The Gun Fight

motions, he thought of Louisa being kept in the house because of what had happened.

The more he thought of it, the more it bothered him. She was his girl; he loved her and wanted to marry her. It was his job to defend her; nothing anyone said could change that, no argument could refute it.

And, after all, no one really wanted to see him die. His father hadn’t raised him twenty-one years just to push him into being killed. O’Hara didn’t have any reason to want Robby dead. All the people in town had no grudge against him. It was simply that they all expected him to defend the honor of his woman and Louisa was his woman. Either he stood up for her or he lost her for good and, with her, his self-respect. It was as simple as that; the thought struck him forcibly.

It was strange how this different approach to the matter seemed to pour courage, strength, into him. Louisa was his woman. He loved her and he’d fight for her. That was his responsibility, his duty. Louisa was his intended bride, it was his job to—

The clicking of the trigger made Robby’s flesh crawl.

He found himself suddenly, the assembled Colt held tensely in his right hand, his finger closed over the trigger.

With a spasmodic movement, he shoved the pistol away from himself and it banged down on the bench.

“Be careful!” Matthew Coles snapped.

Robby hardly heard his father. He sat shivering, his eyes fixed to the heavy, glinting form of the Colt, in his mind the hideous impression that, somehow, it was Benton’s pistol and that he’d repaired it and put it together for Benton and it was in perfect working order now; it could fire, it could shoot a bullet.

It could kill.

Chapter Twelve

When Mrs. Angela DeWitt left the shop, Louisa came back to where her aunt sat writing in the ledger.

“Aunt Agatha?” she asked meekly, standing by the desk, her face drained with nervous worry.

Agatha Winston went on with her figures, her eyes shrewd and calculating behind the spectacles, her pen running crabbed hen-tracks of numbers across the lined page.

“Aunt Agatha?”

Agatha Winston’s eyes closed shut. Beneath the mouse-fuzz of her mustache, her pinched mouth grew irked. Slowly, decisively, she put down the pen.

“What is it, Louisa?” she asked in the flinted tone that she conceived to be one of patience and forbearing.

Louisa stammered. “Aunt Agatha . . . please,” she said. “May I—”

The jade eyes were hidden behind quickly lowered lids and Agatha Winston cut off the appearance of the world.

“You may not go home,” she said, concisely. “There is much too much work to be done.”

Louisa bit nervously at her finger, eyes pleading and lost.

“Heaven only knows,” her aunt continued, “I ask little enough of your mother and yourself in return for the help I give you freely, with Christian affection.” Agatha Winston sighed, head shaking once. “I’m tired, Louisa,” she said. “I would like nothing better than to retire . . . and live on my small savings. But, for your mother’s sake and for your own . . .” another sigh, “. . . I go on working. Asking nothing in return but a little help in the shop a few days out of the week.” She fixed an accusing look upon her niece. “Is that so much to ask?” she said. “Is that so—stop that!”

Louisa jerked the moist, chewed knuckle from her lips and swallowed nervously.

“Is it, Louisa?” asked her aunt.

“No, Aunt Agatha, it . . . isn’t that. I like to help you in the shop but . . .” She bit her lower lip and couldn’t help the tear that wriggled from beneath her right eyelid and trickled down her cheek. “They all look at me so,” she said, brokenly.

“And what would you like to do?” her aunt challenged. “Go home? Hide away as if you had something to be ashamed of?”

“No, Aunt Agatha, it isn’t—”

“You might just as well confess your guilt as do that!”

Louisa’s mouth twitched. “G-guilt?” she murmured, eyes wide and frightened.

“Yes,” her aunt said. “Guilt. Is that what you want people to think; that you have something to be ashamed of?”

“No, Aunt Agath—”

“That’s all there is to it,” stated Agatha Winston firmly. “We have nothing to hide and we will not hide.”

Louisa stared helplessly at her aunt.

“Let John Benton hide his face!” Agatha Winston said angrily. “Not us.” She glared at Louisa, then picked up her pen. “Now . . . kindly take care of the shop until I finish my work.”

Louisa still stood watching until her aunt looked up again, dark eyes commanding. “Well?” said her aunt.

Louisa turned and walked slowly down the length of the counter. She stopped at the front of the shop and looked out the window at the sunlit square.

She stared bleakly at the reversed letters painted on the glass—MISS WINSTON’S LADIES APPAREL. Then her eyes focused again beyond the letters and she looked at the plank sidewalk, the dirt square, the shops across the way. She looked a while at the motionless peppermint-stick pole in front of Jesse Willmark’s Barber Shop. She thought of the look Jesse had given her when she passed him that morning with her aunt. The memory made her breath catch.

Then she saw a horse man ride by and look into the shop and she turned away quickly, her cheeks coloring embarrassedly. She hoped the man didn’t see her blush. The way he looked at her . . .

She stood with her back to the window a long time, feeling a strange quiver in her body. She reached up and brushed away a tear that dripped across her cheek. Why did everybody look at her that way?

All during the last sale, Mrs. DeWitt had kept staring like that, always turning down her gaze a little too late to hide the curious brightness in her eyes. Never once did she say a word about the situation Louisa knew she was thinking about. She talked about shifts and stockings and corsets as if there were nothing else on her mind. And, all the time, her eyes kept probing up, then down, as if she were attempting to penetrate Louisa’s mind and ferret out its secrets.

All through the sale, Louisa had tried to smile, to repeat the things about the merchandise her aunt had taught her. Oh, yes this is what every woman back East is wearing now. This is delicate but completely sturdy. I think you’ll find it will not bind or roll. This is the best material of its type on the market. Words repeated in a nervous voice, when all the time she wanted to run away and hide.

Louisa glanced over her shoulder again and saw that there was no one in front of the shop. She turned back and looked out the window again. Far down in the south end of the square was the shop where Robby worked. Louisa looked in that direction.

All morning she’d been dreadfully afraid that Robby was going to come in and ask her if the story about Benton was really true. Every time she’d heard footsteps in the doorway or heard hoofbeats out front, her head had jerked up from whatever she was doing and she’d looked fearfully at the shop entrance, heart pounding suddenly. What would she tell him if he asked? How could she say she lied when Aunt Agatha was right there to hear the confession? She couldn’t; she knew she couldn’t.

He’d just have to stay away from her until everyone forgot about that silly story. They couldn’t keep thinking about it forever. As long as they left her alone, it would be all right. She wished she could stay in the house until the