The Gun Fight

Bond looked embarrassed. “A . . . fearless . . . and a very dangerous man,” he faltered. “Mind you, I’m only assuming now. But I think that . . . well, they regard your skill with a gun as one of paramount achievement.”

“But I don’t wear a gun in town,” Benton said stiffly. “They’ve never even seen me with a gun on.”

“They’ve never seen John Hardin either,” Bond countered, “but they know what he’s done.”

The Reverend’s face grew sadly reflective. “It was people like this who . . . lined the roads for miles when John Hardin was taken to prison. People who waited for just one momentary glimpse of a man who had killed others with guns.” Bond shook his head grimly. “It makes no sense—to me, at any rate—but it is so, let us admit it freely; now. Your reputation as a Texas Ranger is immense, Mister Benton. It caused a, perhaps, foolish young girl to become enamored of what she conceived you to be. It caused her, in a moment of . . .” he gestured searchingly with his hands, “. . . shall we say, a moment of unthinking delusion, to pretend out loud; unhappily, to pretend in the presence of her intended husband. Perhaps she meant nothing by it; I’m sure she didn’t. It was a girlish whim, I imagine, perhaps done to make her intended husband jealous of someone—anyone. Young girls are . . . often misled by their feelings.”

Bond leaned back, hands clasped in his lap.

“And I believe it was your reputation—exaggerated as it may be—that caused this event. Believe me, sir, I’m not accusing you of anything but . . . perhaps this is, in some measure, an unfortunate result of the life you formerly led.”

“Reverend, is that . . . well, fair?” Julia asked. “My husband worked for law, for order. If he killed, it was not for the sake of killing; it was because it was his job.”

“My dear lady,” said Bond warmly, “I would not, for a moment, accuse your husband of being anything that he is not. That he, voluntarily, chose to put aside violence and live as a peaceful citizen, speaks wonderfully for his character. It is just that . . . well, I must repeat, I fear, were it not for the past events of Mister Benton’s life, this situation would not have occurred.”

“Well, this is getting us nowhere,” Benton said, gruffly. “All right, maybe this Harper girl made up the story. But you said her aunt checked with her. Why didn’t the Harper girl tell the truth then?”

Bond smiled gently. “You are not acquainted with her aunt, Mister Benton. Miss Winston, though, I cannot deny, a loyal Christian, often shows in her dealings with others more hasty righ teousness than understanding. And her niece is very sensitive, very retiring. Cornered . . . frightened, perhaps, she would hardly have confessed that she . . . pretended, shall we say. You can understand that.”

“I can understand it,” Julia said. “John, you mustn’t be angry with her. I’m sure she’s more frightened than anything else with the gossip she’s started.”

“Well, that doesn’t do me any good,” Benton said. “If she doesn’t stop the gossip, who can?”

“Perhaps you can,” Bond answered.

Benton looked surprised. “How?” he asked.

“I would think that if you rode in to Kellville and spoke to Louisa Harper, spoke to her mother, perhaps to her aunt—the situation might be settled.”

Benton looked trapped. “But . . . what good would that do?” he asked. “They seem to have their minds made up already.”

“I can think of nothing more direct,” Bond said. “If you wish, I could come along as . . . oh, say a middle party to ease tension.”

“Reverend, I have a lot of work to do around here,” Benton said, his voice rising a little. “I can’t go ridin’ off to town just like that. This is a small layout; I only have three hands beside myself and that’s spreadin’ out the labor pretty thin.”

“I appreciate that,” Bond said, nodding. “But . . . well, this situation could become quite bad. Believe me, I’ve seen such things happen before. I mean quite bad.”

Julia looked up at her husband, her face drawn worriedly. “John,” she said, “I think you should.”

Benton twisted his shoulders irritably. “But, honey—” He broke off then and exhaled quickly. “All right,” he said, “I’ll ride in tomorrow and . . . see what I can do.”

Bond looked embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “I would think that—”

“Reverend, this place is creepin’ with work that needs to be done! I just can’t do it today!”

“John.”

Benton looked aside at his wife, his face angrily taut. Then another thin breath fell from his nostrils.

“All right,” he said disgustedly, “I’ll go in this afternoon. But . . .” He didn’t finish but only shook his head sadly.

“I don’t think it will take long,” Bond told him. “Would, uh, you like me to come with you and . . .”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Benton said. He managed a brief smile at the Reverend. “I’m thankin’ you, Reverend,” he said, “but . . . I think I can handle it myself.”

Bond smiled. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I think it will all work out splendidly.” He stood up. “Well, I . . . really must be getting back to town now.”

“Oh, can’t you stay for dinner?” Julia asked. “It’s almost time.”

“I’m afraid not,” Bond said, gratefully. “I do thank you, Mrs. Benton, but . . . well.” He sighed. “My . . . ranch, too, is overrun with work that needs to be done.”

Later, over dinner, Benton shook his head and groaned to himself, thinking about all the work time he was going to lose.

“This is hogwash,” he muttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Julia asked.

Benton shook his head. “No, I’m ridin’ in fast. Maybe I can get it settled quick and come back in time to get some work done.”

Julia poured in more coffee, then stood beside the table, smiling down at her husband. After a moment, he looked up at her. A slow grin relaxed his mouth.

“I know,” he said, amusedly, “get a haircut.”

Julia laughed. “How did you guess?”

Chapter Eleven

He was surrounded by guns. On the wall racks behind him and at his right were rifles—a Springfield .45 caliber breech-loader, a Sharps and Hanker .52 caliber rim-fire carbine, a Henry Deringer rifle, a Colt .44 revolving rifle, a new Sharps-Borschardt .45, three 45/10 nine-shot Winchesters—all of them resting on wooden pegs, their metal glinting in the sunlit brightness of the shop, their stocks glossy with rubbed-in oils.

Across from him, behind his father’s bench, was the board on which his father and he hung repaired pistols like a watchmaker hung repaired watches. Dangling by their trigger guards were five Colt revolvers, a Remington .36 caliber Navy pistol, an Allen and Thurber .32 caliber pepperbox, and three .41 caliber Deringer pistols. All of them had tags tied to them which had the names of the owner and the cost of the repair job.

On the bench in front of Robby Coles were the parts of a .44 caliber 1860 Model Colt which he had converted from percussion to cartridge fire by cutting off the rear end of the cylinder and replacing it with a breechblock containing a loading gate and rebounding fire pin. He’d only managed to get a section of it assembled all morning.

He couldn’t seem to concentrate, that was the trouble. Every few moments he’d start thinking about his father or O’Hara or Louisa and his fingers would put down the part he was working on and, for a long time, he’d sit staring across the small shop, brooding.

Then, in the middle of a thought, Robby’s eyes would focus suddenly and he’d find himself staring at the