The Gun Fight

“Is that all?” he said.

“That’s all,” Benton said.

“Mister Coles,” Julia said, her voice pleading, “I beg of you . . .”

Benton said, “Come on, Julia,” his voice low and curt.

Her eyes moved frantically to her husband, then back to Matthew Coles again, her lips moving slightly as though she were going to say something.

“I said come on, Julia,” Benton said, voice a little louder now.

“John, we—”

His strong fingers closed over her arm. “Julia,” he said and the way he said it, it was a command.

“Three o’clock, Mister Benton,” Matthew Coles said.

Benton’s head jerked around and he looked back at Coles, the edge of his jaw whitening in sudden fury.

“That’s enough, Coles,” he warned.

“If you are not in the square by then,” Matthew Coles said, “my son will come out to your ranch and shoot you down like a dog.”

Benton turned a little and his cold voice probed into Matthew Coles’ ears. “You’re mighty free with your son’s life, Coles,” he said. “I wonder if you’d be as free with your own.”

Matthew Coles shuddered but immediately regained his composure. “Get out, Mister Benton,” he ordered. “And be thankful at this moment that you have no gun on you . . .”

Benton almost started back after him. Then, with a twitch of muscles, he turned away. “Just remember, it’s on your conscience,” he said.

Benton led Julia from the shop, his hand tight on her arm. “John,” she kept saying. “John. John . . .”

“That’s enough, Julia,” he said.

“But John, we—”

“I said that’s enough,” he ordered, helping her up onto the buckboard. He walked around it and climbed onto the other side.

“Do you want this fight?” she whispered passionately as he shoved forward the brake and snapped the reins over the mare’s back.

“Sure!” he snapped at her. “Sure, that’s it! That’s all I’ve been doin’ the last two days—lookin’ for a fight!”

“John, I didn’t mean—”

“Then, watch what you say, for God’s sake!”

“John, please. Couldn’t we go see Robby? He’d be alone at home and—”

“No,” he said.

She twisted her shoulders worriedly and bit her lower lip. “Let’s go see the Reverend Bond then,” she said. “He might—”

“No, Julia, no,” he said sternly. “I’m through scraping. I’ve had enough; I’ve had more than enough.”

She sat shivering beside him, staring at his hard-set features as the buckboard rocked and rattled across the square headed for St. Virgil Street, for the edge of town.

In the church steeple, the rust-throated bell tolled and it was one o’clock.

Chapter Twenty-six

“The butter, if you please,” said Agatha Winston and, without a word, her sister passed the plate across the table. “Thank you,” Agatha Winston said, in a tone that held no gratitude. She sliced herself another piece of bread and spread a paper-thin coating of butter on its porous surface. This she cut into four equal parts with two deft strokes of her knife.

Chewing, she eyed her sister, then her niece, neither of whom were eating.

“I thought you were hungry,” she said to Louisa.

Her niece looked up a moment and Agatha Winston saw the nervous swallowing in her throat.

“I . . . guess I’m not,” Louisa said.

“You’d better eat something or you’ll get sick,” said her aunt. She sliced off a thick piece of bread and dropped it on Louisa’s plate. “Put cheese on it,” she said. “It’s good for you.”

“I’m really not . . . not hungry, Aunt Agatha.”

“Eat it,” said her aunt and, after a moment, Louisa picked up her knife obediently.

“Why are you shaking so?” her aunt asked and Louisa started in her chair.

“I’m . . . cold,” she said, lowering her eyes. She felt the probing gaze of her aunt on her as she buttered the bread with nervous movements. She thought she knew what her aunt was thinking—cold; shaking; that time of the month; something not spoken of; preferably, not even thought of.

At any other time, knowing or thinking that Aunt Agatha was thinking that would have flushed Louisa’s cheek with shamed embarrassment but today it didn’t seem important. There was a clock ticking away the time in the hall and there was only one thing important—to get out of the house and find someone who could stop the fight. It was strange but there was no question in her mind about telling her aunt even when she believed that it would end the fight. She had to tell someone else.

After a few token bites, she put down the bread.

“May I be excused?” she asked, wondering what time it was.

“You haven’t eaten a thing,” said her aunt.

“Perhaps she’s . . . not well,” Louisa’s mother suggested timidly.

“She won’t be well if she doesn’t eat something.”

Outside, in the hall, the pendulum was swinging; one fifteen.

“I don’t feel well,” Louisa followed her mother’s lead. “May I be excused?” A plan was suddenly forming in her mind; the two of them at the kitchen table, the front door unguarded.

“You’d better go to your room,” said Aunt Agatha.

“Can’t I go for a—” Louisa cut off her impulsive words with a shudder.

“For what?” Aunt Agatha challenged.

“N-nothing, Aunt Agath—”

“I hope you have no plans for leaving the house, young miss,” Agatha Winston said suspiciously. “You know very well you can’t go out and you know why.”

Louisa swallowed, feeling the pulsebeat throbbing in her wrists. She shouldn’t have mentioned going out.

“All r-ight,” she faltered. “I’ll go up to my room.”

She pushed back her chair and stood, trying to keep her face composed, trying not to think of the consequences of running from the house against her aunt’s orders. “Excuse me,” she murmured, her hands cold and trembling as she moved around the table and started for the door.

“I think you’d better lie down for a while,” Aunt Agatha told her.

“Yes, Aunt Agatha, I will,” she said, then shuddered as she realized she was lying. I don’t care—she told herself as she pushed through the swinging door and moved along the hall rug toward the door—it doesn’t matter anymore what she thinks.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

At the sound of her aunt’s demanding voice, Louisa’s hand jerked off the door handle and twitched down to her side.

She stood there, white-faced, as her aunt stalked up to her.

“Where were you going, Louisa?”

“N-no place.”

“Don’t lie to me, Louisa!”