Luckily, the “miss” didn’t matter. The first shot struck the thug high on his forehead. The ball gashed open the flesh and ricocheted off the skull, throwing the man’s head back-and leaving his trachea exposed to take the second ball full on. He fell backward, out of the fight and mortally wounded.
Tom had only two rounds left. He felt a moment’s sharp desire for an automatic pistol with a large clip-and an even sharper desire for a twelve-pounder loaded with canister.
Doc, you better be out here when you’re supposed to be…
Tom made a split-second decision to fire his remaining two rounds at one assailant rather than trying to take down both men. He simply wasn’t a Wild West gunfighter-as demonstrated by the fact that only one of the four shots he’d fired so far had hit precisely where he’d aimed it.
He chose the smaller of the last two, whose double-barreled snaphaunce pistol was almost leveled at him. He fired twice again-and was dry.
The choice to double-tap his third target saved his life. This thug had been the furthest off, and Tom’s first shot went a little high and wide: it only grazed the assassin’s shoulder. But that had made the target flinch; he discharged both barrels a split-second too early. One round cut a seam in the back of Tom’s boot; the other bullet spanged and whined off the center of the flagstone he was straddling.
As it did, Tom’s second and final shot vented the bottom of his target’s left ribcage. The assassin doubled over and went back with a shuddering moan.