“I’ll tell ya, it sure surprised the hell outta me,” Jesse said, stropping the razor. “It’s a bad thing when a man starts goin’ down.”
“Jesse.” A warning; but too soft. The customer sat stiffly in the chair, trying not to look at the mirror.
“Specially a man like Benton,” said Jesse. “Him bein’ such a big lawdog and all. First he yellas out, then he starts playin’ around with—”
“
Jesse broke off and looked at the customer. “What is—?” he started to ask, then saw how the man was looking into the mirror. His throat tightened abruptly as he glanced up and saw the reflection of John Benton, tall and grim-faced, standing in the doorway.
Jesse didn’t dare turn. He stood there, staring helplessly into the mirror, his throat moving as he tried to swallow fear.
“I’d keep my mouth shut unless I knew what I was talkin’ about,” Benton said coldly.
Then he turned and was gone and a white-faced Jesse whirled to exclaim, “Honest, Mister Benton, I didn’t —!”
But Benton was gone. Jesse hurried to the doorway, razor in shaking hand, and watched Benton mount his horse.
Then he turned back hurriedly to his customer, a look of uncontrollable dread on his face.
“Jesus,” he said, hollowly. “You don’t think he’ll do anything to me, do you?”
The customer looked blandly at the slack-faced barber in the mirror.
“You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?” Jesse asked, getting weaker. “Do you?”
The barest suggestion of a smile. “How can he?” the customer asked. “He’s yella.”
Chapter Fifteen
David James O’Hara could be a very impressive young bully when he tried. His face was lean and hard beneath a short crop of reddish hair. He moved with a catlike swiftness, swaggered convincingly, swore and gambled, wore a Colt .44 low on his hip, thonged to his leg, and spoke deprecatingly of every gunman who ever rode within a hundred miles of Kellville.
There had been a few shootings in the little town but, somehow, Dave O’Hara was never around when they occurred. He was twenty-three years old and still believed in his own courage because it had never been tried. The one man who had challenged O’Hara had left town without fighting and thus strongly increased O’Hara’s opinion of himself.
It was about two-thirty in the afternoon. O’Hara was sitting at a back table in the Zorilla talking to Joe Sutton who was losing at cards and arguing.
“You kiddin’, Sutton?” O’Hara said, putting down his card with a slap. “He’s cold-footed. If he ain’t scared o’ Robby, why don’t he wear a gun?”
Sutton swallowed. “Well, why don’t he?” O’Hara challenged.
“He wouldn’t say,” Sutton answered.
“Y’mean you asked him?” O’Hara looked up in surprise from his hand.
“Yeah,” said Joe Sutton, “I ast him yestiday mornin’ but—”
“But he wouldn’t tell ya,” O’Hara finished. “Course he wouldn’t tell ya. Think a man’s gonna come right out and admit he’s yella? Play your card.”
Sutton licked his lips and looked worriedly at his hand, deeply troubled by the impending crumble of faith.
“Well, you should’ve seen him,” he said then, looking up. “You should’ve seen him do the border roll and . . . and the shift. You know, tossin’ his iron from one hand to the other. It was so fast I couldn’t hardly see it.” He swallowed at O’Hara’s unresponsive stare. “That’s how fast it was,” he repeated weakly.
“So what does that mean?” O’Hara asked. “Anybody can do tricks with a gun when they’s no one facin’ ’em. I’d like t’see him do gun tricks with another guy throwin’ down on him.”
Sutton swallowed. “Well . . .” he said but that was all. He swallowed again and played the wrong card.
“Him and that cocklebur outfit o’ his,” O’Hara muttered. “He’s no better’n a sheep herder.” His fingers tightened on the dog-eared cards. “Livin’ on his repitation, that’s what he’s tryin’ t’do. Thinks he can play around with any girl he wants cause he has a repitation. Well, Robby’ll show ’im.”
Joe Sutton shook his head. “Y’think he’ll really go after Benton?” he asked.
O’Hara pointed a finger at Sutton. “You bet ya damn life he will,” he said. “Then we’ll see how good ol’ law- dog Benton is. Bet he won’t even put on a gun!”
“What else could he do?” Sutton asked, faintly.
“Hide, most likely,” O’Hara said. “Hide on his ranch like a yella hound.”
Sutton looked pained. Then he looked up and said, “Uh-oh. Watch out.”
O’Hara looked toward the doors which were just swinging shut behind John Benton’s tall form.
“Whataya mean, watch out?” he said, a little more loudly than he’d intended. “I ain’t afraid o’ him.”
Benton glanced toward them, then walked to the bar, his face hard with anger.
“Pat,” he greeted the bartender flatly as the older man came up to him.
“The usual, Mister Benton?”
“Yeah.”
Benton could hear the voice of O’Hara in back saying something about a shirt-tail outfit as he watched the amber whiskey being poured.
“What’s goin’ on around here, Pat?” he asked then, looking up.
“You mean about Robby and—”
“Yeah. What the hell’s the matter with everybody? One day and it seems like half the town’s out to get me.”
“Well, now,” Pat said casually, “little folks always like to try’n topple the big ones, it seems. It’s human nature.”
Benton smiled ruefully. “I’m just a little feller, Pat,” he said. “No reason for anyone to—”
Abruptly, he stopped talking and glanced again toward the back table, hearing the words
“Who’s that in the black shirt?” he asked, quietly.
“Dave O’Hara,” Pat told him.
“Don’t know him.” Benton drank some more.
“Local loudmouth,” Pat said. “He don’t amount to nothin’.”
Benton grunted, then put down his glass. “Pat?” he said.
“What’s that, Mister Benton?”
Benton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s happening around here, Pat? What’s the latest on this . . .” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “. . . this thing?”
Pat made a sound of wry amusement. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.
Benton thought about the last half hour he’d spent. He thought about Miss Agatha Winston, Mr. Matthew Coles, Jesse Willmark.
“I’d believe it,” he said.
“More?” Pat asked and Benton nodded, pushing the glass forward.
Pat looked up from the bottle. “The talk is,” he said, “that Robby Coles is gonna come after ya.”
Benton looked at him blankly. “Yeah?” he said as if he expected clarification. Then, suddenly, his mouth opened. “You don’t—” He put down the glass. “You don’t mean with a gun?” he asked, incredulously.
Pat shrugged. “That’s the talk,” he said.
