BLOODBATH

  A small cluster of soldiers were racing toward the fountain, determined to reach their commander.
  Hickok saw there was no way Bertha could hold them off, that some of them might even reach the fountain.  He dropped his Henry and drew his Pythons, running at full speed now, firing as he ran, going for the head as he invariably did, his shots spaced so closely together it was almost impossible to tell them apart.  He reached Bertha's side, the two of them shoulder to shoulder.
  Blade suddenly wrenched free of Bertha and rose, the Commando chattering, swinging the machine gun in an arc.  Four charging troopers jerked and danced as the heavy slugs stitched a crimson patchwork across their chests.

#8
DENVER RUN

"THERE'S THREE OF US, AND ONLY ONE OF HIM."

  Mitchell hesitated.  From what he'd heard, this man could take out all three of them without working up a sweat.
  "I ain't got all day,"  the newcomer informed them. 
  Telford stupidly made the first move.  he tried to bring his M-16 up, envisioning the great reward he would receive if he killed the man in buckskins.
  But he never lived to claim it.
  The newcomer's right hand flashed to his right holster, his motion a streak as the pearl-handled revolver cleared leather.
  Mitchell saw Telford's head snap backward as the revolver boomed, a portion of the upper rear of his cranium exploding outward in a geyser of blood, brains, and other bits and pieces.  He was slammed to the asphalt by the impact.