He half-wished the bastard was still
alive so he could kill him all over again!
BAD NEWS WITH A GUN
Underwood laughed scornfully as his long right arm drew the whip back again.
“Whatcha gonna do with that peashooter, Workhorse? Hey, Buck, lookit! Workhorse is gonna—”
He got no further than that.
As calm as he’d ever been in his life, Jack squeezed the trigger.
The .22 slug tore between Underwood’s lips, plowed through the soft palate of his mouth and had sufficient velocity left to enter the brain, where its effect was every bit as lethal had Underwood been hit in the head by a thirty-pound cannon ball.
The miner was dying as he fell, and Jack knew it. He saw in the man’s expression of horrified disbelief and in the blood gushing from his mouth, some compensation for five years of misery.