From under his serape, Clint drew two weapons that could only be described as Hawglegs. He seemed to grow larger, more vivid. He was a streetwise cop, a mountain-climbing assassin, and an American commando. He was a veteran Marine and a bare-knuckle boxer. He had taken a bullet for a president, come back from the dead and burned a town to the ground. He’d killed women and children. He’d killed just about every thing that walks or crawls.

“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?”

And Clint cut him down with a storm of bullets.

It was that simple.

Before the body could fade away, Clint caught it in the eye with a well-aimed squirt of tobacco juice. “A man’s got to know his limitations,” he said.

Right turn, Clyde.