The Gun Fight (12 page)

“Someone will pay for this,” she heard her aunt muttering to herself. “Someone will
pay.
”

That was when they heard bootfalls in the shop entrance.

Louisa glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. Abruptly, she shrank back, eyes stark with fright, a gasp clutching at her throat. Instinctively, she drew to one side, away from the back room doorway.

Agatha Winston looked up, nerves about unstrung. “What is it now?” she hissed.

“It’s . . . it—it’s
him
!” Louisa whispered frantically.

Agatha Winston stood up quickly and stepped to the doorway.

Her thin nostrils flared, a calcification of outrage ran down her back. Hurriedly, she stepped away from the doorway.

“Stay back here,” she ordered. “Don’t move.” Her agitated hands flew to her gray hair, to her skirt.

“Stay here,” she said again, then moved out of the room and went behind the counter.

John Benton took off his hat as she approached him. He nodded his head politely and waited until she’d reached him.

“Afternoon, ma’m,” he said then. “Are you Miss Winston?”

Her face was like stone. “I am,” she said, controlling herself.

“My name is John Benton,” he told her. “I—”

“I know your name,” she said, coldly, wondering why she didn’t erupt in his face. She would not admit nor even recognize the fact that she was afraid.

“You’re Louisa Harper’s aunt, aren’t you?” Benton asked.

She said nothing. She swallowed the lump in her throat and stared at him, a trembling in her. She couldn’t say anything but she wouldn’t answer his questions anyway.

The politeness seemed to drift from Benton’s face like a veil of smoke. His smile faded. “I’d like to speak to your niece,” he said, softly.

“She is not here,” said Agatha Winston.

Benton looked mildly confused. “What?” he said.

“My niece is not here,” said Miss Winston slowly.

“Her mother said she was here,” Benton answered.

Miss Winston’s face lost color and she pressed together her trembling lips. Then she said, “Good day, Mister Benton.”

He looked curiously at her hard, unyielding face.
Then he glanced toward the back of the shop. “Miss Winston,” he said, “I believe I saw your niece when I came in.”

Miss Winston shuddered with repressed fury. “She is not here,” she said, tensely.

“Now, look here,” Benton said. “What are you—”

“Good
day
, Mister Benton.”

“Look here, Miss . . .” He gestured. “. . . Winston,” he finished, remembering after a momentary lapse. “I came into town because there’s some fool story goin’ around that—”

“Will you leave my shop or do I have to call the sheriff?” Miss Winston shuddered, remembering suddenly that Sheriff Wilks was out of town for the week, taking a prisoner to the city.

Benton still didn’t understand. “Look here, Miss Winston,” he said, “I came here because—”

“Get out of here!” The control was suddenly gone; Miss Winston’s face grew dark with rage again.

Benton didn’t even change expression at her hysterical demand. He stood there looking incredulously at her while, outside, on the plank sidewalk, a passing couple stopped and listened.

“Look, I’ve had about enough of this—”

Benton stopped talking. Miss Agatha Winston was headed for the back of the shop, her dark skirts rustling angrily. She turned the counter edge and came stamping down the length of the shop.

At the door, she stopped and turned, ignoring the couple who moved on awkwardly, trying to act as if they’d seen nothing.

“Get out of here, you . . . !” The proper word escaped her. Miss Winston pointed one shaking finger out at the square.

A moment more, John Benton looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then he made a sound of complete bewilderment, slapped on his Stetson, and walked out of the shop.

Outside, he turned impulsively.

“Listen, will you tell your niece to—”

The banging of the slammed door cut off his words. John Benton stood there looking a little dazed as Miss Agatha Winston drew down the dark shades of her shop and shut him away.

B
enton moved for his horse, not seeing the couple that stared at him, whispering between themselves. His face was tight with confusion as he swung up onto the saddle and drew Socks around. He started across the square for St. Virgil Street.

Then, halfway there, he pulled his mount around and headed for the small shop at the south end of the square. He’d try Robby then; maybe he could talk a little sense to a man. That woman—good God above! Benton shook his head amazedly, thinking about the way Miss Winston had acted. Maybe the Reverend was right, maybe this thing was getting a little bigger than it should. If it weren’t, he would have ridden right back to the ranch and forgotten about it. But . . . well, he was here; he might as well try to end the thing if he could.

But with Robby, not with that Winston woman. Benton hissed slowly to himself. What a one
she
was.

In front of the shop, Benton reined up and dismounted. He tied Socks to the rack, then ducked under the bar and stepped up onto the plank sidewalk.

As he entered the small shop, it seemed to be empty. His gaze moved over the sun-speckled benches, the pistols and rifles hanging on the walls, the glass case on the front counter. That was a good-looking Colt there with its white-bone stock and shiny new metal. Benton felt
the slight flexing in his fingers that came whenever he saw the well-made symmetry of the pistol he knew so well. It was so habitual, he hardly noticed it. His gaze drifted over the other pistols in the case.

He was looking at a Smith and Wesson .44 caliber six-shooter when Matthew Coles came out of the back room. Benton looked up at the sound of footsteps and met the glare of the older man.

Mr. Coles walked quickly to the counter. “State your business,” he said curtly.

There was a slight wrinkling of skin around Benton’s eyes as he looked inquisitively at Matthew Coles.

“Is your son here?” he asked.

“He is not.”

Benton met the older man’s stony look without change of expression. “Where can I find him?” he asked.

Matthew Coles was silent.

“I said—where can I find your son?” Benton repeated as if he hadn’t noticed the slight.

“When the time comes,” said Matthew Coles, “he will find you.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Benton said, the tanned skin tensing across his cheek bones. “Let’s get this straight. This fool story about me and—”

“I am not interested in stories,” Matthew Coles declared.

Benton took a deep, controlling breath. “I think you better be interested in this one,” he said.

Mr. Coles said nothing.

“Listen, Coles, this thing isn’t funny anymore.”

“It is, decidedly, not funny,” said Matthew Coles, his gaze dropping for a searching instant to John Benton’s left hip, then raising as instantly, assured. “You have presumed too much on your popularity, Mister Benton. That was a mistake.”

“If you’re talkin’ about that girl, you’re all wrong,” Benton said. “I never even
spoke
to her since I been in Kellville.”

The thinnest hint of a smile played at the corners of Matthew Coles’ mouth. “You don’t have to come explaining to me,” he said.

Benton strained forward a moment, body tensed, something in his eyes making Matthew Coles draw back, slack-faced.

Benton swallowed, controlling himself with difficulty.

“Where’s your son?” he asked, tensely. “I want to see him.”

“He does not wish to see you,” Coles said.

Repressed anger seemed to ripple beneath the surface of Benton’s face. “Listen, Coles,” he said, “I came into town to end this fool story, not to be pushed around.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Matthew Coles, stiffly. “However, since you are no longer man enough to wear a gun you cannot very well command respect, can you?”

Again the tightening of Benton’s muscles; at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“You’re an old man,” he said, softly. “But don’t overplay it, Coles, don’t overplay it.”

Mindless rage flared up lividly in Matthew Coles’ face. “Get out of my shop!” he ordered.

“My pleasure,” Benton said, turning on his heel and starting for the door.

“You will hear from us, sir!” Coles shouted after him.

“I’m sure I will,” Benton said, without looking back.

Then, at the door, he turned.

“Now listen to me, old man,” he said, warningly. “Stop pushing this damn thing. If you don’t, somebody’s goin’ to get hurt, understand? You’ve got a good kid. Don’t push him into somethin’ he’s not up to. I’ve got no grudge against Robby and he’s got no reason to hold any grudge against me. Understand? None at all. Tell him that.” Benton’s face hardened in an instant. “And
stay away
!”

The look was gone as quickly as it came. “I don’t want trouble from anyone, Coles,” Benton said. “Not from anyone.”

Matthew Coles stood shaking with wordless rage behind the counter, staring at Benton’s back as he went out of the shop, stepped off the plank walk, and untied his horse.

For a long time he stood there in the silence of the shop, trembling with impotent fury, his shallow chest rising and falling strainedly.

Then he went to the back of his shop and looked through the collection of new pistols for the one his son would use to kill John Benton.

“W
hy do you
think
he left the Rangers?” Jesse Willmark challenged his suds-faced customer. “ ’Cause he got
tired
of it? No. ’Cause he was too old? No. I’ll tell you why.” He leaned forward, gesturing with the sun-reflecting razor. “Because he turned yella, that’s why.”

“Couldn’t say,” the customer muttered.

“Look, ya remember the time—’bout a year or so ago, I guess it was—when they was gettin’ up a posse to chase Tom Labine? You remember that?” Jesse asked, setting up his coup de grace.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’ll tell you what about it,” Jesse broke in intently. “They asked Benton t’help them. Sheriff Wilks don’t know a dang thing about trailin’ or ’bout anythin’ for that matter. So they asked Mister John Benton t’help them out. You think he would? The hell he would! Can’t do it, he says, cut me out.
Why
? Why wouldn’t he help out his neighbors?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to,” the customer suggested.

“Hell, man,” Jesse said, “I’ll tell ya why he wouldn’t do it.” He raked the razor across the man’s soap-stubbled cheek with a practiced gesture. “He was yella, that’s why. He didn’t have the guts to ride another posse. His nerves is gone and that’s a fact.”

“Could be,” the customer said.

Jesse wiped the beard-flecked lather off his razor. He rubbed his pudgy fingers over the customer’s cheek, rubbing in the warm soap.

“I’ll tell ya somethin’ else,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It happens to all o’ them. I don’t know how—or why—but one day—” he snapped his fingers, “like that—they’re yella.”

He started shaving again. “They go on year after year shootin’ ’em down like sittin’ ducks,” he said, “then, one day—
bang
—they turn yella; they get scared o’ their own shadda. It’s nerves what it is. Ain’t no man alive can go on like that year after year without losin’ his nerve.”

He nodded grimly.

“And that’s what happened to Benton,” he said. “Mind, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from the man. He was a big lawman in his day, brave as they come, quick on the draw. Course he never was as big as they painted him but—” he shrugged, “—he was a good lawman. But that don’t mean he can’t turn yella. That don’t mean he didn’t. He did—and that’s a fact.”

He shaved away beard from the customer’s throat.

“Hard to say,” the customer said, looking at the paint-flaked ceiling.

“All right,” Jesse said, wiping off the razor edge again. “If he’s still brave as he was, why don’t he wear a gun, answer me that?”

The customer said he didn’t know.

“Because he’s
scared
to pack one!” Jesse exclaimed as if it were a great truth he had to convey. “No man goes around without a gun less’n he’s too scared to use it. Ain’t that true?”

The customer shrugged. “It’s a point,” he conceded.

“Sure as hell is a point!” Jesse said. “Benton don’t pack no gun ’cause he’s scared to back hisself up with hot lead.”

The customer grunted, then sat up as Jesse adjusted the head rest.

“Then to go and do what he done,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Him a married man and all.”

The customer could see the front door in the mirror.

“Jesse,” he said, softly.

“I’ll tell ya, it sure surprised the hell outta me,” Jesse said, stropping the razor. “It’s a bad thing when a man starts goin’ down.”

“Jesse.” A warning; but too soft. The customer sat stiffly in the chair, trying not to look at the mirror.

“Specially a man like Benton,” said Jesse. “Him bein’ such a big lawdog and all. First he yellas out, then he starts playin’ around with—”

“
Jesse.
”

Jesse broke off and looked at the customer. “What is—?” he started to ask, then saw how the man was looking into the mirror. His throat tightened abruptly as he glanced up and saw the reflection of John Benton, tall and grim-faced, standing in the doorway.

Jesse didn’t dare turn. He stood there, staring helplessly into the mirror, his throat moving as he tried to swallow fear.

“I’d keep my mouth shut unless I knew what I was talkin’ about,” Benton said coldly.

Then he turned and was gone and a white-faced Jesse whirled to exclaim, “Honest, Mister Benton, I didn’t—!”

But Benton was gone. Jesse hurried to the doorway, razor in shaking hand, and watched Benton mount his horse.

Then he turned back hurriedly to his customer, a look of uncontrollable dread on his face.

“Jesus,” he said, hollowly. “You don’t think he’ll do anything to me, do you?”

The customer looked blandly at the slack-faced barber in the mirror.

“You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?” Jesse asked, getting weaker. “Do you?”

The barest suggestion of a smile. “How can he?” the customer asked. “He’s yella.”