The Gun Fight

damned,” he said.

“Well you could have knocked me down with your finger,” Henry Oliver said. “Surprised the life out of me, naturally.”

“Well, naturally,” Jesse said, shaking his head, an intent look on his thick-featured face.

“And I wasn’t the only one there,” said Henry Oliver. “Bill Fisher was there. And young Joe Sutton. And Pat heard too, yes, Pat heard it all. Strange, all right.”

Jesse kept shaking his head. “You . . . think it’s true?” he asked.

“Well . . .” Henry Oliver’s brow tightened. “I couldn’t say,” he ventured solemnly. “Offhand, I’d say no but . . . well, you can’t tell, you just can’t tell about those things. I know I wouldn’t want to be the one to start a story like that. John Benton’s too big a man around here to . . .” His voice drifted off and the shop was still except for the clicking scissor blades.

“Yes, he’s admired, all right,” Jesse said then as if there had been no lapse in the conversation. “Always thought he’s been overrated but . . . well, that’s nothing to do with this.” He shook his head, cutting absorbedly. “Louisa Harper, huh?” he said. “Now ain’t that somethin’.”

“Oh,” Henry Oliver said, almost grudgingly, his thick shoulders shrugging slightly, “it might be a mistake, of course.”

“Sure. Sure, that’s right, it could be a mistake,” Jesse said, agreeing with a customer.

Twenty minutes later, Henry Oliver walked out of the shop and Jesse sat down again to look at his paper. But he didn’t read it, he just sat there staring at the blurred print and thinking about what Mr. Oliver had said.

“Sure,” he muttered to himself. “Sure. I can see it; him a hero and all.” He licked his fat lips. “Louisa Harper, huh? I wouldn’t mind—”

He broke off abruptly as another customer entered. There was the taking off of the coat, the sitting down in the gilded metal and black leather chair, the tying of the cloth, the comment on the weather, the assent, the plucking up of the long scissors, the tentative clicking of blades.

“Heard about the big fight?” Jesse asked his customer.

“No. When was this?” the man asked casually.

“Just a while ago,” said Jesse. “In the Zorilla Saloon. Robby Coles and John Benton.”

“No.” The man looked up interestedly. “Benton?”

“Yup.” Jesse’s head nodded in short, decisive arcs as he worked, purse-lipped, on the man’s hair. “Had a fight over Robby Cole’s girl, Louisa Harper.”

“You don’t tell me,” the man said, face strained with interest.

“That’s right,” Jesse said calmly. “That’s right.” His small eyes narrowed. “ ’Course it might be a mistake but it seems . . . there’s been somethin’ between Benton and the girl.”

The customer’s eyes rose to the mirror on the wall and he and Jesse looked at each other with the half- repressed fascination of little boys who believe they have unearthed something of unique prurience.

“Well,” the man said.

As they went on talking, the sound of their conversation drifted out the door into the air of Kellville.

Chapter Four

Matthew Coles was never on any horse but his chestnut gelding. He did not ride well and was a man who would not let himself be observed doing anything less than perfectly. The chestnut was a mild animal, easily seated, but one which managed to give the appearance of being excitably alert. It was a combination well suited to Matthew Coles who preferred his triumphs to appear hard-won. Thus, satisfyingly, was the gelding added to his list of conquests, which list included also his acquaintances, business associates, wife, and children. Matthew Coles was a man who kept a taut, unyielding rein on every aspect of his life.

It was just ten minutes past noon when he came riding slowly down Armitas Street. At the twelfth stroke of noon, he had risen from the bench of his gunsmith shop, donned his coat and hat, and locked up the shop, leaving in the door window the thumb-worn sign which read simply DINNER. He had mounted the docile chestnut and started for his house where, by God, Jane had better have dinner immediately ready to eat. Precision and efficiency— Matthew Coles was especially guided by these coupled verities.

Mr. Coles was in a particularly sour humor that afternoon. His elder son, Robby, had not appeared at the shop promptly at eight thirty as he was supposed to; as a matter of fact, Robby had not shown up at all. That was an added reason why Matthew Coles rode stiffly, his back a ramrod of irked authority, his face set with dominance defied. He wore black, as always, for it made his five foot ten inches appear taller and, he fancied, made him look unusually handsome for a man in his middle fifties.

As he rode into the alleyway beside the house, he saw his son’s roan tied up in back and his mouth twitched angrily. The horse hadn’t been rubbed down, it was streaked over with dry sweat. Beneath taut lips, Matthew Coles’ false teeth clamped vice-like. Fool!—he raged within. Robby didn’t deserve a horse and, by God, if he didn’t take better care of it, he wouldn’t have a horse!

The gelding stopped. Matthew Coles eased his right leg over its croup and let himself down with a grunt. Then he led the horse into the small stable and tied it up near the water trough.

He crossed the backyard with vengeful strides, then clumped loudly up the wooden porch steps, removing his hat as he ascended.

The kitchen door thudded shut behind him and his wife Jane straightened up over the chair in which Robby sat slumped.

“Good afternoon, dear,” she said hastily. “I’ll get you your—”

“What is the meaning of leaving your mount untended?” Coles asked loudly, ignoring his mouse-haired wife.

Robby looked up, his drained features tensed with nausea. “I was sick,” he muttered. “I—”

“Speak up, sir. I can’t hear you when you mumble like a child.” Mr. Coles hung up his hat with one authoritative motion.

Robby swallowed, grimacing with pain, his hands pressed over the waist of his belt-loosened trousers.

“Matthew, he’s ill.”

Matthew Coles impaled his small-framed wife with an imperious glare. “Is my dinner ready?” he challenged.

“I was—”

“I’ve been working,” her husband explained with the carefully measured articulation of a harried father addressing his idiot daughter. “I’m hungry. Are you going to stand there gaping at me or are you going to make my dinner?”

Mrs. Coles tried to look agreeable but could not summon the long-lost ability to smile. She turned away and hurried toward the stove.

“Well, sir?” Mr. Coles re-addressed his bent-over son.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Robby said, his lips drawn back from his teeth. He groaned slightly and, by the stove, his mother cast a look of anguished concern toward him.

“What’s wrong with you, sir?” Matthew Coles demanded. “And where were you this entire morning?”

“I was—” Robby leaned over suddenly, jamming the end of one fist against his pale-lipped mouth.

“Matthew, he’s ill,” Mrs. Coles said suddenly. “Please don’t—”

“This is not your discussion,” her husband informed her, face tensed with the expression of a soldier attacked on all sides. “I have an appointment at the bank at one o’clock. I expect to be there exactly on time—fed.”

Jane Coles’ hands twitched in futile empathy with her upset condition and she turned back to the stove, a hopeless expression on her face.

“Where is the boy?” her husband asked her.

“He’s not home from school yet,” she answered.

“I can’t hear you.”