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- He clambered over the tongue of Jigger’s wagon and advanced on the Conestoga seat, the noosed lariat open just enough to admit the hunters wrists.
- “Shove out your mitts, damn your hide,” he snarled.
- “If you insist,” the hunter said pleasantly—and did exactly that.
- The fact that both hands were now clenched into fists and landed on Rip’s chin with the impact of twin sledgehammers posed a serious delay in the outlaw’s original intention. As he fell backward between the wagons, the hunter rolled off the seat a split second ahead of the crash of a rifle and the scream of a wasted slug. Rip landed on his back and the hunter’s shoulder landed on him with a force that drove a gusty squawl of anguish from his open mouth.
- Up above the hunter could hear Garff and Jigger both yelling wildly, and the voice of Much-Belly bawling, “No shooting! No shooting, goddammit! You might hit the balloon guy or his helper. Don’t shoot until you’ve got him clean in your sights!”
- Using the cushion of Rip’s body for a springboard, the hunter bounded off and to the side, crouched, the forty-four in his hand, his left palm posed above the hammer.
- - The Million-Dollar Bloodhunt, chapter 5
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