Man with No Name- Shooting Five Wet Guys

They were five of the sorriest-looking specimens imaginable, their sodden clothing glued to their bodies, rivulets of rain water streaking their ugly faces and running off the brims of their hats. They stood like frozen statues, their faces gone slack with shock, perhaps from the surprise of meeting a stranger instead of the wounded Government agent or perhaps because they recognized the bounty killer known as Mister Sudden Death.

One of the rules by which the hunter lived—and continued to live—was, Always expect the unexpected. Time lost in recovering from momentary shock could mean death. Faster than they could follow, his gun was in his dry right hand and tight against his hip, his left hand fanning the hammer in a blur of motion that made the five shots sound like a drum-roll.

Only two of the five had time for a desperate attempt to get their rifles to their shoulders. But they were slowed by the initial surprise and by the straitjacket effect of their wet clinging clothes, they never made it.

The hunter studied the dead faces. None of them registered in his memory of reward posters, with a bounty of any consequence. He gathered up the rifles and pitched them as far as he could into an impassable tangle of rocks, then trotted back to where he had left the agent.

- Blood for a Dirty Dollar, chapter 3