Free Blood of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

rolled and strapped his bedroll,picked up his saddle, and went to get his horse. He was tightening the cinches when Tad Sands came up behind him, carrying his rifle.
    â€œWhat the hell do you think you’re doin’?” the redhead demanded. “What’s the matter with you?”
    Pete turned, sighing. “I’ve said it before, Tad. You’re crazy as a loon. And you’re a mean drunk. If you aim to bushwhack a man just because he didn’t kill you when he prob’ly should have, then you’ve got it to do, but I don’t hold with ambush. I believe I can find my own way from here.”
    Stepping past the redhead, Pete collected his gear and stowed it aboard his horse. The wind was kickingup some sand now, and whipping the little fire. It was cold, and there was a wetness to the air. The little cove would have been a snug place to spend the night, but he would find another place.
    â€œYou ain’t goin’ anywhere!” Tad spat, his voice a harsh croak. “You unpack that gear!”
    â€œI’m leavin’,” Pete said. He snugged the straps on his pack and tossed a rein over the saddle horn.
    â€œYou ain’t runnin’ out on me!” Tad croaked.
    â€œWhat are you goin’ to do, shoot me in the back?”
    â€œYou’ll face me, Pete. By God, I won’t allow this!”
    â€œGonna shoot the only friend you’ve got, an’ with a bent gun?” Pete’s voice was harsh with disbelief. “I’m through, Tad. It’s you that’s bent out of shape, not your damn gun.”
    â€œFace me, you ... you polecat!”
    Pete looked around at him, not turning. “Tad, you know I won’t back down from any man. Not even you. But I’m no murderer, either. I’m damned if I’ll help you ambush a stranger, and I don’t intend to draw down on a crazy drunk.” Leading his mount, he walked out of the light, picking his way up the slope toward the flatlands above.
    Tad looked after him for time, peering into the darkness long after Pete was out of sight. Then he shook his head and kicked at the sandy ground. “Jesus!”he complained, his voice a harsh whisper. “What’s ailin’ him, anyway?”
    When Tad Sands left the cove fifteen minutes later, leading his saddled sorrel, he passed within a dozen feet of Falcon MacCallister. Crouched in the brush just out of the fire’s light, camouflaged by darkness and long instinct, Falcon watched the redheadleave. Then he faded back into the shelter of the bluff and began the walk back to his own snug camp, where Woha’li waited with Diablo and the dun.
    Few would have seen him pass, even anybody who had been there watching, but to Falcon MacCallister the stars of half a sky—and the staccato flare of lightningin the clouds to the west—gave light enough to see. As he walked, a slight smile teased the cornersof his mouth.
    Falcon MacCallister was recalling something he had heard a long time ago—something his own father,the legendary Jamie Ian MacCallister, had said: “The rarest quality in the human critter is ordinariness.Mankind’s plain peculiarities never cease to amaze me.”
    As though God seconded the motion, the low sky flared and a mighty clap of thunder echoed through the hills like cannon fire.
    Under the sound of the thunder and wind was another, more ominous sound. Even from high on the south slope, Falcon could see what caused it. The rain that was just commencing had already washed the foothills to the west. The river was rising.
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    It was one of those springtime storms that struck the high plains in a hundred guises—sometimes as blizzard, sometimes as hail, sometimes as dust, sometimesas torrential rain, and sometimes with tornado ferocity that swept the lands clean and devoured anything standing.
    This time it was lightning and a thunderstorm that strode down from the high slopes and swept across