Man with No Name- Rock Rifle Shooting

He twisted, shrugging the rifle from his shoulder, wishing that he had a short gun. A pistol would be easier to use in the jumble of rocks. But he had to make do with the rifle.

He edged around the rock, the gun ready. Minutes dragged. He thought the men might have slipped away. He found a small stone and tossed it to where the trail rose over the edge of the canyon wall.

Three rifles cracked, almost as a single shot. He spotted their position. They were grouped behind a line of boulders on his right. He surveyed the ground ahead, crawled forward, lizarding among the stones. He could hear them talking now, calling back and forth.

“I think we got him.”

A man’s head appeared above the rocks, searching the opening of the trail. The Man With No Name shot him behind the ear, watched him fall forward and lie still on the barricade.

The other two fired at him. Their bullets knocked chips off the stones around where he crouched. He stayed low, reloading the gun. Again he began to work toward the left, his eyes never leaving their position, watching for the least sign of movement.

The sun rose, the heat increased. A lizard, stretched on the hot stones, watched him from lidless eyes. A gun spat. A bullet whistled within an inch of his head. He had been seen.

He dropped into a crevice between two rocks. He waited, unmoving, hoping they would believe they had hit him. This time they were not deceived. They stayed quiet. He started to crawl again, inching along on his stomach, creeping around the base of their fort.

He saw a leg.

The man lay full length behind the rockpile, his side toward the hunter, his upper body hidden.

The Man With No Name sighted carefully, aiming at the thigh. The sound of the shot broke the hot air. He saw a small puff of dust as the bullet struck cotton cloth. He heard the yell and saw the wounded man leap straight into the air, driven by the pain. The hunter’s next shot caught him before he fell.

The flat lips parted in a smile. The odds were even now. It was a question of waiting, of patience. And through the years the Man With No Name had schooled himself in the art of patience.

- A Dollar to Die For, chapter 15