He felt his knees weakening and he let go the rifle to get a better grip on the door jamb, but his fingers lacked the strength and he slid to the floor. Somebody was crying and somebody else was shooting, and far off he could hear the pound of racing hoofs. They kept pounding until their racing seemed to be inside his skull.
And then he was dead . . . or he felt like it. Never having been dead, he might have been mistaken.
(from Fallon, by Louis L'Amour)
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