The Gun Fight

Alarm flared up suddenly in the widow Harper’s face as she heard mentioned her only child. “Louisa?” she said hastily. “What about her, Agatha?”

Agatha Winston sat down on the couch with one sure motion, legs and back making a perfect right angle, face stern with righ teous indignation.

“She’s told you nothing?” she asked her sister.

The widow Harper’s lower lip trembled. “Told me about what?” she asked, eyes almost frantic.

Miss Winston drew in a harsh breath. “I think we had better ask Louisa about that,” she said. “I don’t even want to speak of it until I hear what she has to say.” She stood, a bleak wraith of resolution. “Come,” she said.

Elizabeth Harper fluttered up. “Agatha, please. What is it?” she begged.

Agatha Winston clasped gaunt hands before her breast.

“What do you know of Mister John Benton?” she asked bluntly.

Her sister stared back without comprehension. “John Benton?” she repeated the name. “What—”

“Early this afternoon—about two o’clock I’ll allow—Mrs. Van Dekker came into the shop.” Agatha Winston’s dark eyes probed at her sister’s. “She told me something that made me shudder . . . positively shudder, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth Harper pressed trembling fingers to her lips and stared fearfully at her sister.

“I won’t go into detail,” Miss Winston said firmly. “The story may not even be true—I pray to heaven it isn’t —but it concerns this John Benton and . . .” Her lips pressed together. “. . . Louisa,” she finished.

Louisa Harper was dreaming. Across the lilac spread of her bed, her sixteen-year-old body lay, stomach down, chin propped up by delicately cupped hands. Her blue eyes stared vacantly out of the window. She was taking that ride again.

She had taken it a hundred times, maybe more. It was almost always the same. The petty details of its genesis were ignored. That she could not ride and was frightened to death of horses mattered little. She was out on the range again, riding, her light chestnut hair flowing in the wind, her firm body jolting with the cantering gait of the horse. The sun was bright—for now.

Then the complication, the always occurring complication. Louisa Harper’s lips stirred, her mind stared deeper into her dream.

A rattlesnake, a road runner, a jackrabbit—the actual cause was not important. All that mattered was the result; her horse shying, rearing up with a head-jerking whinny, then breaking into a frightened gallop across the brush country. Her scream of terror pulsing in the hot air . . .

. . . and heard.

Her body squirmed a little, her stomach pressing slightly at the bedspread. A movement at her smooth throat. The horse galloping, galloping, her holding on with desperate fear, screaming and hysterical.

Then, out of the mist of her dream, the horse man riding, tall and erect in the saddle, his clothes dark, his hat hanging off his shoulders by its bonnet strings, his blond hair ruffling in the high wind. Closer and closer, the horse man coming, handsome face resolute, one strong hand on the reins, the other half raised toward her . . .

She kept the scene alive; it fascinated her with its terrible thunder of hooves, its pulse-quickening suspense —with the inevitability of its delicious conclusion.

Which came in a sudden command of her will. Her breath caught, her hands were numb. She felt herself swept off the bolting mount and pulled harshly against the tall rider. The horse reined up and, there they were, alone in the vast, empty range, close together on the tall man’s horse.

Oh, Mr. Benton, thank you for saving me.

His eyes gentle on her, his strong arm seeming to tighten around her slender waist. Or was that imagination?

My pleasure, Miss Harper, he said. She felt the butt of his pistol pressing at her hip and it made her shiver.

The scene running, coagulating, breaking again into clarity. Sunlight driven from the sky by needs of plot, deepening shadows over the earth, gray menace swirling in the sky.

Oh, it’s going to rain, Mister Benton. We’ll get soaked.

I know a place where we can wait out the storm.

Rain failing, a sudden desired squall of it. A small cave in the hills, far from town. But they didn’t reach the cave in time and both of them were soaked. Louisa stood by the abruptly built fire, blouse clinging wetly to her swelling form. I don’t care if he sees, I don’t.

You’d better take off those clothes, Miss Harper.

Why, Mr. Benton.

That smile, that throat-catching smile. I’ll look the other way. We have to get our clothes off though or we’ll catch our death of cold.

Scene changing, blurring, transition uncertain, unclear—but definite. Her in her shift, a blanket across her smooth white shoulders. Him with his shirt off; her eyes stealing across the hard-muscled bronze of his torso.

Listen to the wind. His deep, his wonderful voice. Looks like we may be caught here quite a spell.

I don’t care.

The sudden look exchanged; beneath the blanket, her small hands trembling. I said it to him and I’d say it again.

Coffee, somehow made, the two of them drinking it in the warm cave, looking into the orange flicker of the fire, the sparks like fireflies darting up into the darkness. The hot trickle of coffee in her throat; suspense. Her young body writhed a little on the bed, throat dry, mouth dry.

The blanket slipping off one shoulder; her leaving it that way. Let him see me, I don’t care. His eyes glowing in the firelight, the rain pouring and rushing outside in the black night. His hands reaching.

Sudden wild excitement Oh, John, John! . . .

“Louisa?”

She started sharply on the bed at the sound of her mother’s frail voice in the hallway. At once, her delicate features twisted into angry lines. The cave scene went funneling down into the bottomless well of thought and Louisa looked at the door with fierce resentment.

“What is it?” she asked.

“May we come in, dear?”

One small fist beat down angrily on the bedspread. Louisa rolled over and sat up, her legs dropping over the edge of the mattress. She swallowed heavily, her mouth feeling feather-dry. We? she thought.

“Come in,” she said sullenly, glancing down at herself. As the knob turned, she ran smoothing fingers over the wrinkles of her skirt.

The two women entered.

“Aunt Agatha,” Louisa said, feeling a sudden dropping sensation in her stomach at the appearance of her aunt.

Agatha Winston nodded brusquely at her pretty niece, then, when her sister failed to do so, she shut the door firmly as though to close away all intruding eyes. Louisa glanced covertly at her aunt while the widow Harper came over to the bed, an uncertain smile on her face.

“What is it, mother?” Louisa asked, her eyes lowering now to avoid the gaze of her turning aunt.

“Well, dear, we—”

“We want to speak to you, Louisa,” Agatha Winston said, assuming, as her natural due, the role of inquisitor.

That sinking in her stomach again. “Talk to me?” asked Louisa faintly, trying hard to remember if she’d done anything to offend her aunt. Was she supposed to have come to the shop today? No, it couldn’t be that; she only worked there Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in return for the financial aid Aunt Agatha gave to them.

The bed creaked as Louisa’s mother sat down gingerly beside her. Louisa glanced at her with the effort of a