Man with No Name- Red's Gang

Behind them, the swinging doors flapped softly and a cold, deadly voice said, “Let—Red—go!”

The hunter moved slowly, turning only his head until he could see the owner of the voice. Three hard-bitten toughs stood just inside the doors, covering him with cocked pistols. All three bore the stamp of gunfighters— the cold eyes, the bared teeth, the tied-down holsters, the boots planted wide for balance.

“Let him go,” the tallest said again. “Red, drop down and scramble clear. We’ll take care of him for you.”

There was not even a flicker of alarm in the face of the hunter, no visible tensing of muscles. One moment he was holding the battered Cavanagh erect, looking impassively over his shoulder at certain death. The next instant he was spinning around, the .44 in his hand, the heel of his left hand slapping the hammer, fanning the gun so fast that the three shots sounded almost as one.

The gun-toughs were literally blasted backward through the swinging doors to sprawl in the mud of the street. Only one got off a shot, and that was the reflex of a man already dead, the bullet smashing harmlessly into the ceiling.

- For a Few Dollars More, chapter 2