The Gun Fight (7 page)

“But this makes no earthly sense,” he said then. “John Benton is a fine man, a regular churchgoer and, moreover, an extremely respected man in Kellville.”

“Be that as it may.” Miss Winston’s mouth was a lipless gash as she spoke. “My niece’s honor has been
insulted
by him.”

The Reverend Bond rubbed worried fingers across his smooth chin and, behind his spectacles, his blue eyes were harried.

“It’s . . . such a difficult thing to believe,” he said quietly, groping for some argument. Agatha Winston always made him feel so defenseless.

“The truth is the truth,” stated Miss Winston slowly and clearly. “Believe me, Reverend, when I tell you that if I were a man, I wouldn’t be here
talking
about this shocking thing. I’d get myself a horse whip and—”

She broke off as the Reverend raised a pacifying hand.

“My dear Miss Winston,” he said, concernedly, “reason, not violence; is that not what our Lord has taught us?”

The colorless skin rippled slightly over Agatha Winston’s taut cheeks. There were definitely times when Christianity did more to thwart than aid, she felt. This was one of the times when she would have preferred a more hardened ethic; this loving humility had its limitations.

But she nodded once, tight-lipped, not wishing to alienate the head of local church activities.

“I came here because I am a woman,” she said. “Because I am helpless to do anything by myself.”

Christianity does not become you—the Reverend Bond was unable to prevent the thought from shaking loose its repressive bonds. Once again, he hid the thought behind the mild and wrinkled facade he almost always presented to the world.

“Isn’t it possible this gossip is exaggerated?” he suggested then. “You know how some people talk. A chance meeting between Benton and your niece might be construed in an entirely false manner.”

“I would agree with you,” said Agatha Winston, lying, “if it were not for the fact that Louisa, herself, verified the story.”

“Oh,” he said, cornered again, “Louisa . . . herself.”

“Believe me, Reverend, when I say I no more wanted to believe this ugly thing when I first heard of it than you want to believe it now. I’m not the sort of woman who accepts every scrap of gossip as the truth, you know that.”

I do not know that, Omar Bond reflected silently, his sad eyes on the face of Agatha Winston.

“Before I accepted one word of this terrible story, I went directly to my niece and questioned her most carefully.”

She stiffened her back, fingers tightening in the lap of her black skirt. “
The story is true,
” she declared.

The Reverend Bond licked his upper lip slowly. He started to say something, then exhaled slowly instead while Miss Winston sat waiting for him to call down the wrath of church and Lord upon the head of John Benton.

“What exactly,” asked the Reverend Bond, “did Louisa say?”

The thin eyebrows of Agatha Winston pressed down over unpleasantly curious eyes.

“Say?” she asked, not certain of what the Reverend was getting at.

“Yes. Surely, you verified her story?”

“I told you,” she said tensely, “I asked her if the incident were true and she said it was.”

“Was she upset?”

Agatha Winston looked more unpleasantly confused. “Of course, she was upset,” she said. “Her honor was insulted; naturally, she was upset. Especially when I told her how her intended husband, Robby Coles, fought John Benton in defense of her.”

The Reverend Bond strained forward, his face suddenly concerned. “Fought?” he asked. “Not . . . not with . . .
guns
?” His voice tapered off in a shocked whisper.

“No, not with guns,” Miss Winston said. “Although—”

The look on the Reverend Bond’s face kept her from continuing but she knew that he was fully conscious of what she had been about to say.

“What I am getting at,” Omar Bond continued, preferring to overlook her probable remark, “is that . . . well, Louisa is very young, very impressionable.”

“I don’t see how—”

“Let me explain, Miss Winston. Please.”

Agatha Winston leaned back, eyes distrusting on the Reverend’s face.

“John Benton is what you might call . . . oh, an
idol
in this town, is he not?” asked Bond.

“Men shall not bow down before idols,” declared Miss Winston.

The Reverend Bond controlled himself.

“I mean to say, he is extremely admired. I do not, for a moment, say that I condone admiration for a man which is based primarily on an awe of his skill with instruments of death. However . . . this does not alter the fact that, among the younger people particularly, John Benton has achieved almost a . . . a legendary status.”

She did not nod or speak or, in any way, indicate agreement.

“I have seen myself,” the Reverend Bond went on, “in the church—young boys and girls staring at him with . . . shall we say, unduly fascinated eyes?”

“I do not—”

“Please, Miss Winston, I shall be finished in a moment. To continue: From the vantage point of my pulpit, I have seen your own niece looking so at John Benton.”

Miss Winston closed her eyes as if to shut away the thought. “I can hardly believe this,” she said, stiffly.

“I say it in no condemning way,” the Reverend Bond hastened to explain. “It is a thoroughly natural reaction in the young. I would not even have mentioned it were it not for what you have just told me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Agatha Winston. “Are you telling me that Louisa
lied
? That her story is a deliberate
falsehood
?”

“No,
no
,” the Reverend said gently, a smile softening his features, “not a lie. Call it rather a . . . a daydream spoken aloud.”

Miss Winston rose irately.

“Reverend, I’m shocked that you should stand up for John Benton, a man who lives by violence. And I’m hurt—
deeply
hurt that you should accuse my niece of deliberately
lying.
”

The Reverend Bond rose quickly and moved toward her.

“My dear Miss Winston,” he said, “I
assure
you . . .”

Agatha Winston brushed away a tear which had, somehow, managed to force its way out of her eye duct. A sob rasped dryly in her lean throat.

“I came to you because there is nothing my sister and her daughter can do to defend their good name. But instead of—”

Another sob, dry and harsh.

Against his better judgment, the Reverend Omar Bond found himself standing before Agatha Winston, explaining, apologizing.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally said, growing desperate with her. “I’ll ride out personally to John Benton’s ranch and speak to him.”

“He’ll deny it,” Agatha Winston said, agitatedly. “Do you think he’ll—”

“Miss Winston, if the incident occurred as you said, John Benton will admit it,” the Reverend Bond said firmly. “That’s all I can say for now. I sympathize with your situation, I most certainly will speak out Sunday against the insidious cruelty of this gossiping.” He gestured weakly. “And . . . and I’ll go out to see John Benton in the morning.”

He was leading her to the door finally.

“Please don’t upset yourself, Miss Winston,” he told her, “I am confident we can work it out to the satisfaction of all.”

“Oh, if only there were a
man
in our family to speak for us,” Agatha Winston said, vengefully.

“I will speak for you,” said Bond. “Remember, my child, we are all one family under God.”

Frankly, Miss Winston did not accept that tenet of Christianity. Her mind pushed the concept aside angrily as she strode off into the night, unsatisfied.

The Reverend Omar Bond shut the door and turned back as Clara came out of the kitchen, drying her hands.

“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, concernedly.

“Offhand, I should say the qualifications for membership in the church,” said the Reverend Bond with a weary shake of his head.

T
he hooves of the black roan thudded slowly down the long darkness of Armitas Street, headed for the square. Robby Coles sat slumped in the saddle, his rein-holding hands clasped loosely over the horn. He was staring ahead bleakly, between the bobbing ears of his mount, watching the dark street jog toward him, then disappear beneath the legs of the roan. His lips were pressed together; his entire face reflected the tense nervousness he felt.

When supper had ended, he’d grabbed his hat and gunbelt and started for the door, not wanting to listen to his father anymore.

“Where are you going?” Matthew Coles had asked.

“For a ride,” he’d answered.

“You’d better not,” his father said, “you might run into John Benton and then you’d have to come running home and hide in the closet.”

Robby didn’t say anything. He just jerked open the door and went out, seeing from the corners of his eyes his mother looking at him, one frail hand at her breast.

Then, halfway to the stable, Robby heard the back door open and shut quickly.

“
Son
,” his father called.

Robby didn’t want to stay. He felt like jumping on his horse and galloping out the alleyway before his father
could say another word. But open defiance was not in him; he might flare up now and then under provocation but, inevitably, he obeyed his father. He was twenty-one and, supposedly, his own man; but those twenty-one years of rigid training still kept him bound.

He stood there silently, buckling on his gun belt as his father’s boots came crunching over the hard ground of the yard. He felt Matthew Coles’ hand close over his shoulder.

“Son, I didn’t mean to rile you,” Matthew Coles said, his voice no longer hard. “It’s been a hard day and I’m out of sorts. You can understand that, son.”

Robby could feel himself drawing back. Whenever his father called him
son
. . .

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I . . . understand.”

“I didn’t intend to blow up at the table like that,” Matthew Coles went on. “I believe a family meal should be eaten in peace.”

“Yes, sir,” Robby said, thinking of the countless meals that had degenerated into stomach-wrenching agonies because of his father’s temper.

“It’s just that . . . well.” His father gestured with his free hand. “Just that you’re my son and I want to be proud of you.”

“Yes, sir.” The tight, crawling sensation still mounted in Robby’s stomach. Don’t, he thought,
don’t
; his eyes staring at the dark outline of his father’s head.

“I don’t want to force you into anything, son,” said Matthew Coles in as understanding a voice as he could manage. “You’re of age and I can’t make you do anything your mind is set against.”

Robby started to speak, then closed his mouth without a word. His father wasn’t through yet.

“I can punish your younger brother if he does something I know is wrong.” Matthew Coles shook his head once, slowly. “I can’t do that with you, son,” he said. “You’re of age and your life is your own; your decisions are your own.”

Suddenly, Robby wished his father would rage again, rant and yell. It was easier to fight that.

“But I don’t believe you realize, son,” said Matthew Coles, his voice a steady, coercive flow. “This is a very serious matter. I couldn’t talk about it at the table because of your mother and your younger brother. It’s not the sort of subject men discuss over a family supper table.”

Now his father’s arm was around his shoulders and, as they ambled slowly toward the stable, Robby could feel his stomach muscles trembling and he had to clench his hands to keep the fingers steady.

“Son,” his father said, “there are certain things a man must face in this life. I don’t say these things are just or fair . . . or even reasonable. But they’re a part of our life and no man can avoid them.” Matthew Coles paused for emphasis. “And the most important of those,” he said, “is that a man defend his home and defend his family.”

But she’s not my family. Robby wanted to say it but he was afraid to.

“I . . . want to do what’s right,” he said instead, his throat feeling dry and tight, the gun at his waist seeming very heavy. He wished he hadn’t taken the gun with him. What if he ran into John Benton and Benton had a gun on too?

“Of course, you want to do what’s right, son,” said Matthew Coles, nodding. “You’re a Coles and the men of our family have always done what’s right—what
has
to be done.”

They were in the darkness of the stable now. Robby could smell the odor of damp hay and hear the soft stamping of the two horses in their stalls. He heard his roan nicker quietly and it made him swallow nervously. I’ll ride you when I’m ready, he thought belligerently as if the horse had asked to be ridden toward town, toward the possibility of meeting Benton.

“Sit down, son,” Robby heard the firm voice of his father say. Weakly, he sank down on the wooden bench
and his father sat down beside him, arm still around Robby’s lean shoulders.

His father’s voice kept on, seeming to surround Robby in the cool, damp-smelling blackness of the stable.

“I know that, strictly speaking, Louisa Harper is not yet a part of our family. And, if there were men folks alive in her family now, I would say no more. It would be
their
responsibility to defend her honor.”

Honor. Honor
—the word thumped dully in Robby’s mind as he stared straight ahead, listening.

“However,” said Matthew Coles, “there
are
no men left in the Harper family. There are no men left in the Winston family which was the family that Louisa’s mother was born to.”

I know all that, Robby thought, trying hard not to shiver. He said quietly, “Yes, sir.”

“And because there are no men in Louisa Harper’s family, the responsibility must shift itself to you. Since the young lady is your intended bride, you are the only one who can defend her name.”

Silence then. Robby felt his father’s hand pat once-twice on his shoulder as if to say—You see then, it’s settled, now go out and shoot John Benton.

“But . . . well, I . . . what about what I said to Benton?” Robby asked.

“Your conversation with Benton, you mean?” his father said, without expression.