The Gun Fight

Louisa started sobbing again. “What?” she asked. “What, A-Aunt Agatha?”

Agatha Winston spoke slowly, teeth clenched. “Are you with child?”

Louisa gasped and stared blankly at her aunt, a heavy throbbing at her temples, legs shaking. She cried out suddenly as her aunt’s hard fingers dug into her wrist.

“Answer me!” Agatha Winston cried, almost hysterically, her face mottled with an ugly rage.

“No!” Louisa sobbed. “No, I’m not. I’m not!”

A moment more did the two look at each other.

“Is that the truth?” Agatha Winston demanded tensely.

“Yes,” Louisa insisted, tearfully. “Yes.”

Miss Winston released her niece’s wrist and sank down weakly on a stool, chest heaving with breath, in her lap, her hands trembling impotently.

“Dear Lord,” she muttered hoarsely. “Dear Lord,” her gaunt throat moving as she swallowed.

Louisa stood nearby, her body twitching with deep, unheard sobs. She wanted to run away but she was afraid to. Her mind swam with confused fears. With child?—she thought in a panic. Dear God, what was happening? She felt as if she were lost and helpless in a strange pit of terrors.

“Someone will pay for this,” she heard her aunt muttering to herself. “Someone will pay.”

That was when they heard bootfalls in the shop entrance.

Louisa glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. Abruptly, she shrank back, eyes stark with fright, a gasp clutching at her throat. Instinctively, she drew to one side, away from the back room doorway.

Agatha Winston looked up, nerves about unstrung. “What is it now?” she hissed.

“It’s . . . it—it’s him!” Louisa whispered frantically.

Agatha Winston stood up quickly and stepped to the doorway.

Her thin nostrils flared, a calcification of outrage ran down her back. Hurriedly, she stepped away from the doorway.

“Stay back here,” she ordered. “Don’t move.” Her agitated hands flew to her gray hair, to her skirt.

“Stay here,” she said again, then moved out of the room and went behind the counter.

John Benton took off his hat as she approached him. He nodded his head politely and waited until she’d reached him.

“Afternoon, ma’m,” he said then. “Are you Miss Winston?”

Her face was like stone. “I am,” she said, controlling herself.

“My name is John Benton,” he told her. “I—”

“I know your name,” she said, coldly, wondering why she didn’t erupt in his face. She would not admit nor even recognize the fact that she was afraid.

“You’re Louisa Harper’s aunt, aren’t you?” Benton asked.

She said nothing. She swallowed the lump in her throat and stared at him, a trembling in her. She couldn’t say anything but she wouldn’t answer his questions anyway.

The politeness seemed to drift from Benton’s face like a veil of smoke. His smile faded. “I’d like to speak to your niece,” he said, softly.

“She is not here,” said Agatha Winston.

Benton looked mildly confused. “What?” he said.

“My niece is not here,” said Miss Winston slowly.

“Her mother said she was here,” Benton answered.

Miss Winston’s face lost color and she pressed together her trembling lips. Then she said, “Good day, Mister Benton.”

He looked curiously at her hard, unyielding face. Then he glanced toward the back of the shop. “Miss Winston,” he said, “I believe I saw your niece when I came in.”

Miss Winston shuddered with repressed fury. “She is not here,” she said, tensely.

“Now, look here,” Benton said. “What are you—”

“Good day, Mister Benton.”

“Look here, Miss . . .” He gestured. “. . . Winston,” he finished, remembering after a momentary lapse. “I came into town because there’s some fool story goin’ around that—”

“Will you leave my shop or do I have to call the sheriff?” Miss Winston shuddered, remembering suddenly that Sheriff Wilks was out of town for the week, taking a prisoner to the city.

Benton still didn’t understand. “Look here, Miss Winston,” he said, “I came here because—”

“Get out of here!” The control was suddenly gone; Miss Winston’s face grew dark with rage again.

Benton didn’t even change expression at her hysterical demand. He stood there looking incredulously at her while, outside, on the plank sidewalk, a passing couple stopped and listened.

“Look, I’ve had about enough of this—”

Benton stopped talking. Miss Agatha Winston was headed for the back of the shop, her dark skirts rustling angrily. She turned the counter edge and came stamping down the length of the shop.

At the door, she stopped and turned, ignoring the couple who moved on awkwardly, trying to act as if they’d seen nothing.

“Get out of here, you . . . !” The proper word escaped her. Miss Winston pointed one shaking finger out at the square.

A moment more, John Benton looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then he made a sound of complete bewilderment, slapped on his Stetson, and walked out of the shop.

Outside, he turned impulsively.

“Listen, will you tell your niece to—”

The banging of the slammed door cut off his words. John Benton stood there looking a little dazed as Miss Agatha Winston drew down the dark shades of her shop and shut him away.

Chapter Thirteen

Benton moved for his horse, not seeing the couple that stared at him, whispering between themselves. His face was tight with confusion as he swung up onto the saddle and drew Socks around. He started across the square for St. Virgil Street.

Then, halfway there, he pulled his mount around and headed for the small shop at the south end of the square. He’d try Robby then; maybe he could talk a little sense to a man. That woman—good God above! Benton shook his head amazedly, thinking about the way Miss Winston had acted. Maybe the Reverend was right, maybe this thing was getting a little bigger than it should. If it weren’t, he would have ridden right back to the ranch and forgotten about it. But . . . well, he was here; he might as well try to end the thing if he could.

But with Robby, not with that Winston woman. Benton hissed slowly to himself. What a one she was.

In front of the shop, Benton reined up and dismounted. He tied Socks to the rack, then ducked under the bar and stepped up onto the plank sidewalk.

As he entered the small shop, it seemed to be empty. His gaze moved over the sun-speckled benches, the pistols and rifles hanging on the walls, the glass case on the front counter. That was a good-looking Colt there with its white-bone stock and shiny new metal. Benton felt the slight flexing in his fingers that came whenever he saw the well-made symmetry of the pistol he knew so well. It was so habitual, he hardly noticed it. His gaze drifted over the other pistols in the case.

He was looking at a Smith and Wesson .44 caliber six-shooter when Matthew Coles came out of the back room. Benton looked up at the sound of footsteps and met the glare of the older man.