and sparking the ladies of nearby towns.
    â€œFalcon, why don’t you and the Kid come into the house? Dinner is ready, and Marguerite will be very disappointed if we let it get cold,” Tunstall said.
    As they walked in he added, “I’ve asked Dick Brewer to join us, if you don’t mind. I’ve some ranch business to discuss with you, and he can help apprise you of the situation we’re facing here.”
    The four of them sat down to a huge feast of enchiladas, beans, steaks, sliced tomatoes, and corn on the cob. Tunstall forbade any talk of business until they had all eaten their fill.
    Falcon noticed that the Kid was ravenous, and ate like he was half starved. It was a reaction to killing someone he had seen before, both in the war and afterward out west. Some men became nauseated after a gun battle, others became very hungry, while some sought out the company of women for furious lovemaking. It was as if, in the face of death, they sought somehow to reaffirm being alive, and the fact of having survived.
    Falcon, for his part, felt a strange sadness at the wasting of precious life, no matter how worthless the men he killed were. The taking away of all a man was, or could ever hope to be, by pulling a trigger and ending his life was an experience he didn’t much like, even if the men brought it upon themselves.
    After dinner, as Tunstall called it, the men gathered in his study, where he passed out