The Gun Fight

hands tightening spasmodically on the bannister. Downstairs, she heard a drawn-in breath rasp in her aunt’s throat, then a choked sob. The doorbell rang insistently.

“Go away!” Agatha Winston cried out in a broken voice. “You’re not welcome here!”

Suddenly, Louisa pushed herself up and moved around the bannister railing, desperately thinking—I’ve got to stop it!

The sight of her aunt drove her back and a whimper started in her throat as she drew away from the head of the stairs. No, no, I have to tell her!—she thought in terrified anguish.

She whirled and ran down the hall, her feet soundless on the thick rug. Pushing open the door, she shut it quickly and silently behind herself and rushed across the room toward the window.

As she reached it, she saw Julia Benton moving for the gate. Her mouth opened and she tried to call to her but the sound would not come—it froze in her throat. In her mind a flood of frightened thoughts drowned resolve— Aunt Agatha finding out, Robby finding out, John Benton finding out, the whole town finding out . . .

A sob broke in her throat and her hands clutched desperately at the windowsill. But I have to tell! she thought, agonized, I can’t let him be killed!

“Mrs. Benton!” she called. But the call was a strangled whispering and, with sickened eyes, she watched Julia Benton get in the buckboard.

Then Mrs. Benton looked at the house, her face white and shaken. Louisa raised her hand suddenly. “Mrs. Benton!” she said, a little louder but not loud enough.

Julia Benton tugged at the dark reins and the horse pulled the buckboard away.

“No!” Louisa couldn’t keep from crying out. She clapped a shaking hand over her mouth and whirled to face the door. Had Aunt Agatha heard her? She stared at the closed door for a full minute, lips shaking, her eyes stark with dread.

Aunt Agatha did not come up. Louisa leaned back against the wall weakly, her mind confused with a tangling of thoughts. What was she going to do? Oh God, what was she going to do?

Out in the hall, a wall clock ticked its endless beat while the minute hand moved slowly for the number six. In ten minutes, it would be twelve-thirty.

Chapter Twenty-three

He’s out of town,” Benton told her when they met at the foot of Davis Street.

Julia stared up at him blankly. “Out of town?” she repeated in a faint voice.

“That’s what the deputy said.”

“But . . . for how long?”

“Three days yet,” John said gravely. “He’s takin’ a prisoner to the Rangers.” On the plank sidewalk, passing men and women glanced at them and tried to hear what they were saying.

“Well, what about the deputy?” Julia said. “He can stop it, can’t he?”

“Well—” John started to say, then glanced over suddenly at the sidewalk where two men looked away and walked off quickly along the planks toward the Zorilla Saloon.

Mouth tightened, Benton dismounted and tied Socks to the back of the buckboard. A thin-wheeled rig came crackling up Davis Street and was guided around them. From the corners of his eyes, Benton saw Henry Oliver looking at him curiously.

Then the rig turned left into the square and Benton climbed up on the seat beside Julia.

“He won’t do anything,” he told her. “Too many people are for it. Guess this thing is bigger than we thought. Half the town knows about it, looks like.”

“But . . .” Julia stared at him, dazedly, trying to think but unable to, “. . . what are we going to do?”

John didn’t even bother shrugging. “I don’t know, ma,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. “I just don’t know.” He looked up at her. “What happened at the girl’s house?”

“Her aunt was there,” Julia said.

“She wouldn’t even let you in, I expect,” John said grimly and she started to say something but didn’t. They sat there in the motionless buckboard, trying to ignore the passersby who stared at them.

“Well, let’s not just sit here,” John said abruptly. “Here, you want me to drive?” He reached for the reins, then glanced up irritably at a passing man who was gaping at him.

“Give me the reins, Julia,” he said tersely.

She looked over at him. “Where are we going?” she asked, worriedly.

His mouth opened a little as if he were about to speak, then he hesitated and blew out a tired breath.

“Where can we go?” he asked her.

“Well . . .”

“We’ll have to go back to the ranch,” he said.

“John, we can’t.”

“Julia, what else is there to do?”

“Can’t we see the deputy sheriff again? He has to keep the peace; it’s his job.”

“Honey, the job’s no bigger than the man. Catwell’s just a store clerk with a badge on. He’s not goin’ to stand up against half the town. He’s not the kind.”

“But we can’t go back, John,” she said, more heatedly. “We’ve got to stop it somehow.”

“What would you suggest?” he asked, his voice flat and unencouraging.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to get control of her scattered thoughts. “But we have to do something.”

John shrugged and let his hands fall to his lap and he sat there staring at his mud-caked boots.

“I almost think you want this—” Julia started to say, then stopped as he looked over quickly at her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John,” she said hastily. “It’s just that . . .”

She pressed her hands together. “Can’t we . . .” She hesitated and then said quickly, “We’ll go talk to Robby.”

“Honey, you heard his old man this morning,” John said. “Did he sound like he was open to reason?”

“We’ll talk to Robby, not his father.”

“Same thing,” he said, disgustedly.

“John, we have to do something,” she said slowly and tensely. “You know we have to.”

He let go of the reins and pressed his lips together.

“All right,” he said curtly. “All right, Julia. But not much more. You understand? Not much more.”

With a nervous twitching of her hands, Julia shook the reins and the buckboard lurched forward into the square.

Chapter Twenty-four

Louisa stood at the head of the stairs, looking down, one hand pressed at the bosom of her dress, the other clamped tightly on the bannister railing.

They were still down there. They weren’t talking but Louisa knew they were there and knew she’d have to walk by the front room to get to the kitchen and the back door.

She lowered one foot nervously and shifted her weight to the first carpeted step with a cautious movement.