One of Swarthout's likable scenarios of the year 1901 when John B. Books, a shootist (that's an elegant word for desperado) rides into El Paso in his Stetson and his Prince Albert coat, cushioned by a pillow from a whorehouse. He has come to learn from the doctor who once saved his life whether he's dying of cancer of the prostate -- and he is. But he's determined to keep his pride and his ""guns loaded to the last"" and so he does, holed up in a room with a widow-landlady who helps ease his way along with the laudanum. Muy hombre to the finish, Books disposes of two assailants who come to get him, gets the best of the carrion (a newspaperman, a photographer, an undertaker, a prostitute he once loved) who come to feed off his not quite dead body, tries and fails to salvage his landlady's gone-wrong youngster, and arranges his final shootout. . . . The fourth horseman's last ride -- flinch if you will -- with style and spirit.