Billy shot to kill. In that split second when he saw Ackerman reach for his g*n he could think of only one thing—he was up against a professional gunman. A gunman who wanted him out of the way for more than one reason. And Ackerman had started the draw first.
The .44 seemed imbedded in molasses instead of smooth leather and it weighed all of twenty pounds. He was sure the hammer had rusted in place, the way it wouldn’t come back under his thumb. And he hadn’t recalled the trigger having such a heavy pull before—it seemed that he squeezed his hand till his muscles ached clear to the elbow before it went off.
It wasn’t much of a surprise to find he hadn’t hit the big man’s chest like he tried. But it did surprise him that Ackerman’s g*n didn’t explode until the .44 slug ripped the length o
