A Coffin Full Of Dollars Read Online Free PDF

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 girl in the spangled tights tried to ignore the ribald comments shouted by One-Eye and his drunken companions, although they brought a deep flush to her cheeks. She took a final bow and darted into the dressing tent.
    The five had lurched to their feet and were polishing off the last of the whiskey. The white-whiskered Panhandle drained the bottle and hurled it under the stage.
    He hiccupped and roared, "What're we standin' around out here for when we can all have up a sweet piece of that inside the tent?"
    "Go ahead," One-Eye whooped. "Me, I got my eye on a real ride—that big momma. She's my kind and size of woman."
    He started a weaving course toward the tent and the rest staggered after him, bawling obscenities. Dandy, his face the color of chalk, sprang down from the stage and ran to intercept them. Hunk, looking frightened but determined, jumped in front of the entrance to the tent. The fact that neither had a gun made the gestures more heroic than practical.
    The sheriff, also weaponless and struggling to keep his trousers up, howled, "Stop it, you men! Stop right there."
    "Hold it, you fellows," Dandy yelped. "Now, hold it! That's my wife and my daughter you're talking about and I won't stand for it."
    One-Eye snatched out his gun and swung it in a vicious circle. There was a loud whap and Dandy went down, his eyes glazed. Hunk Bannister started forward in a brave but futile move.
    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.
    At the first sign of trouble the crowd had scattered and flung itself flat to the ground. The hunter turned and looked them over carefully, frowning and shaking his head. He snapped out the cylinder of his gun and plucked out the four empty shells, replacing them with fresh cartridges from his belt.
    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. It made no sense but neither did any other