The Gun Fight

Thirty minutes!

She stood alone in her room, looking around desperately for the answer. She had to tell someone—but first of all she had to get out of the house.

She moved to the window quickly. Could she climb down the trellis? No, she’d fall and hurt herself. And, even if she managed to do it, surely they’d hear her climbing down.

A whimpering started in her throat and she turned restlessly from the window. But I have to do something! The thought filled her with terror. She couldn’t just let Robby die!

She ran to the door, thinking she might climb down from her mother’s window in back. But there was no ivy trellis in back, she suddenly remembered. She’d have to jump then. But it was too high—she’d kill herself. The whimper rose. Oh . . . no, no. Oh, God, help me to stop it—please, please . . .

The minute hand was moving away from the six now. Louisa stared at it with sick fascination. I can see it moving now, she thought dizzily, they say you can’t really see a clock hand but I can—

Oh, God, it’s going to the seven! I have to do something!

She ran to the head of the stairs. Her stomach was tightening, she was starting to feel sick. I have to do something, I have to stop it, I have to. She pressed her shaking hands together, staring down the steps toward the front door.

I have to!

Suddenly, she felt herself running down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, her shoes thudding quickly on the carpeted steps.

Before she reached the bottom step, Aunt Agatha came hurrying from the sitting room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“I have to stop it,” Louisa gasped.

“Stop it?” her aunt said, questioningly. “I don’t see what—”

“Aunt Agatha, it’s my fault—mine! Please tell them to stop. I didn’t mean to . . .”

She stood there trembling, thinking—there, it’s said, I’ve said it and I don’t care as long as Robby is safe.

“Louisa, go to your room,” Aunt Agatha said.

Louisa didn’t understand. “But I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“But we have to stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“The fight!”

Aunt Agatha’s lips pressed together. “I thought you’d found out about it,” she said. “If you’d remained in your room as I told you, this wouldn’t have—”

“But, Aunt Agatha, we have to stop it!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“But it’s my fault, Aunt Agatha! I made up the story; I didn’t tell the truth!”

Aunt Agatha’s eyes closed a moment. “I understand, Louisa,” she said calmly. “It shows you have a good heart. But I’m afraid it’s too late now.”

Louisa didn’t understand. She stared at her aunt incredulously. “But . . .” she murmured.

“I’m sure we appreciate your wish to prevent violence, Louisa. However, there is no alterna—”

“But it’s my fault!” Louisa burst out, tears springing from under her eyelids. “I made up the story! John Benton never even spoke to me!”

“Go to your room, Louisa.”

“Aunt Agatha!”

“Louisa, this instant . . .”

Louisa couldn’t believe it was true. She stared at her aunt dazedly, feeling her heart beat in great, rocking jolts.

Abruptly, she turned to her mother who had come into the hall. “Mother, you have to—”

“Lou-isa!” Agatha Winston’s voice was metallic. “That will do.”

“But you have to—”

“Go to your room, I said!”

“You’re not going to—?” Louisa began in a faint voice.

“Louisa, if I have to say another word, you’ll remain in this house for a month,” Agatha Winston stated.

“Darling, please don’t make it worse,” her mother begged.

Louisa backed away, her eyes stricken with horror at what she’d done.

Then, suddenly, she lurched for the front door and jerked it open. Before her surprised aunt could jump forward to grab her, Louisa had run out onto the porch.

“Lou-isa!” Aunt Agatha’s sharp cry followed her as she fled down the path and flung open the picket gate.

“Oh, my dear—please,” her mother pleaded in a voice that no one heard.

Agatha Winston ran as far as the gate, her lean face masked with outraged surprise. There, she stopped and watched Louisa running frantically down Davis Street toward the square.

In the hallway, she put on her bonnet with quick, agitated motions. “She’s lost her mind,” she muttered, paying no attention to her distraught sister. “She’s taken leave of her senses. Made it up, in- deed! Does she think a lie is going to stop this fight?”

She hurried from the house, leaving behind a weeping Mrs. Harper, standing in the hallway, trembling and thinking if only her dear husband were alive.

Twenty-two minutes to three.

Chapter Thirty-one

It was exactly twenty minutes to three when the Reverend Omar Bond came out of the white-steepled church on the way to his adjoining house and saw John Benton riding slowly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.

“Oh, Mister Benton,” he called, stepping out into the street.

Benton glanced over, then when he’d seen who it was, he tugged a little at the barbit, reining the bay to a slow halt. The Reverend Bond walked up to the horse, smiling up at Benton.

“Afternoon, Reverend,” Benton said to him.

“Good afternoon, Mister Benton,” Bond answered. “My apologies for stopping you. I just wanted to find out how things went yesterday.”

Benton looked down in surprise at the dark-suited man. “You don’t know?” he asked.

The smile faded. “Know?” the Reverend said, disturbedly.

“I’m to meet Robby Coles in the square at three o’clock,” Benton told him.

“Meet him,” Bond repeated blankly.

Then it struck him. “Oh, dear Lord, no!” he said in a shocked voice. “In one day?”

Benton didn’t say anything. He drew out his watch and looked at it, his expression unchanged.

“But it must be stopped,” Bond said.

Benton’s mouth tightened. “It’s no use talkin’ to anyone, Reverend,” he said. “Nobody wants to listen. They want what they want and that’s it.”

“Oh, no, Mister Benton,” Bond said, arguing desperately. “This meeting must not take place.”

“It’s too late, Reverend,” Benton said quietly. “There’s not much more than fifteen minutes left.”

“Dear God, it must be stopped,” said the Reverend in a tight, unaccepting voice.