The Gun Fight

Chapter Sixteen

Late afternoon. Miss Agatha Winston stalked again, a clicking of dark heels, a snapping rustle of skirt. But where the previous day it had been Davis Street, today it was Armitas. Where the previous day she had been headed, stiff-legged and shocked, for the house of her sister, this day she was, infuriated and vengeance-bound, headed for the house of Matthew Coles. She was still in black, however, she still carried, in one gaunt-handed grip, her black umbrella and, in her eyes, there still burned the fire of inflexible outrage.

At the gate which led to the Coleses’ house, Miss Winston paused not a jot but unlatched, shoved, stepped in, and slammed behind. Beneath her marching heels, the gravel crunched and flinched aside, the porch steps echoed with a wooden hollowness, the welcome mat was crushed. Miss Agatha Winston grasped the heavy knocker and hurled it against the thick-paneled door, then stood stiffly in the almost twilight air, waiting for acknowledgment.

A moment passed. Then, inside, a labored trudging of footsteps sounded. The door was drawn open slowly and the care- and time-worn face of Mrs. Coles appeared.

“Miss Winston,” she said, her tone caught between polite surprise and apprehension.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Winston announced. “Is Mister Coles at home?”

“Why . . . no, he’s still at his shop.”

Grayish lips pursed irritably. “Is your older son at home?” Miss Winston asked.

“Why, no, Robby is at his father’s shop too,” said Mrs. Coles.

“Do you expect them home soon?”

Jane Coles swallowed gingerly. “Why . . . yes, they should be home . . . very soon.”

“I see. I’d like to wait if you don’t mind,” said Miss Agatha Winston.

“Oh.” Mrs. Coles smiled faintly. “Of course,” she said and then, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped aside. “Won’t you . . . come in, Miss Winston?”

“Thank you.” The black-garbed woman entered and stopped in the center of the hallway rug.

“Won’t you . . . come into the sitting room?” Jane Coles invited. “They’ll be home soon now.”

Miss Winston nodded once and walked into the sitting room followed by Mrs. Coles, who walked on the rug as if it were a carpet of eggs.

“Please,” said Jane Coles in her nearly inaudible voice, “sit down, Miss Winston.”

Miss Winston, with one slowly modulated dip, settled down on the couch edge and, drawing her umbrella to the tip of her black shoes, leaned her hands upon the handle.

Mrs. Coles stood near the hall door, a smile faltering on her lips. She knew exactly what Miss Winston was there for but she could not, for a moment, speak of it. As a result, she stood quietly, a sick churning in her stomach as she tried to smile at the forbidding face of the other woman.

“Would you . . . care for a cup of tea?” she asked, suddenly, embarrassed by the silence.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Winston.

Mrs. Coles stood there, looking awkward.

“Please,” Miss Winston said, finally, “don’t feel obligated. If you have work to do, please do it. I’ll be perfectly all right here.”

“Oh.” A pleasant smile strained for a moment on the pale-rose features of Matthew Coles’ defeated wife. “All right.” She swallowed. “They . . . should be home very soon,” she assured.

“Yes,” said Miss Winston. “Thank you. I’ll just wait here.”

“All right.” Mrs. Coles backed off, smiling, her insides tied in great knots of dreading. “I’ll . . . get back to my . . . my work then,” she said. Another smile, another almost imperceptible movement of her throat. “If you . . . want anything,” she said, “I’ll . . . I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Miss Winston nodded, not having smiled once since she came to the door. She watched the small woman turn and fade out of the room and heard the weary trudge of Mrs. Coles’ feet moving down the hall and then the swinging open and shutting of the kitchen door.

She still sat rigidly as before in the silence of the room, her eyes straight ahead, focused only on the resolution of her inner thoughts.

In the hall, the brass-plated pendulum swung in slow, measured arcs and the ticking of the clock tapped metallically at the air. Miss Winston shifted a trifle on the edge of the horse hair couch, her nostrils dilating slightly with an indrawn breath. Her eyes focused a moment on the room and she saw, across from her, a gold-framed family photograph hanging on the wall.

There was Matthew Coles, dominating his family in light and shadow as in actuality—standing, dark-suited, face a Caesar-like cast, the hand he held on the shoulder of his seated wife appearing less as an encouragement of love than as a force pinning her down.

Mrs. Coles sat in stolid patience, on her emotionless face only hints of the charm and beauty that had once been hers. Next to her sat the gangly, freckle-spotted Jimmy Coles, his discomfort at being stuffed into low-neck clothes clearly visible.

And, behind him, stood Robby, his face sober and youthfully good-looking, both hands resting on the back of his younger brother’s chair.

Miss Winston’s eyes shifted up again to the imperious challenge of Matthew Coles’ face. Fine looking man, she thought, fine; decent. Her throat moved and she made haste to ignore the rising flutter of something unwanted by her virginal system. She drew in a tense breath and stared into her thoughts again, stirring up the mud-thick waters of righ teous anger.

She was still sitting like that when the two horses came clopping up the alleyway, when the back door opened and shut and the commanding voice of Matthew Coles sounded in the house.

Quiet talking in the kitchen. Then, footsteps. Miss Winston looked up as Mr. Coles crossed the room, hand extended.

“Miss Winston,” he said gravely and they shook cold hands. Behind, in the hallway, Robby lingered hesitantly.

“Good afternoon, Mister Coles,” Agatha Winston said. Their hands parted.

“Mrs. Coles said that you wish to speak to me.”

“To you and your son,” Miss Winston amended.

Mr. Coles looked into the coal-dark eyes of Miss Agatha Winston and saw a message of rock-like determination there. Then he turned quickly and, without a word, motioned in his son.

Robby entered restively, trying to smile at Miss Winston but failing. He knew why she was there and the thought terrified him.

“Good afternoon . . . Miss Winston,” he said, his voice cracking.

She nodded once, recognizing his presence.

“May we sit?” Mr. Coles asked and Miss Winston gestured with one hand. “Please,” she said.

Matthew Coles and his son sat down.

“Now,” said Mr. Coles, “I believe I know why you’re here.”

“I’m glad,” Miss Winston said, with one curt nod. “I’m glad someone in this town recognizes the gravity of this ugly situation.” She was thinking with particular deprecation of the Reverend Omar Bond.

“We have recognized it, Miss Winston,” Matthew Coles assured her. “Believe me, ma’m.”

Robby sat on the chair, feeling numb, a cold and ceaseless sinking in his stomach. No, he thought. No. It was all he could think. No. No.

“Then I think it’s time a course of action was settled upon,” said Miss Winston. “This cannot be allowed to go on any further.”

“I agree with you,” said Matthew Coles. “I agree with you entirely.” He nodded grimly, thinking that here was a woman who spoke his language, who thought as a woman should think—with clarity, with decision.

“Well, then . . .” said Miss Winston.

“My son, Robert,” said Mr. Coles, “realizing that it is his responsibility as your niece’s intended husband, has agreed to defend her honor.”

Miss Winston nodded in agreement.

“And,” Matthew Coles went on, “to use force against Benton unless a complete and public apology is made.”