The Gun Fight (8 page)

Robby’s throat moved quickly. “Well . . . it was more than just a conversation, sir. I told him in . . . in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t leave Louisa alone, I’d—”

“
Son
,” Matthew Coles interrupted in a slow, firm voice, “the damage has been done. This is not a situation which can be settled by talk. John Benton attempted to arrange an immoral meeting with your intended bride. Son, the facts are clear.”

“But, Louisa didn’t say—”

“Sir?”

Robby felt his throat muscles tighten at the slight but very certain stiffening in his father’s voice. But he knew he had to go on or he’d be cornered and defenseless.

“Sir, Louisa didn’t say that Benson tried to arrange an . . .” he swallowed, “an
immoral
meeting.”

“Son,” his father said, almost sadly it seemed, “you are a grown man, not a child. For what purpose do you suppose John Benton requested a meeting?”

Robby drew in a ragged breath; answerless.

“There is only one question involved here,” Matthew Coles completed his case, “and that is—do you mean to defend the honor of your intended bride or do you mean to let yourself be judged a coward—for, believe me, sir, you
will
be judged a coward and the meanest sort of coward—a man who will not stand up for his woman.”

Robby’s head sank forward, his heart beating heavily, his hands pressed tightly together in his lap.

“I want to do what’s . . . what’s right, sir,” he said huskily. “But—”

“Of course you do,” his father said, arm tightening around Robby’s shoulder. “Of course you do, sir.”

Abruptly, his father was up on his feet, looking down at Robby.

“I will leave the working out of this to you,” he said. “You are a man and a man must do things his own way.”

Robby tried to say something but he couldn’t.

“I would suggest, however,” said his father, “that, for tonight anyway, you leave your gun at home. For if you should run into John Benton and he be armed . . .”

Robby shivered in the darkness, his body slumped on the hard wooden bench. His stomach hurt again.

“You’re not in good physical form tonight,” his father continued. “I think you should wait until—”

“Sir, I’ll do what I think is right but . . .” Robby swallowed convulsively. “Let me . . . m-make my own plans.” His voice was thin and shaking in the darkness.

His father pretended not to hear the nervous fear in his son’s voice.

“The problem is yours, sir,” he said in a satisfied voice. He patted Robby briskly on the shoulder. “I will say no more—to anyone.” Pause. “You know exactly what has to be done.”

Then his father had turned and Robby was watching the dark shadow of him moving for the yard.

At the door, his father looked back.

“Don’t be too late,” he said. “Remember, there’s a good deal of work to be done at the shop tomorrow.”

Matthew Coles turned away and Robby listened to the crunching of his boots on the ground, then the measured clumping up the porch steps, the opening and closing of the back door.

In the silence, a shaking breath caught in Robby’s throat. He sat there for a long time, staring into the blackness with hopeless eyes.

Then, after a while, he stood, unbuckled his gun belt and left it hanging on a nail.

Now he was riding slowly down Armitas Street, staring ahead, his hands clenched around the horn. He didn’t want to go into town; he was afraid of seeing anyone. But, even less, did he want to go into the house and see his father. Because, in spite of what had been said, Robby wasn’t sure whether he was going to put on a gun against Benton. It was simply that he didn’t want to die. It was simply that honor seemed a very little thing beside life.

Robby tilted back his head and looked up into the jet expanses of the sky, sprinkled with glowing star dots. He felt the rhythmic jogging of the horse beneath him as he watched the sky.

Those are the stars, he thought. They were so far away no man could ever count the miles, much less travel them. It gave him a strange feeling to watch them and know how far away they were and how big. Once, his
school teacher had told Robby that if a man could gallop a horse as fast as possible and keep on galloping all his life, he still wouldn’t even travel a thousandth of the way to a star. So far away they were and he was so small and what he did was so unimportant to the stars. Why was it so important to him then?

Robby Coles looked down quickly at the darkness of the earth. It was no use looking at stars. Stars couldn’t save him; he had to save himself.

He saw that his roan was walking past the first stores of downtown Kellville and his hands lifted from the horn to guide the horse right at the next intersection. He didn’t want to ride into the square. Someone might see him; someone who knew.

When Robby turned onto St. Virgil Street, the horseman came out of the night toward him.

For a moment, Robby felt a cold, rippling sensation in his groin that made him twitch. It’s
him
, the thought lashed at his mind. He almost jerked the horse around and fled. Then, with a sudden stiffening, he lowered his head and looked intently at the saddle horn, feeling the roan bump steadily beneath him, hearing the thud of the approaching hoofbeats. He can’t shoot if I’m not looking at him, his mind thought desperately, no one shoots a man that isn’t looking. His heart beat faster and harder, sweat broke out thinly on his forehead. The horse came closer. You don’t shoot a man when he’s not looking!—he thought in anguish—you never shoot a man when he’s—

The horse man rode by without a word and Robby sagged forward weakly in the saddle, lips trembling, breath caught in his throat.

It was no use, no use; he realized it then. He couldn’t fight Benton; the very thought petrified him. No matter what happened, no matter what anyone said, he couldn’t fight Benton. He
wouldn’t
fight him.

A heavy breath faltered between Robby’s parted lips. In a way, it was relieving to make the decision. It gave
him a settled feeling. Even realizing that he’d have to face his father with the decision, it made him feel better.

As he rode for the edge of town, Robby wondered what Louisa would want him to do. She certainly seemed astounded that morning when he paled and went storming from the house after she told him about Benton asking her for a meeting. No, he didn’t think Louisa would expect him to fight Benton with a gun.

Yet, what if she did? He loved her and felt responsible for her. His father had been right in that respect anyway. Someone had to defend her and he seemed to be the only one to do it.

But did he have to
die
for her honor?

Robby nudged his boot heels into the roan’s flanks and the big horse broke into a rocking-chair canter up St. Virgil Street toward the edge of Kellville.

The horsemen seemed to appear from nowhere. One moment, Robby was alone, riding in his thoughts. The next, three horses were milling around him and he was cringing with frightened surprise in his saddle.

“Hey, Robby,” one of the young men shouted above the stirring hooves of the four horses.

Robby swallowed. “Oh . . . hello,” he said, recognizing the voice of Dave O’Hara, an old school friend of his he hadn’t seen more than three times in the past year.

The horses twisted around, snorting, while Robby stared at O’Hara’s dark form.

“Where ya goin’?” O’Hara asked.

“No place.”

“What’s that?”

“
No
place!”

“Well, come on with us then. We’re headin’ for the Zorilla.”

Robby hesitated long enough for O’Hara to lean forward and look intently at him.

“You goin’ after Benton, Robby?” O’Hara asked, almost eagerly.

It felt like someone driving a cold fist against his heart. Robby jolted in the saddle with a grunt they didn’t hear because of the milling horses.

“N-no,” he faltered, “I—”

“Heard what he done to your girl,” O’Hara said grimly. “You ain’t lettin’ him get
away
with that, are you?”

It was like a nightmare—sitting in darkness on the shifting saddle, watching the three horsemen move about him in the jerky little movements caused by their restless mounts, hearing the deep-chested snortings of their horses.

“No, I’m . . . going to do what . . .” Robby’s mind searched desperately for an answer that wouldn’t commit him. Then he grew nervous at his own revealing hesitation and finished quickly.

“I’ll do what has to be done,” he said, his voice sounding thin and strengthless.

“Damn right,” O’Hara said vengefully and the other two men said something between themselves. “The bastard’s got a slug comin’ for what he done. Him and his damn
rep.
Why’d he leave the Rangers anyhow? And, he’s so brave, why don’t he tote no gun?” O’Hara’s voice was tight with a bitter jealousy. He was one of Kellville’s young men who had made the inevitable step from idolizing Benton to envying and hating him.

Robby sat his mount numbly, hearing the voice of Dave O’Hara as if it were a million miles away.

“When you goin’ for him, Robby?”

Robby bit his teeth together. “I . . .”

The three riders watching him, Dave O’Hara and the other two. When are you going for him? When are you going to die? A shudder ran down Robby’s back. Then he stiffened himself.

“When the time comes,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud.

The dark riders still moved around him. “Well, that’s your own business, Robby,” O’Hara said, “but I want ya
to know we’re all behind ya. Everybody knows Benton’s a dirty coward who’s too
yella
to tote a gun. And after what he done to your girl . . . well, there ain’t nothin’ more to say.”

“That’s right,” Robby said, feeling as if he were trapped there with the three of them. “There’s nothing more.”

“Well how about headin’ for the Zorilla with us and let me buy ya a drink?”

“No, I . . . have to get home.” Loudly, forcedly. “I was just on an errand for my father.”

“Oh . . .” O’Hara punched him lightly on the arm. “We’re all behind ya, Robby,” he said, almost happily. “Ain’t a man in town that ain’t behind ya. When the time comes . . .” Another punch. “We’ll back ya.”

They were gone in a clouding of night dust. Robby waited a moment, then twisted around in his saddle and saw the three of them spurring for the square.

How did the story get around so
fast
? Robby couldn’t understand it. Only three men had seen the fight outside of Pat and Pat wasn’t the kind to spread tales.

It was horrible how fast the story was traveling. And now he’d be trapped further, now O’Hara and his two friends would tell everybody that he was going to get John Benton.

“
No.
” Robby couldn’t keep the shaking word from escaping his lips. No, he didn’t want to fight Benton, he didn’t
want
to! A shudder ran down his back and he couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs to breathe.

Ten minutes to nine, Kellville, Texas, September 12, 1879. The end of the first day.

B
enton was riding fence. There were only three men working for him and he couldn’t afford to spare any of them for this simple but hour-consuming chore. Mounted on his blood bay, Socks, so named for the whiteness of its feet extending to the fetlocks, Benton was riding leisurely along the rutted trail that preceding fence rides had worn.

Five times during the morning, he’d stopped to fix loose or broken wires, missing staples, once a sagging post. Each time, he’d gotten the supplies he needed from the saddle-fastened pouch in which were staples, a hatchet, a pair of wire cutters, and a coil of stay wire.

Finding a fence section that needed repairs, Benton would ease himself off the bay and ground the open reins. Socks would then remain in place without being tied while his master worked. The work completed, Benton would take hold of the reins and raise the stiffness of his batwing chaps over the saddle.

“Come on, churnhead,” he would say softly and the bay would start along the line again.

Benton’s horse was one of the two cutting horses in the ranch’s small remuda, a bridle-wise gelding that Benton had spent over a year in training. Cutting was a ticklish and difficult job, the most exacting duty any horse could be called upon to perform. It demanded of
the mount an apex of physical and mental control plus a calm dispatch that would not panic the animal being cut from the herd. A cutting horse had to spin and turn as quickly as the cow, always edging the reluctant animal away from the herd without frightening it. This twisting and turning entailed much good riding too and, although Benton had ridden since he was eight, the process of sitting a cutting horse had taken all the ability he had.

Benton knew he rode Socks on jobs that any ordinary cow horse could manage. But he was extremely fond of the bay and never demanded a great deal of it outside of its cutting duties. Riding fence was no effort for the bay. It enjoyed the ambling walk with its master in the warm, sunlight-brimming air. Benton would pat the bay’s neck as they rode.

“Hammerhead,” he’d tell the horse, “someday we’ll all be rich and ride to town in low-necked clothes and have thirty hands workin’ for us.”