double tap huntsman

A Huntsman emerged from the smoke and leapt over my shield like it was on wires. I kept the shield held out toward its packmates back in the smoke, tracked it with the big Smith & Wesson, and started pulling the trigger as it landed and whirled with its spear.
The first round hit it center mass, and the big, slow bullet staggered it, even if it didn’t make it blink. It snarled and thrust the spear at me, but I’d gained enough time to shoot again, and before it could commit its weight to the thrust, the second round hit it lower and must have gotten its spine, because it dropped limp to the ground—
—and sank the fingers of one hand into the dirt and drove the spear at my face with the other, screaming.
I ducked and slapped the head of the spear with the barrel of the revolver, throwing up sparks. Then I recovered my aim and sent my last round through its forehead from five feet away. Its head snapped back and then flopped limply into the dust, its body already desiccating and draining away.

Battle Ground Chapter 9, Page 88