Man with No Name- Shooting Sword and Rifle

He whipped the broadsword in a whistling arc. “When we was learning how to handle these pigstickers we had to practise by clipping strips of cloth off a dummy. You’re the first live one I’ve had a chance to try it on so I don’t want to rush the job. Like I said, I’ll take that precious gun-arm first. Maybe I’ll pickle it in alcohol and charge admission to look at it.”

“Not today,” the hunter said.

The heel of his left hand brushed the hammer of the forty-four. The crash of the shot was followed by a metallic spanggg. The blade of the broadsword flew off into the scrub, leaving only a jagged stub protruding from the hilt. The armored man held this up where he could see it through the slits in the visor and broke into wild cursing.

“You sonuvabitch! Oh, you sonuvabitch! You could have had a few more minutes to live, but you fixed that good. You spoiled my fun. Now I’ll spoil yours …”

He lunged for the rifle he had laid aside. The hunter’s pistol slammed again and the rifle flew off the rock with its breech smashed. The armored man turned clumsily and lurched toward the hunter, brandishing the remains of his sword and yelling incoherently in an excess of rage.

- Blood for a Dirty Dollar, chapter 15