“Boy howdy, I never expected that blasted thunderstorm to catch up with us so quick,” Mike Thompson complained as he and his partner burst through the door of a dilapidated line shack. “Never even had a chance to get the slicker off my saddle. I’m drenched.” The young cowboy pulled his Stetson off his head, slapped it against his leg to drive water from the brim, then peeled off his soaked shirt. “Guess I’ll get a fire started,” he muttered as he turned toward the rusted stove. Mike stopped in his tracks, seeing his partner standing with a Colt .45 leveled at his middle.
“Whoa. What’s that for?” he exclaimed, “If this is supposed to be some kinda joke, it ain’t funny.”
“It’s no joke, Ranger,” came the snarling reply. The Colt roared twice, both bullets ripping low into Mike’s middle, just below his bellybutton. As the impact of the slugs smashed him against the wall, Mike jackknifed to his knees as he clawed desperately at his bullet-torn gut, then pitched to his face. He attempted to push himself up, but only managed to roll onto his back. With a groan, the young Ranger clamped his hands to his belly, writhing in agony as blood seeped between his fingers.
“I’d like to see you die real slow, Ranger,” the gunman growled, “but I don’t have that much time.” Deliberately he aimed his Colt at Mike’s chest and fired, sending a finishing bullet into the Ranger’s heart. Mike’s body jerked from the impact of the slug, then he shuddered once and lay unmoving.
“I reckon that takes care of you, lawman,” the killer muttered, “Soon’s the storm lets up, I’ll drag your carcass out for the buzzards.”