The Gun Fight (18 page)

“I would like to believe that,” her aunt said to Mrs. Benton then, “but I’m afraid it’s gone too far for that.”

“Too far?” Julia Benton sounded stunned. “How can it have gone so far you won’t listen to the truth?”

Louisa felt numbed as she pressed against the bannister, her fingers clutching whitely at it. She heard her aunt say, a little less assuredly now, “I told you, Mrs. Benton, the matter is out of my hands.”

“It’s not out of Louisa’s hands!”

Louisa gasped. Now, she thought in terror,
now
Aunt Agatha would find out and everyone would know . . .

But her aunt said, “It is out of her hands too,” an undertone of anger in her voice.

“Dear God, what’s the matter with everybody!” Julia Benton burst out. “Do you all want Robby killed!”

Up on the landing, Louisa couldn’t breathe suddenly. She felt as if her heart had stopped, her blood had ceased to flow, as if every function of her body had stopped in that instant. On her drained face, a look of utter horror froze.

Robby
killed
?

She hardly heard her aunt speak out angrily, “How dare you accuse us of that!”

“What else can I say when you won’t listen to facts!”

“I think you’d better go, Mrs. Benton.”

“I must see Louisa.”

“I’ve already told you—!”

“I know what you told me! But I’m not going to stand by and watch that boy killed over nothing!”

Louisa flinched at the word, her lips trembling and cold. I didn’t know, I didn’t know—the words stumbled in her shocked mind—oh God, I didn’t
know.

Now, downstairs, her aunt suddenly cried out, “You’re not coming in here!”

“Miss Winston, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I am in full sympathy with your concern, Mrs. Benton,” Miss Winston said, her words tightly articulated, “but I cannot allow you to upset my niece any further. If you want to argue with anyone, argue with Mister Coles and his son. The matter is—”

“Miss Winston, there isn’t time!”

“—in their hands now, not ours!” Miss Winston finished her sentence loudly.

“Miss Winston, Louisa is the only one who can—”

The loud slamming of the front door cut off Julia Benton’s frantic voice and made Louisa start violently, her hands tightening spasmodically on the bannister. Downstairs, she heard a drawn-in breath rasp in her aunt’s throat, then a choked sob. The doorbell rang insistently.

“Go away!” Agatha Winston cried out in a broken voice. “You’re not welcome here!”

Suddenly, Louisa pushed herself up and moved around the bannister railing, desperately thinking—I’ve got to stop it!

The sight of her aunt drove her back and a whimper started in her throat as she drew away from the head of the stairs. No, no, I have to tell her!—she thought in terrified anguish.

She whirled and ran down the hall, her feet soundless on the thick rug. Pushing open the door, she shut it quickly and silently behind herself and rushed across the room toward the window.

As she reached it, she saw Julia Benton moving for the gate. Her mouth opened and she tried to call to her but the sound would not come—it froze in her throat. In her mind a flood of frightened thoughts drowned resolve—Aunt Agatha finding out, Robby finding out, John Benton finding out, the whole town finding out . . .

A sob broke in her throat and her hands clutched desperately at the windowsill. But I have to tell! she thought, agonized, I can’t let him be
killed
!

“Mrs. Benton!” she called. But the call was a strangled whispering and, with sickened eyes, she watched Julia Benton get in the buckboard.

Then Mrs. Benton looked at the house, her face white and shaken. Louisa raised her hand suddenly. “Mrs.
Benton
!” she said, a little louder but not loud enough.

Julia Benton tugged at the dark reins and the horse pulled the buckboard away.

“No!” Louisa couldn’t keep from crying out. She clapped a shaking hand over her mouth and whirled to face the door. Had Aunt Agatha heard her? She stared at the closed door for a full minute, lips shaking, her eyes stark with dread.

Aunt Agatha did not come up. Louisa leaned back against the wall weakly, her mind confused with a tangling
of thoughts. What was she going to do? Oh God, what was she going to
do
?

Out in the hall, a wall clock ticked its endless beat while the minute hand moved slowly for the number six. In ten minutes, it would be twelve-thirty.

H
e’s out of town,” Benton told her when they met at the foot of Davis Street.

Julia stared up at him blankly. “Out of town?” she repeated in a faint voice.

“That’s what the deputy said.”

“But . . . for how long?”

“Three days yet,” John said gravely. “He’s takin’ a prisoner to the Rangers.” On the plank sidewalk, passing men and women glanced at them and tried to hear what they were saying.

“Well, what about the deputy?” Julia said. “He can stop it, can’t he?”

“Well—” John started to say, then glanced over suddenly at the sidewalk where two men looked away and walked off quickly along the planks toward the Zorilla Saloon.

Mouth tightened, Benton dismounted and tied Socks to the back of the buckboard. A thin-wheeled rig came crackling up Davis Street and was guided around them. From the corners of his eyes, Benton saw Henry Oliver looking at him curiously.

Then the rig turned left into the square and Benton climbed up on the seat beside Julia.

“He won’t do anything,” he told her. “Too many
people are for it. Guess this thing is bigger than we thought. Half the town knows about it, looks like.”

“But . . .” Julia stared at him, dazedly, trying to think but unable to, “. . . what are we going to do?”

John didn’t even bother shrugging. “I don’t know, ma,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. “I just don’t know.” He looked up at her. “What happened at the girl’s house?”

“Her aunt was there,” Julia said.

“She wouldn’t even let you
in
, I expect,” John said grimly and she started to say something but didn’t. They sat there in the motionless buckboard, trying to ignore the passersby who stared at them.

“Well, let’s not just
sit
here,” John said abruptly. “Here, you want me to drive?” He reached for the reins, then glanced up irritably at a passing man who was gaping at him.

“Give me the reins, Julia,” he said tersely.

She looked over at him. “Where are we going?” she asked, worriedly.

His mouth opened a little as if he were about to speak, then he hesitated and blew out a tired breath.

“Where
can
we go?” he asked her.

“Well . . .”

“We’ll have to go back to the ranch,” he said.

“John, we can’t.”

“Julia, what else is there to do?”

“Can’t we see the deputy sheriff again? He has to keep the peace; it’s his job.”

“Honey, the job’s no bigger than the man. Catwell’s just a store clerk with a badge on. He’s not goin’ to stand up against half the town. He’s not the kind.”

“But we
can’t
go back, John,” she said, more heatedly. “We’ve got to stop it somehow.”

“What would you suggest?” he asked, his voice flat and unencouraging.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to get control of her scattered thoughts. “But we have to do something.”

John shrugged and let his hands fall to his lap and he sat there staring at his mud-caked boots.

“I almost think you want this—” Julia started to say, then stopped as he looked over quickly at her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John,” she said hastily. “It’s just that . . .”

She pressed her hands together. “Can’t we . . .” She hesitated and then said quickly, “We’ll go talk to Robby.”

“Honey, you heard his old man this morning,” John said. “Did he sound like he was open to reason?”

“We’ll talk to Robby, not his father.”

“Same thing,” he said, disgustedly.

“John, we have to do
some
thing,” she said slowly and tensely. “You know we have to.”

He let go of the reins and pressed his lips together.

“All right,” he said curtly. “All right, Julia. But not much more. You understand?
Not much more.
”

With a nervous twitching of her hands, Julia shook the reins and the buckboard lurched forward into the square.

L
ouisa stood at the head of the stairs, looking down, one hand pressed at the bosom of her dress, the other clamped tightly on the bannister railing.

They were still down there. They weren’t talking but Louisa knew they were there and knew she’d have to walk by the front room to get to the kitchen and the back door.

She lowered one foot nervously and shifted her weight to the first carpeted step with a cautious movement. The stair creaked a little and Julia stiffened, her eyes fastened to the doorway below that led to the front room.

There was no sound. Julia brought the other foot down and stood on the top step, legs cold and trembling. Suddenly, she became conscious of the ticking clock and she glanced over at it, her throat moving.

Twenty minutes to one. There was so little time.

She moved down another step silently. I should tell Aunt Agatha, the thought oppressed her, Aunt Agatha could stop it.

But the idea of telling her aunt made Louisa’s stomach turn. She couldn’t do it, she just couldn’t, she’d rather tell anyone else.

Besides, she rationalized weakly, Aunt Agatha had
said it was out of her hands. No, she’d have to tell someone else.

But who?

Louisa moved down another step, her lips twitching as the wood crackled in strain beneath her. I should have taken my shoes off! the thought burst in her mind. What if they heard her? What if they came out in the hall and saw her on the stairs? What would she tell Aunt Agatha; what
could
she tell her?

Louisa stood fixed to the step, heart thudding in heavy, irregular beats. She bit her trembling lip. No, I have to do it! she told herself, fighting off the instinct to rush back to her room and hide. I have to, I just
have
to!

She swallowed the obstruction in her throat and moved down another step, her hand sliding noiselessly along the bannister railing, then clamping tightly as she lowered herself. Another step; another.

She froze involuntarily. Down in the front room, her aunt was clearing her throat.

“Are we having dinner?” she heard Aunt Agatha say.

“If you . . . want some,” the pale voice of her mother replied. “I’m . . . not hungry, myself.”

“
I am
,” said Aunt Agatha.

Louisa shuddered and stood there rooted, expecting at any moment to see her aunt come walking out of the front room.

But there was only silence below. Louisa thought she heard the clicking of knitting needles but she wasn’t sure. I have to get out! she thought desperately.

She moved down another step, lowering her foot cautiously, testing her weight on the carpeted wood. Another step. She stopped and tightened as a horse galloped by in front of the house and she thought it was going to stop. She closed her eyes a moment and drew in a heavy, nervous breath. Why wasn’t there a back stairway?

“The nerve of that woman,” she heard Aunt Agatha say.

“She’s just—” her mother started and then said no more.

“Defending him like that,” said Agatha Winston in an insulted voice. “The very idea; after what he did.”

No, no, I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t—Louisa begged herself, reaching up hastily to brush aside the tears. Why did she ever tell Robby that story—
why
? She drew in a rasping breath and then cut it off sharply, her eyes widening in fright.

No sound in the front room. She moved down another step and it creaked beneath her.

“Louisa?”

She felt a bolt of panic stun her heart as her aunt’s voice probed up at her. She stood there mutely, shivering without control as her aunt came out of the front room, carrying her knitting.

“What is it you want?” her aunt asked.

“I . . .” Louisa stared down dumbly at her.

“Well?”

Louisa tried to speak but there was no sound.

“Speak up, child!”

“I’m hungry.” Louisa heard herself blurt out the words.

Her aunt looked up at her suspiciously a moment, then said grumpily, “Oh.”

Turning, Aunt Agatha went back into the front room. Now! Louisa thought frantically and she ran down the steps on trembling legs.

“You can’t be
that
hungry,” Agatha Winston said, coming back into the hall, this time without her knitting.

Louisa felt a sudden cold sinking in her stomach and her legs were numb under her as she walked toward the kitchen, Aunt Agatha following behind her, saying, “Elizabeth? Come along, it’s dinner time,” and her mother answering, weakly, “Yes . . . Agatha.”

J
ulia drew back on the reins and the mare stopped in front of the shop. She pulled back on the brake and stood up. John helped her down without a word, his face hard and thin-lipped. She didn’t speak to him as they walked, side by side, across the dirt, then stepped up onto the roofed-over plank sidewalk. John’s hand released hers and he opened the door of the shop for her.

The bell over the door tinkled and Matthew Coles looked up from his bench, his face tightening as he saw who it was. Slowly, with carefully controlled movement, he rose and came walking to the front counter. He said nothing, he didn’t even look at Benton.

“Mister Coles,” Julia said.

“Well?” His voice was hard and unpleasant.

“Mister Coles, this thing has gone far enough,” Julia said, trying to sound calm. “It must be stopped—
now.
”

The expression on Matthew Coles’ face did not change at all. “Stopped?” he asked as if he were actually curious.

Julia Benton swallowed and Benton pressed his lips together over clenched teeth.

“Mister Coles, my husband is not guilty of what he’s been accused. I’ll say it again, Mister Coles. He is not guilty. Louisa Harper
lied.
”