The Gun Fight (22 page)

For her husband.

I
t was like some endless nightmare. She’d keep moving into the hall, past the clock and over to the head of the stairs; but, every time she did, her aunt would be down in the sitting room, talking to her mother. Louisa would come back along the hall rug, past the clock, and into her room once again. It happened that way again and again, always the same except for one thing. Every time she passed the clock, it was a different time.
Two ten—two fifteen—two twenty-one—two twenty-seven—

Oh, dear God! She stood shaking at the head of the steps, wanting to scream, her cold hands clutching at the bannister. She had to get out, she
had
to! Only a little more than thirty minutes were left now. She bit her lower lip until it hurt and her breast shook with unresolved sobs.

I’ll tell Aunt Agatha, I’ll tell her I lied, I’ll tell her to stop the fight. I have to, I just have to! And she’d go down one step, meaning to rush downstairs and tell everything and save Robby.

But, after one downward step, she’d freeze and be unable to go any farther. She’d never been able to talk to her aunt in her life. Her aunt was remote from her, a bony-faced, dark-garbed stranger. Tell
her
that she’d
lied? Tell
her
that she was in love with John Benton and had made believe that . . .

She backed up the step again, lips shaking, tears forcing their way from her eyes and dribbling down her pale cheeks. She hurried back to her room, looking at the clock as she passed. Before she reached the door, she heard the tinny resonance of the clock chiming the half hour. In thirty minutes.

Thirty
minutes
!

She stood alone in her room, looking around desperately for the answer. She had to tell someone—but first of all she had to get out of the house.

She moved to the window quickly. Could she climb down the trellis? No, she’d fall and hurt herself. And, even if she managed to do it, surely they’d hear her climbing down.

A whimpering started in her throat and she turned restlessly from the window. But I have to do something! The thought filled her with terror. She couldn’t just let Robby die!

She ran to the door, thinking she might climb down from her mother’s window in back. But there was no ivy trellis in back, she suddenly remembered. She’d have to jump then. But it was too high—she’d kill herself. The whimper rose. Oh . . . no,
no.
Oh, God, help me to stop it—please, please . . .

The minute hand was moving away from the six now. Louisa stared at it with sick fascination. I can see it moving now, she thought dizzily, they say you can’t really see a clock hand but I can—

Oh, God, it’s going to the seven! I have to
do
something!

She ran to the head of the stairs. Her stomach was tightening, she was starting to feel sick. I have to do something, I have to stop it, I
have
to. She pressed her shaking hands together, staring down the steps toward the front door.

I have to!

Suddenly, she felt herself running down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, her shoes thudding quickly on the carpeted steps.

Before she reached the bottom step, Aunt Agatha came hurrying from the sitting room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“I have to stop it,” Louisa gasped.

“Stop it?” her aunt said, questioningly. “I don’t see what—”

“Aunt Agatha, it’s my fault—mine! Please tell them to stop. I didn’t mean to . . .”

She stood there trembling, thinking—there, it’s said, I’ve
said
it and I don’t care as long as Robby is safe.

“Louisa, go to your room,” Aunt Agatha said.

Louisa didn’t understand. “But I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“But we have to stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“The fight!”

Aunt Agatha’s lips pressed together. “I
thought
you’d found out about it,” she said. “If you’d remained in your room as I told you, this wouldn’t have—”

“But, Aunt Agatha, we have to stop it!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“But it’s my fault, Aunt Agatha! I made up the story; I didn’t tell the truth!”

Aunt Agatha’s eyes closed a moment. “I understand, Louisa,” she said calmly. “It shows you have a good heart. But I’m afraid it’s too late now.”

Louisa didn’t understand. She stared at her aunt incredulously. “But . . .” she murmured.

“I’m sure we appreciate your wish to prevent violence, Louisa. However, there is no alterna—”

“But it’s
my fault
!” Louisa burst out, tears springing from under her eyelids. “I made up the story! John Benton never even
spoke
to me!”

“Go to your room, Louisa.”

“Aunt Agatha!”

“Louisa, this instant . . .”

Louisa couldn’t believe it was true. She stared at her aunt dazedly, feeling her heart beat in great, rocking jolts.

Abruptly, she turned to her mother who had come into the hall. “Mother, you have to—”

“Lou-isa!” Agatha Winston’s voice was metallic. “That will do.”

“But you have to—”

“Go to your room, I said!”

“You’re not going to—?” Louisa began in a faint voice.

“Louisa, if I have to say another word, you’ll remain in this house for a month,” Agatha Winston stated.

“Darling, please don’t make it worse,” her mother begged.

Louisa backed away, her eyes stricken with horror at what she’d done.

Then, suddenly, she lurched for the front door and jerked it open. Before her surprised aunt could jump forward to grab her, Louisa had run out onto the porch.

“Lou-
isa
!” Aunt Agatha’s sharp cry followed her as she fled down the path and flung open the picket gate.

“Oh, my dear—please,” her mother pleaded in a voice that no one heard.

Agatha Winston ran as far as the gate, her lean face masked with outraged surprise. There, she stopped and watched Louisa running frantically down Davis Street toward the square.

In the hallway, she put on her bonnet with quick, agitated motions. “She’s lost her mind,” she muttered, paying no attention to her distraught sister. “She’s taken leave of her senses. Made it up, in-
deed
! Does she think a
lie
is going to stop this fight?”

She hurried from the house, leaving behind a weeping Mrs. Harper, standing in the hallway, trembling and thinking if only her dear husband were alive.

Twenty-two minutes to three.

I
t was exactly twenty minutes to three when the Reverend Omar Bond came out of the white-steepled church on the way to his adjoining house and saw John Benton riding slowly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.

“Oh, Mister Benton,” he called, stepping out into the street.

Benton glanced over, then when he’d seen who it was, he tugged a little at the barbit, reining the bay to a slow halt. The Reverend Bond walked up to the horse, smiling up at Benton.

“Afternoon, Reverend,” Benton said to him.

“Good afternoon, Mister Benton,” Bond answered. “My apologies for stopping you. I just wanted to find out how things went yesterday.”

Benton looked down in surprise at the dark-suited man. “You don’t know?” he asked.

The smile faded. “Know?” the Reverend said, disturbedly.

“I’m to meet Robby Coles in the square at three o’clock,” Benton told him.

“Meet him,” Bond repeated blankly.

Then it struck him. “Oh, dear Lord, no!” he said in a shocked voice. “In
one day
?”

Benton didn’t say anything. He drew out his watch and looked at it, his expression unchanged.

“But it must be stopped,” Bond said.

Benton’s mouth tightened. “It’s no use talkin’ to anyone, Reverend,” he said. “Nobody wants to listen. They want what they want and that’s it.”

“Oh,
no
, Mister Benton,” Bond said, arguing desperately. “This meeting must not take place.”

“It’s too late, Reverend,” Benton said quietly. “There’s not much more than fifteen minutes left.”

“Dear God, it
must
be stopped,” said the Reverend in a tight, unaccepting voice. He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Benton. “Come with me to Louisa Harper’s home,” he asked. “She will surely confess when she hears that there is a life at stake.”

Benton looked restless. “Reverend,” he said, “I been all through this. Yesterday I came in like you asked. I tried to talk reason with these people. And this mornin’ both Julia and I came in. The girl’s aunt wouldn’t even let my wife in the house. Nobody would listen.”

“But surely they don’t realize—”

“Reverend, they
do
realize,” Benton said. “It doesn’t matter to them. They don’t care, they don’t
want
to believe I didn’t do what they said. They want blood, Reverend.” Benton’s lips tightened for a fraction of a second. “They’ll get blood,” he said.

“Oh, no . . .
no
.”

“I have to go, Reverend,” Benton said.

“The sheriff, then!”

“He’s out of town, Reverend. I’m sorry. I have to go now.”

“Is there
no
one?”

“No one, Reverend.”

“There is you, Mister Benton. I beg of you to reconsider.”

“Reverend, I have to be in the square by three o’clock,” Benton told him firmly. “I’m sorry.” The coldness
left his voice then. “Believe me, I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t ask for this thing. I did everything I could to stop it, I swear to that. But—” his head shook slowly, “it’s no use.”

“I’ll go to Louisa,” Bond said quickly. “I’ll tell her. She
must
confess her lie!”

Benton said nothing but his gaze moved restlessly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.

“Mister Benton, can’t you hold this thing off? Can’t you prevent it from happening until I can reach the girl?”

Benton shifted in the saddle. “Reverend, they said three o’clock,” he said. “I’ll do what I can but . . .” He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.

“Then . . .” Bond looked carefully at the tall man, his mind a twisting rush of conflicts. “Mister Benton I . . . I know nothing of these things, nothing. But . . . well, you have a reputation for . . .” he struggled for the words, “. . . for accuracy and . . . and quickness with your . . . your weapon.”

Benton looked down expressionlessly at the churchman. “What do you mean?” he asked guardedly.

“I know this may be unreasonable but . . . isn’t it possible for you to—to merely
wound
young Coles? Even if you cannot avoid the meeting in time, couldn’t you end it without taking his life?”

Benton looked down with a tense expression.

“Reverend . . . you don’t know what you’re asking me.” He rubbed a hand across his sweat-streaked brow and wiped it on his Levi’s. “Beggin’ your pardon but . . . well, you just don’t know what a gunslingin’ is like. It’s not somethin’ that . . . that
lasts.
It’s not somethin’ you can play with. It happens too fast, Reverend, too damn fast.”

Bond stood there, looking up blankly at the worried face of John Benton.

“And . . . well, besides that,” Benton said grudgingly, as if he felt he must be understood, “I’ve been away
from it a long time. I haven’t drawn a gun on anybody in more than eight years—and gunslingin’ is somethin’ you have to keep up with or you lose the touch.”

He gritted his teeth, seeing that he wasn’t getting across to Bond.

“How do I know how fast Robby is?” he asked. “What if I go into this meanin’ to crease him and then he outdraws me before I even get the chance?”

“But, surely . . .”

“No, I just can’t take that chance, Reverend,” Benton said. “If I was in practice—yes, I might do it but . . . not now.”

He hesitated, then started in again, his voice rising. “Reverend, hittin’ an arm or a leg in the split second a gunslingin’ takes is hard enough t’do when a man’s with it every day. But I been away from it over
eight years.
” He shook his head. “I just can’t do it, Reverend, I . . . just can’t. I want to live too—just like him.”

“Well, will you try to keep the fight from starting until I can reach Louisa Harper then?” Bond asked in a hurried, anxious voice.

“Reverend, I . . .” Benton exhaled heavily. “I’ll try,” he said. “But you’d better hurry.”

He tugged at the reins then and the bay moved off toward the square.

Bond rushed up the path to his house and into the hall, his eyes seeking for the clock as he entered. Two forty-seven.

Thirteen minutes.

“Oh, dear Lord,” he muttered in a choked voice as he headed for the kitchen.

“Omar, what is—?” his wife started to ask as he dashed toward the back door.

“No time!” he cried and then was gone.

When she appeared on the porch, he was trying feverishly to get the bridle on their gray mare and attach the animal to the rig.

“Omar, what is it?” she asked, anxiously.

“Benton and young Coles going to fight in the square at three!” he gasped, his fingers fumbling at the leather.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Bond murmured.

“I’m going to Louisa Harper’s house to try and stop it!” Bond told her.

A minute and a half later, he was whipping the mare out the alley and the rig was groaning as it turned onto St. Virgil Street and headed for Davis Street.

Mrs. Bond went back into the kitchen, shaken by the sight of her husband so upset, so white.

When the front doorbell jangled suddenly in the stillness, Mrs. Bond dropped the wooden spoon she was stirring with. Before the clatter had died in her ears, she was in the hallway, moving on skirt-whipping legs toward the door.

Her eyes widened as she saw who it was.

“Where’s the Reverend?” Louisa Harper gasped.

Mrs. Bond knew about the affair and a succession of emotions jolted through her as she stared at the flushed, perspiring face of the young girl—shock first, then confusion, then excited resolve, then a sudden dread as she realized that Omar had said
three o’clock.

“Quickly, child,” she said. “The story you told. It wasn’t true, was it?”