The Gun Fight

Benton started to say something, then stopped and stared at Pat.

“That’s crazy,” he said then. “He’s fryin’ size, for God’s sake!”

Pat said nothing. In the silence, they heard O’Hara say, “Come on, let’s belly up,” and then the scraping back of chair legs and the irregular thump of two pairs of boots across the saloon floor. Benton paid no attention. He kept staring at Pat, his expression still one of disbelief.

“My God,” he murmured. “I never thought for a minute that . . .” Slowly, he shook his head. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “Would . . . would he be fool enough to do that?”

Pat shrugged again. “Couldn’t say, Mister Benton,” he said. “But if enough people push him . . .” He didn’t finish but moved up the bar to where O’Hara and Sutton stood.

“So that’s what his old man meant,” Benton murmured to himself, remembering Matthew Coles’ words. “My God, I never . . .”

He fingered at the glass restlessly, his face a mask of worried concentration reflected back to him in the big mirror. He shook his head concernedly.

He didn’t hear the deprecating chuckle that O’Hara made. The first thing he did hear vaguely was something that sounded like, “What’re ya scared of? He ain’t got no gun on.” But he wasn’t sure that’s what it was as he glanced down the bar at the two young men. John Benton wasn’t used to having people discuss him slightingly when he was around and he couldn’t quite believe that such a thing was happening now.

He saw the movement of Sutton’s throat and how he stared into his drink suddenly. Then the insulting blue eyes of O’Hara met Benton’s. Benton looked back to his drink immediately. There were enough things to worry about already. He took a deep breath and drank some of the whiskey. It threaded its hot way down his throat. Good God, what now? Bond was right, the thing was serious. But how did it get that way so quick? Everybody must really believe that he spoke to Louisa Harper. My God, what did they think he said to her? The barber talked about “playing around”; is that what they thought he was trying to do with the Harper girl?

Benton’s broad chest rose quickly as he drew in a worried breath. It was bad, it was really bad. This was the first time anything even remotely like it had happened in his—

The chuckling again; unmistakable. Benton heard the words cold-footed again, obviously spoken, and something jerked in his stomach muscles. He looked over quickly and saw O’Hara looking at him again. Benton felt the muscles drawing in along his arms, the rising flutter of pulse beat in his wrists. Without a sound, he put down his glass, drew his boot from the rail, and started walking along the bar.

Sutton stepped back as he approached. A failing smile faltered on the young man’s lips as he watched Benton with his dark, intent eyes.

Benton stopped a few feet from O’Hara, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“You got somethin’ to say to me?” he asked, quietly.

A look of instinctive fear paled O’Hara’s face. He pushed it away and forced back his habitual expression of arrogant assurance. But, when he spoke, the slight trembling of his voice belied the look.

“No,” he said. “I ain’t got nothin’ t’say to you.”

Benton’s mouth tightened a little.

“If you do,” he said, “say it to me, not to your friend here.”

Sutton opened his mouth as if to assure Benton that O’Hara wasn’t his friend but he said nothing.

“If I got anything to say, I’ll say it,” O’Hara replied trying to look belligerent.

“Good,” Benton said. “That’s fine.”

Then he saw the slight dipping of O’Hara’s gaze.

“No, I don’t have a gun on,” he said abruptly. “But don’t let that bother you.” He could feel the anger rising inside him like a fire, creeping along his arteries and veins. His temper was going; he was getting sick and tired of people looking to see if he was armed before they said what they really meant.

“I don’t talk to no one who—” O’Hara hesitated momentarily, looking for words a little less insulting, “who don’t wear no gun,” he finished, realizing then that he couldn’t afford to hesitate.

“Listen, flannel-mouth,” Benton said, “I’ve had about enough from—”

“Don’t call me that!” O’Hara flared up impulsively, his voice rising shrilly. “God damn it, I’ll—”

“You’ll what!” Benton snapped in a sudden burst of rage. “What!”

O’Hara hesitated a split second, then lunged down for his pistol. Benton’s arm shot out.

“Hold it!”

They both twitched into immobility and looked across the bar to where Pat had a big army pistol aimed at O’Hara’s chest.

“Put it away, boy,” Pat ordered. “Would ya draw on an un-armed man?”

The look of sudden surprise on O’Hara’s face was changed to one of frustrated rage.

“Sure!” he said, loudly. “Sure! Get a bardog to save ya! You’re too yella t’save yourself!”

His voice shook thinly as he raged and, hearing it, the tension seemed to drain off inside Benton. For a moment, he looked at O’Hara without expression. Then a thin smile relaxed his mouth, a brief chuckle sounded in his chest.

“If you ever see me with a gun on,” he said, amusedly, “you just say that again.”

“I’ll never see ya with a gun on!” O’Hara went on, furious at the lost advantage. “You ain’t got the guts t’put a gun on!”

Benton turned away casually.

“Robby Coles’ll kill ya!” O’Hara said loudly. “He’ll kill ya, Benton!”

Benton turned back quickly, face tight. “Shut your mouth, boy,” he said in quiet menace, “or, by God, I’ll belt on a gun right now; is that what you want?”

O’Hara had the self-preserving sense to glare speechlessly at Benton until the tall man had turned away. Joe Sutton watched Benton walk back to where his glass was.

“Thanks Pat,” Benton said quietly. “He might’ve killed me.”

“He might’ve at that,” Pat said, pouring.

Benton threw down the new drink. “Well, I’m goin’ back to the ranch,” he said clearly. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

“What about . . . ?” Pat didn’t finish.

“Who, Robby?” Benton shrugged and made a disgusted sound. “The hell with it,” he said quietly. “I’ve done all I’m goin’ to do for one day. I’ll just stay on my spread till the damn thing blows over. One thing sure.” He put down the glass with a gesture of finality. “Robby’s not goin’ to come after me with a gun. You know that.”

Pat said no more but he looked dubious.

When the swinging doors had shut behind Benton, O’Hara looked up.

“Lucky for him he’s got a bardog watchin’ over him.”

“Lucky for you, too,” Pat told him.

“But he said—” Joe Sutton started.

“Sure,” O’Hara said, bitterly. “Sure, he said he’d belt on a gun. What gun? Did he have one with him? Was he gonna make one outta the air?”

“Oh, shut up, O’Hara,” Pat said casually and the young man glared at him, tight mouth trembling.

Sutton looked into his foamy beer. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to believe O’Hara, he wanted to believe that Benton wasn’t afraid of anything. And yet O’Hara was right, Benton didn’t have a gun and it was easy to talk when you had nothing to force you to back yourself up with. And, besides, Benton said he was going back to the ranch. If Robby Coles was out to get him, why did Benton go back to his ranch? And why didn’t he wear a gun?

Joe Sutton shook his very young head. He didn’t understand.