The Gun Fight

Chapter Thirty-two

He was tired. He tried to sit up straight in the saddle but he couldn’t. His muscles ached; his arm muscles and the muscles in his shoulders and back—they all ached from digging and pushing the cows from the bog.

But that was only the immediate fatigue. There was the lack of sleep from the night before too. And all of that was only the surface of the endless undercurrent of exhaustion he’d felt since he’d bought the small ranch with his Ranger earnings and tried to make a going thing of it. Life in the Rangers hadn’t prepared him for it. Life in the Rangers had been a hard one but more because it was dangerous than anything else. And danger didn’t make the body ache with weariness.

He was near the square now. He took out his watch and opened it.

Seven minutes to three. He eased the bay over the side of the street and reined up. No point in leaving Socks anywhere near the square where a stray slug might hit him.

Benton dismounted and started tying up. He watched his tanned hands as they wound the leather rein twice around the rough wood of the hitching bar, then looped it under. His hands didn’t shake but that didn’t mean anything; that was just learned habit. He could be twisted in knots inside and none of it would show in his hands or his face. That was the way he was.

He finished tying up the horse now and stood there a moment, looking at Socks with a sad smile. There was a tightness around his lower stomach starting. It came to him as a sudden jolt that he was nervous.

He swallowed and patted the bay’s muzzle.

“See you, churnhead,” he said softly, then stooped down and moved under the hitching rack and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

He stood there, looking around. The street seemed to be deserted but he knew that people were watching him from their windows. From the corners of his eyes he noted the momentary flutter of a window shade across the street and his mouth tightened. He started walking for the square, his hands swinging in short, tense arcs at his sides.

About five minutes now, he thought. Robby would probably be in the square already, waiting with his father. Benton took a deep breath. He wished it was Matthew Coles he was meeting. That wouldn’t bother him so much.

He tried not to think about it. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing he could do; that it really was out of his hands. He was defending himself, that was all.

But he knew it wasn’t so. It was a lot more than that. He didn’t want this fight, he didn’t want it at all. Robby was just a kid. Julia had been right; he didn’t want to believe it but there was nothing else he could do. It would be . . . murder. John Benton, if you draw your gun against that boy . . . He blinked and tried to drive away her words.

Now he saw the square. It was strange to see it so empty. The last time he’d seen an empty square was in Trinity City. That was the time Jack Kramer had been waiting for him. That one had been easy. He’d hated Jack Kramer and he’d been in top condition. Kramer went down with two slugs in his chest before he’d even gotten a chance to draw his two Colts.

No use thinking of that now. This wasn’t the same. He didn’t hate Robby Coles, he didn’t hate him at all. He felt sorry for—

No! He fought that off too. It didn’t matter what he felt, he told himself, he was still fighting for his life. If he didn’t get Robby, Robby would get him. It was as simple as that.

If only he could forget Julia, if only he didn’t keep hearing what she’d said. John Benton, if you draw your gun against that—

He stopped abruptly and caught hold of himself. Drawing out his watch, he snapped open the cover. Three minutes. Well, there was no point in planning on Bond getting to the girl in time. Benton swallowed dryly. Did he dare wait and not be in the square at three? Maybe if he could stall a little longer, Bond might . . .

No. That was impossible too. They had said three and it was no use fighting himself. Maybe it was pointless, maybe even stupid but when three o’clock came, he had to be in the square. It was the way he was and there was no way to change it now.

He put the watch away and took out his pistol. Opening the cylinder, he took a cartridge from his belt and filled the empty chamber. One of these slugs—the thought came—is going to kill Robby Coles.

Or was it?

He shuddered as he slid the pistol into its holster and started walking again, his mud-caked boots thudding on the plank sidewalk. What kind of question was that? He didn’t understand where it had come from. And yet it was true—he didn’t know how fast Robby was. He’d never given it a thought; it just never seemed as if it were possible that . . .

And yet it was, of course. Benton felt a cold sinking in his stomach. I’ve been away from it too long, he thought, I’m starting to worry about it. That’s what happens when you’re away too long.

He shoved the thought aside. How could Robby possibly outdraw him when all he did was work in a shop all day? No, he was going to die.

Benton’s throat moved as he thought, once again, of Julia’s words. And he wondered, as he approached the square, if it were possible to do what Bond had asked. At one time, it might have been simple. But he hadn’t drawn on anyone in a long time. Could he possibly . . .

His chest shuddered with forced breath. Too much thinking, he told himself angrily, too damned much thinking! He tried to blank his mind to all thought but one: There was an armed man in the square, waiting to kill him.

He stopped at the end of an alleyway that led to Taylor Street. He squinted toward the sun-drenched square. They’d expect him to come down St. Virgil Street because it led out of town to the trail.

Abruptly, he moved into the shaded length of the alley. Maybe he’d come out where they didn’t expect him. They might not see him right away, it might put more distance between them. That might save a minute and give Bond a chance to get back with the girl. It was worth a try anyway.

He was halfway down the alley when the two of them entered it from the other end. The second they saw him, they froze in their tracks.

Benton didn’t stop. He kept walking until he was fifteen feet from them, then he stopped. He paid no attention to Joe Sutton; his eyes were fastened to the stiff features of Dave O’Hara.

“Well?” he said.

O’Hara swallowed and tried not to move his hands.

“I told you if you ever saw me with a gun on, you could say it again,” Benton told him.

O’Hara swallowed convulsively.

“What do you say, little boy?” Benton snapped. “I haven’t got all day.”

O’Hara’s lips started shaking. His dark eyes stared petrified at Benton.

“All right, unbuckle your belt,” Benton ordered.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

With cold, shaking fingers, O’Hara fumbled at the buckle until it came loose. He let the whole belt drop to the ground with a crash.

“Pick it up,” Benton told him, standing motionless, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

O’Hara bent over obediently and picked up the belt.

“Now drop it in that trough,” Benton told him.

O’Hara started to say something and then changed his mind. Biting his lip, he moved on unsteady legs to the trough while Joe Sutton watched incredulously, taking it all in.

“Drop it in.”

The belt was released and it made a loud splash as it hit the water. They all heard it thump as it hit the bottom of the trough.

“You’re not big enough for a gun yet, sonny,” Benton said coldly. “Don’t let me see you with one