The Gun Fight

He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Benton. “Come with me to Louisa Harper’s home,” he asked. “She will surely confess when she hears that there is a life at stake.”

Benton looked restless. “Reverend,” he said, “I been all through this. Yesterday I came in like you asked. I tried to talk reason with these people. And this mornin’ both Julia and I came in. The girl’s aunt wouldn’t even let my wife in the house. Nobody would listen.”

“But surely they don’t realize—”

“Reverend, they do realize,” Benton said. “It doesn’t matter to them. They don’t care, they don’t want to believe I didn’t do what they said. They want blood, Reverend.” Benton’s lips tightened for a fraction of a second. “They’ll get blood,” he said.

“Oh, no . . . no.”

“I have to go, Reverend,” Benton said.

“The sheriff, then!”

“He’s out of town, Reverend. I’m sorry. I have to go now.”

“Is there no one?”

“No one, Reverend.”

“There is you, Mister Benton. I beg of you to reconsider.”

“Reverend, I have to be in the square by three o’clock,” Benton told him firmly. “I’m sorry.” The coldness left his voice then. “Believe me, I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t ask for this thing. I did everything I could to stop it, I swear to that. But—” his head shook slowly, “it’s no use.”

“I’ll go to Louisa,” Bond said quickly. “I’ll tell her. She must confess her lie!”

Benton said nothing but his gaze moved restlessly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.

“Mister Benton, can’t you hold this thing off? Can’t you prevent it from happening until I can reach the girl?”

Benton shifted in the saddle. “Reverend, they said three o’clock,” he said. “I’ll do what I can but . . .” He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.

“Then . . .” Bond looked carefully at the tall man, his mind a twisting rush of conflicts. “Mister Benton I . . . I know nothing of these things, nothing. But . . . well, you have a reputation for . . .” he struggled for the words, “. . . for accuracy and . . . and quickness with your . . . your weapon.”

Benton looked down expressionlessly at the churchman. “What do you mean?” he asked guardedly.

“I know this may be unreasonable but . . . isn’t it possible for you to—to merely wound young Coles? Even if you cannot avoid the meeting in time, couldn’t you end it without taking his life?”

Benton looked down with a tense expression.

“Reverend . . . you don’t know what you’re asking me.” He rubbed a hand across his sweat-streaked brow and wiped it on his Levi’s. “Beggin’ your pardon but . . . well, you just don’t know what a gunslingin’ is like. It’s not somethin’ that . . . that lasts. It’s not somethin’ you can play with. It happens too fast, Reverend, too damn fast.”

Bond stood there, looking up blankly at the worried face of John Benton.

“And . . . well, besides that,” Benton said grudgingly, as if he felt he must be understood, “I’ve been away from it a long time. I haven’t drawn a gun on anybody in more than eight years—and gunslingin’ is somethin’ you have to keep up with or you lose the touch.”

He gritted his teeth, seeing that he wasn’t getting across to Bond.

“How do I know how fast Robby is?” he asked. “What if I go into this meanin’ to crease him and then he outdraws me before I even get the chance?”

“But, surely . . .”

“No, I just can’t take that chance, Reverend,” Benton said. “If I was in practice—yes, I might do it but . . . not now.”

He hesitated, then started in again, his voice rising. “Reverend, hittin’ an arm or a leg in the split second a gunslingin’ takes is hard enough t’do when a man’s with it every day. But I been away from it over eight years.” He shook his head. “I just can’t do it, Reverend, I . . . just can’t. I want to live too—just like him.”

“Well, will you try to keep the fight from starting until I can reach Louisa Harper then?” Bond asked in a hurried, anxious voice.

“Reverend, I . . .” Benton exhaled heavily. “I’ll try,” he said. “But you’d better hurry.”

He tugged at the reins then and the bay moved off toward the square.

Bond rushed up the path to his house and into the hall, his eyes seeking for the clock as he entered. Two forty-seven.

Thirteen minutes.

“Oh, dear Lord,” he muttered in a choked voice as he headed for the kitchen.

“Omar, what is—?” his wife started to ask as he dashed toward the back door.

“No time!” he cried and then was gone.

When she appeared on the porch, he was trying feverishly to get the bridle on their gray mare and attach the animal to the rig.

“Omar, what is it?” she asked, anxiously.

“Benton and young Coles going to fight in the square at three!” he gasped, his fingers fumbling at the leather.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Bond murmured.

“I’m going to Louisa Harper’s house to try and stop it!” Bond told her.

A minute and a half later, he was whipping the mare out the alley and the rig was groaning as it turned onto St. Virgil Street and headed for Davis Street.

Mrs. Bond went back into the kitchen, shaken by the sight of her husband so upset, so white.

When the front doorbell jangled suddenly in the stillness, Mrs. Bond dropped the wooden spoon she was stirring with. Before the clatter had died in her ears, she was in the hallway, moving on skirt-whipping legs toward the door.

Her eyes widened as she saw who it was.

“Where’s the Reverend?” Louisa Harper gasped.

Mrs. Bond knew about the affair and a succession of emotions jolted through her as she stared at the flushed, perspiring face of the young girl—shock first, then confusion, then excited resolve, then a sudden dread as she realized that Omar had said three o’clock.

“Quickly, child,” she said. “The story you told. It wasn’t true, was it?”

Louisa draw back a little, staring at Mrs. Bond with a startled expression. “Where’s the Reverend?” she asked in a thin, frightened voice.

“Child, he’s gone!” Mrs. Bond answered quickly. “He went to see you. We must hurry! That story—it wasn’t true was it?”

Louisa still stared, her chest jerking with laboring breath.

“Child, there’s no time! There are only minutes left!”

“No!” Louisa sobbed. “They have to stop! I didn’t tell the truth. John B-Benton didn’t speak to me.”

“Will you repeat that to Robby Coles?” Mrs. Bond asked desperately, glancing toward the clock. Two fifty-one.

Louisa bit her shaking lips and stood there panting, the hair straggling across her forehead.

“Child, for the love of God! Will you repeat it?”

“Yes!” Louisa burst out. “Yes, I will, I will!”

“Quickly then!” Mrs. Bond grabbed her hand. “We’ll have to run!”

They started down the path, the two of them, rushing for the square. In the empty hall the minute hand edged toward the eleven. Eight minutes—seven minutes, fifty-nine seconds—seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds—seven minutes, fifty-seven . . .