A man is a fool to die slow if he does not have to. And I will know when to do it, too, Hostetler said I would. There will come a day. On that day I will take care of it. I am damned John Bernard Books will go out screaming.
He put his right hand on the congenial steel of the gun under his pillow, his left on that of the one at his side under the covers. He had slept with his guns for years. He wondered which of them he would use.
Books thought: No matter.
He thought: Both are friends of mine.
— The Shootist by Glendon Swarthout