Mr. Coles walked quickly to the counter. “State your business,” he said curtly.

There was a slight wrinkling of skin around Benton’s eyes as he looked inquisitively at Matthew Coles.

“Is your son here?” he asked.

“He is not.”

Benton met the older man’s stony look without change of expression. “Where can I find him?” he asked.

Matthew Coles was silent.

“I said—where can I find your son?” Benton repeated as if he hadn’t noticed the slight.

“When the time comes,” said Matthew Coles, “he will find you.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Benton said, the tanned skin tensing across his cheek bones. “Let’s get this straight. This fool story about me and—”

“I am not interested in stories,” Matthew Coles declared.

Benton took a deep, controlling breath. “I think you better be interested in this one,” he said.

Mr. Coles said nothing.

“Listen, Coles, this thing isn’t funny anymore.”

“It is, decidedly, not funny,” said Matthew Coles, his gaze dropping for a searching instant to John Benton’s left hip, then raising as instantly, assured. “You have presumed too much on your popularity, Mister Benton. That was a mistake.”

“If you’re talkin’ about that girl, you’re all wrong,” Benton said. “I never even spoke to her since I been in Kellville.”

The thinnest hint of a smile played at the corners of Matthew Coles’ mouth. “You don’t have to come explaining to me,” he said.

Benton strained forward a moment, body tensed, something in his eyes making Matthew Coles draw back, slack-faced.

Benton swallowed, controlling himself with difficulty.

“Where’s your son?” he asked, tensely. “I want to see him.”

“He does not wish to see you,” Coles said.

Repressed anger seemed to ripple beneath the surface of Benton’s face. “Listen, Coles,” he said, “I came into town to end this fool story, not to be pushed around.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Matthew Coles, stiffly. “However, since you are no longer man enough to wear a gun you cannot very well command respect, can you?”

Again the tightening of Benton’s muscles; at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“You’re an old man,” he said, softly. “But don’t overplay it, Coles, don’t overplay it.”

Mindless rage flared up lividly in Matthew Coles’ face. “Get out of my shop!” he ordered.

“My pleasure,” Benton said, turning on his heel and starting for the door.

“You will hear from us, sir!” Coles shouted after him.

“I’m sure I will,” Benton said, without looking back.

Then, at the door, he turned.

“Now listen to me, old man,” he said, warningly. “Stop pushing this damn thing. If you don’t, somebody’s goin’ to get hurt, understand? You’ve got a good kid. Don’t push him into somethin’ he’s not up to. I’ve got no grudge against Robby and he’s got no reason to hold any grudge against me. Understand? None at all. Tell him that.” Benton’s face hardened in an instant. “And stay away!”

The look was gone as quickly as it came. “I don’t want trouble from anyone, Coles,” Benton said. “Not from anyone.”

Matthew Coles stood shaking with wordless rage behind the counter, staring at Benton’s back as he went out of the shop, stepped off the plank walk, and untied his horse.

For a long time he stood there in the silence of the shop, trembling with impotent fury, his shallow chest rising and falling strainedly.

Then he went to the back of his shop and looked through the collection of new pistols for the one his son would use to kill John Benton.

Chapter Fourteen

“Why do you think he left the Rangers?” Jesse Willmark challenged his suds-faced customer. “ ’Cause he got tired of it? No. ’Cause he was too old? No. I’ll tell you why.” He leaned forward, gesturing with the sun-reflecting razor. “Because he turned yella, that’s why.”

“Couldn’t say,” the customer muttered.

“Look, ya remember the time—’bout a year or so ago, I guess it was—when they was gettin’ up a posse to chase Tom Labine? You remember that?” Jesse asked, setting up his coup de grace.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’ll tell you what about it,” Jesse broke in intently. “They asked Benton t’help them. Sheriff Wilks don’t know a dang thing about trailin’ or ’bout anythin’ for that matter. So they asked Mister John Benton t’help them out. You think he would? The hell he would! Can’t do it, he says, cut me out. Why? Why wouldn’t he help out his neighbors?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to,” the customer suggested.

“Hell, man,” Jesse said, “I’ll tell ya why he wouldn’t do it.” He raked the razor across the man’s soap-stubbled cheek with a practiced gesture. “He was yella, that’s why. He didn’t have the guts to ride another posse. His nerves is gone and that’s a fact.”

“Could be,” the customer said.

Jesse wiped the beard-flecked lather off his razor. He rubbed his pudgy fingers over the customer’s cheek, rubbing in the warm soap.

“I’ll tell ya somethin’ else,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It happens to all o’ them. I don’t know how—or why— but one day—” he snapped his fingers, “like that—they’re yella.”

He started shaving again. “They go on year after year shootin’ ’em down like sittin’ ducks,” he said, “then, one day—bang—they turn yella; they get scared o’ their own shadda. It’s nerves what it is. Ain’t no man alive can go on like that year after year without losin’ his nerve.”

He nodded grimly.

“And that’s what happened to Benton,” he said. “Mind, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from the man. He was a big lawman in his day, brave as they come, quick on the draw. Course he never was as big as they painted him but—” he shrugged, “—he was a good lawman. But that don’t mean he can’t turn yella. That don’t mean he didn’t. He did—and that’s a fact.”

He shaved away beard from the customer’s throat.

“Hard to say,” the customer said, looking at the paint-flaked ceiling.

“All right,” Jesse said, wiping off the razor edge again. “If he’s still brave as he was, why don’t he wear a gun, answer me that?”

The customer said he didn’t know.

“Because he’s scared to pack one!” Jesse exclaimed as if it were a great truth he had to convey. “No man goes around without a gun less’n he’s too scared to use it. Ain’t that true?”

The customer shrugged. “It’s a point,” he conceded.

“Sure as hell is a point!” Jesse said. “Benton don’t pack no gun ’cause he’s scared to back hisself up with hot lead.”

The customer grunted, then sat up as Jesse adjusted the head rest.

“Then to go and do what he done,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Him a married man and all.”

The customer could see the front door in the mirror.

“Jesse,” he said, softly.

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