Man with No Name- One-Eye's Gang

  Then, as now, there were a great many self-appointed authorities on guns and gunfighters. Most of them were and are scornful of the art of fanning a single-action sixgun—holding the trigger back and sweeping the heel of the left hand across the hammer to fire with virtually machine-gun rapidity. They agree almost unanimously that while fanning gives lightning speed, that speed is gained at the expense of accuracy.

  No gun-fanner, they insist, could hit the broad side of a barn unless he were inside the barn. No gunfighter who ever survived long enough to make his mark on the bloody annals of the West, they aver, ever fanned his gun in a showdown. The idea that any of them ever filed off the cocking dog and weakened the hammer-spring is scornfully dismissed as an invention of fiction writers who had never been west of the Hudson River.

  It is interesting to note that not one of these detractors of gun-fanning ever saw The Man With No Name in action. The heavy callous on the heel of his left hand was not built there by a pool cue.
...

  The Man With No Name flung the poncho up and over his right shoulder as he stepped out into the clear. A glance had showed him that momentarily Shadrach was blocked and cut off by the audience.

  "Previs! Panhandle!" His voice cracked like Molly Deever's bullwhip. "That's as far as you go—in that direction. I'm taking you in."

  The quintet lurched around, almost losing their balance, to gape in disbelief. For the first time Previs's single bloodshot eye focused on the poncho, the black hat, the stub of cigar. He had never seen the hunter in his life but, like practically every outlaw, he knew that costume by bloody reputation. It was the way the hunter wanted it, to be recognized and to have that recognition force the sudden explosive showdown.

  "It's him," One-Eye bawled. "The bounty killer! Get him!"

  He was whipping up his own gun when the hunter's slug took him between the eyes. The others were grabbing for their guns. The hunter's .44 was tight against his hip for steadiness. His left hand swept across the hammer almost too fast for the eye to follow.

  The four shots sounded almost as one, and the surviving four gun-hawks went down. Not one of their weapons had completely cleared its leather.
...

He studied the empties thoughtfully, rattling them together in his palm before dropping them to the ground. He looked again at the audience, slowly getting up, now that the gunplay seemed over. He toed the empty cartridge cases on the ground, counting them again.

  There were four empties, indicating that he had fired four shots. But five men lay dead.

  Somehow he could not shake off the strong feeling that the fifth shot had come from the fourteen-inch barrel of Shadrach's custom-made gun. But his deadly rival was nowhere in sight. In the excitement of the flare-up he had slipped away.
...

 Except for an ugly purple swelling along the side of his jaw, Dandy Deever was fully recovered, although his normal ebullience was noticeably restrained. He shook his head for the umpteenth time, regarding the bounty hunter with open awe.

  "I can't believe it. I was a little dazed but I wasn't out cold and I saw the whole thing. My God, such shooting! Bang-bang-bang—just like that, and every one right between the eyes. Hey, your glass is empty, friend. A man saves our lives, we can't for godsakes let him sit with an empty glass."

- A Coffin Full of Dollars, chapter 6