What do you imagine happened to the shootists of the Old West--those mysterious lone gunmen who drifted from place to place--when they were lucky enough or skilled enough to survive into middle age? What if they fell ill? Who took care of them?
Glendon Swarthout tells us what might happen in this thoughtful novel. His shootist is John B. Books, the last gunfighter in the West. He is 51 years old and he has terminal cancer. He rides to El Paso to consult a trusted doctor and holes up in a boarding house owned by a widow who has a wayward teenage son. As news of his identity and his medical condition gets abroad, human vultures begin lurking, hoping to cash in on his fame. Determined to die with dignity, Books sees a way to spare himself a lingering death and to rid the town of some rotten skunks at the same time.
Even though Swarthout begins his story with an unusual situation, he could have let it slide into sentimentalized pathos and familiar cliches', but he avoids that by his matter-of-fact narration and by constantly introducing surprising developments. Just when you think you can anticipate what is about to happen, you find that you are wrong.
This novel is not written in a showy style, but it is extremely well done. The characterization and dialogue are excellent. It is not your typical feel-good-at-the-end Western or your revisionist ultra-violent Western. It has more in common with Elmer Kelton than with Louis L'Amour or Cormac McCarthy. I liked it very much.
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The movie version of the novel starring John Wayne and Lauren Bacall was really good until someone (writer? director? John Wayne?) decided to change the plot to make it end on a feel-good note, which entirely negated the theme of the book. What a shame.
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