Man with No Name- Clubbed by Iron Grapnel

His finger was tightening on the trigger when from somewhere behind and above him a strange voice bawled, “Look out! Dude, dammit!”

The next moment a solid iron object slammed into the back of his skull, knocking him forward so that he took a bruising blow of the saddle horn against his ribs. His eyes filled with a vision of blazing lights and exploding stars. He felt himself sliding helplessly out of the saddle and managed, by superhuman efforts, to shake his feet out of the stirrups an instant before he plunged into impenetrable blackness.
...

His own condition seemed reasonably satisfactory, at least as far as he could determine without testing flesh and bones. Whatever had slammed the back of his head had raised a bump that felt as big as a cannonball and seemed to consist mainly of raw, shrieking nerves. The heavy felt of his expensive Stetson had saved him from a fractured skull but had done nothing to fend off the hammering headache that wracked him now. A stabbing pain in his chest warned him that the impact with the saddlehorn had probably cracked two or three ribs. Considering some of the encounters he had survived, he was in good shape.
...

He touched the big, tender lump on the back of his head and winced, mumbling, “Wh-what happened?”

“I’d just spotted my wagons coming and let down a ten-pound iron grapnel on around a hundred feet of line, meaning to hook onto my balloon wagon so I could be hauled down. It was your bad luck to ride in front of it and get slugged. I yelled, but you didn’t react quick enough to dodge. I couldn’t steer around you because a balloon can only go where the breeze pushes it. So the result was—Pow!” His grin was good counterfeit. “I won’t ask you how you feel, because I’ve a pretty damn good idea how you feel, having been belted with assorted objects myself more than once.”

- The Million-Dollar Bloodhunt, chapters 3 and 5