The Gun Fight

“Gotta get your wounds fixed, runty,” he told the yearling, then turned back with a shake of his head. The calf’s mother had died the previous winter and the calf had been more trouble than it was worth since then, having to be fed because water and grass were still too heavy a fare for its young stomach and, invariably, wandering from the herd and getting lost.

“We’re goin’ to sell you for boot leather, acorn,” Benton said lightly, not even looking back. “That’s what we’re goin’ to sell you for.”

The calf dragged along behind, sulky and complaining.

Back at the ranch, Benton led the calf into the barn and salved up its back, then turned it loose in the corral.

The rig was standing in front of the house as he walked toward it. It looked familiar but he wasn’t sure where he’d seen it before. He moved in long strides across the yard and went into the kitchen. He was getting a drink of cool water from the dipper when Julia came in.

“Who’s visitin’?” he asked.

“The Reverend Bond,” she said.

“Oh? What’s he want?”

“He came to see you.”

Benton looked at Julia curiously. “What for?” he asked.

Julia shook her head once. “He won’t tell me,” she said. “But I think I know.”

“What?”

Julia turned to the stove. “Well, from the way he avoided the subject, I’d say that story.”

“What story?”

“About Louisa Harper and you.”

A look of disgust crossed Benton’s face. “Oh, no,” he said in a pained voice. “More? ”

He shook his head and groaned softly to himself as he took off the bull-hide chaps and tossed them on a chair by the door. “Oh . . . blast,” he said. “What’s goin’ on in town anyway?”

At the door, he turned to her. “Aren’t you comin’ in?” he asked.

“You think I should?” she asked. “The Reverend doesn’t seem to think it’s anything for me to hear.”

He came back to her, his brow lined with curious surprise. “What is it?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re startin’ to believe this thing?”

Julia swallowed nervously. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”

He hooked his arm in hers. “Come on, ma,” he said amusedly. “In we go.”

In the hallway, he pinched her and she whispered, “Stop that!” But the tenseness was gone from her face.

As they entered the small sitting room, the Reverend Omar Bond stood up and extended his hand to Benton with a smile.

“Mr. Benton,” he said.

“Reverend.” Benton nodded. “Excuse the hand. I been out ridin’.”

Bond smiled. “Not at all,” he said.

“Sit down, Reverend,” Benton said, putting Julia on a chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, sir,” the Reverend Bond said, “I think that . . .” He hesitated and glanced at Julia.

“That’s all right, Reverend,” Benton said, smiling guardedly. “My wife knows all about it. Who’s been tellin’ you stories now? Louisa Harper?”

The Reverend Bond looked at Benton, mouth slightly agape. Then a sudden look of relief came over his face and he beamed at both of them.

“I’m so glad,” he said quickly. “I didn’t believe the story at all and yet . . .” He clucked and shook his head sadly. “Once the poison is put in one’s mind, one is hard put to find the adequate antidote of reason.”

Benton glanced at his wife. “I know,” he said, trying not to smile. “That old suspicious poison.”

He sat down on the arm of the chair. “All right now,” he said seriously, “who told you this story, Reverend? Robby Coles?”

“No, as a matter of fact it was Louisa’s aunt, Miss Agatha Winston,” Bond said. “And . . .” he gestured with his hand, “I might add, were this not a situation of such potential gravity, I would not, for a moment, betray a confidence. You understand.”

“It’ll go no further than this room,” Benton said. His mouth hardened. “I wish I could say the same for this damned story.”

“John,” his wife said quietly. He glanced down at her, then up at the Reverend with a rueful smile. “Pardon,” he said, then became absorbed in thought. “Agatha Winston,” he mused. “Do I know her?”

“She owns the ladies’ clothes shop in town, doesn’t she?” Julia asked.

“That’s correct.” The Reverend Bond nodded. “She came to my house last night and told me that . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat embarrassedly.

“It’s quite all right, Reverend,” Julia told him.

“Thank you,” Bond replied. “To be terribly blunt then, Miss Winston said that your husband tried to arrange for an immoral meeting with her niece. Again,” he added quickly, “I would not say such a thing in your presence were I not convinced that the story is untrue.”

When Bond had repeated what Agatha Winston had told him, Benton’s right hand closed angrily in his lap and his face grew suddenly taut. He sat there stone-faced until Bond had finished talking, then he said in a flat, toneless voice, “And did she say who told her this story?”

Bond nodded his head. “Yes,” he answered, “she said that her niece, Louisa, told her. Or, rather, that she had heard the gossip in town and then checked with Louisa to verify the story.”

“And Louisa said it was true,” Benton said disgustedly.

Bond gestured with his hands and looked helpless. “That is what she said,” he admitted.

Benton exhaled heavily. “Well, it’s not true,” he said. His eyes raised to Bond’s. “Do I have to tell you it’s not true?”

“I would like you to,” Bond replied, meeting Benton’s gaze steadily.

Benton’s mouth tightened. “It is not true,” he said slowly and Julia put her hand on his with an abrupt movement.

Bond’s lips raised in a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t that I believed you were guilty. It was just that . . . well, I felt that the situation called for such a definite statement.” He leaned forward. “Very well,” he said, “we’ll say no more of that. What’s important now is ending this gossip before it does any more harm. I . . . understand there was some physical conflict yesterday.”

Benton nodded then, briefly, told the Reverend about how Robby Coles had come into the Zorilla and started a fight.

“And this was the first you heard of the matter,” Bond said.

“That’s right,” said Benton. “The first.”

“I see.” Bond nodded as he spoke. “I . . . imagine, then, that it all began with Louisa telling Robby that . . . telling him what she did tell him,” he finished hastily.

“But why?” Benton asked, irritably baffled. “Does it make any sense?”

Julia smiled a little at the Reverend Bond and he repressed an answering smile. “He really doesn’t know,” Julia said.

Omar Bond nodded slowly. “I believe it,” he said. “Yes, I believe that firmly. Your husband is not the sort of man who indulges himself in false modesty.”

“Know what?” Benton asked. “What are you two talking about?”

“What I said to you yesterday, John,” Julia said. “Louisa Harper is in love with you.”

Benton looked pained again. “Oh . . . come on, Julia,” he said.

“I think the assumption is justified,” said the Reverend. “You see, Mister Benton, you represent something to the young people of this town. In . . . all honesty,” he went on reluctantly, “I must admit that I’m not sure what you represent to them is a . . . healthy thing. Needless to say, I do not, for a moment, think that you still are what they conceive you to be. No, I—”

“What’s that, Reverend?” Benton interrupted. “What do they think I am?”