The Gun Fight

Chapter Nine

The 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.

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