Man with No Name- Running Mule Dismount

The first shot hit the ground between the hind legs of the mule and the beast bucked wildly as the rest of the gunmen drew revolvers and began to fire, aiming at the ground close to the hoofs of the terrified animal. The stranger had retained his saddle despite the sudden bucking and he picked up the reins with an unhurried ease as the mule began to trot forward, then broke into a gallop as the fusillade of shots increased in tempo, the bullets kicking up puffs of dust dangerously close to the pumping hoofs. The gunmen were laughing again now, enjoying their target practice as the mule, wild with terror, carried its rider back through the town in the direction the stranger did not wish to take. Without any trace of panic, the stranger endeavoured to restrain the animal, but the mule paid no heed, wanting only to get away from the flying bullets.

The stranger sighed in resignation and looked ahead, jerking on one side of the reins. The animal responded to this and swerved close to a building, hooves suddenly flying faster as the reins now went slack. The stranger had released them to raise his hands high in the air, and he stood in the stirrups. And the next moment the mule was riderless, the stranger’s body swinging in mid-air, his fingers curled around the cross-pole support of a sign which proclaimed SAN MIGUEL CAFÉ.

As the mule disappeared in a cloud of dust the stranger swung to and fro for a moment, his head turned to look in through a window that was open, level with his face. A middle-aged man, full of face and bright-eyed, stared out with an expression of deep surprise.

- A Fistful of Dollars novel, chapter 2