Man with No Name- Sucker Punch

“He was a Federal agent,” the hunter said rapidly as he got the wallet from under the poncho, “on a case that pointed to Bandera. He asked me to send his credentials to Washington so they’d know he hadn’t skipped out but had died in the line of duty. Here, see for yourself.”

He flipped the case open and held it up, ostensibly for the sheriff to read but not quite close enough to be legible. Instinctively the lawman bent down, squinting, his attention momentarily distracted from his captive. The hunter’s left hand caught the barrel of the rifle and twisted it aside and up. His right came up, bunched into a rock-hard fist, and exploded against the side of the sheriff’s jaw.

The sheriff pitched out of the saddle. The bounty hunter caught the heavy figure and eased it to the ground. He jerked the rifle from a limp hand, snatched the sheriff’s pistol and his own and stepped back, waiting.

After a few moments the sandy-haired man stirred, mumbled and pushed himself to a sitting position. He fingered a swelling lump on the side of his jaw, muttering to himself. His eyes were vague and muddy. Suddenly the muddiness cleared with the return of full consciousness. His hand flashed down to an empty holster. Only then did he become aware of the bounty hunter, standing a few paces away, covering him with his own rifle. He swore thickly.

- Blood for a Dirty Dollar, chapter 3