Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

The Reverend Bond strained forward, his face suddenly concerned. “Fought?” he asked. “Not . . . not with . . . guns ?” His voice tapered off in a shocked whisper.

“No, not with guns,” Miss Winston said. “Although—”

The look on the Reverend Bond’s face kept her from continuing but she knew that he was fully conscious of what she had been about to say.

“What I am getting at,” Omar Bond continued, preferring to overlook her probable remark, “is that . . . well, Louisa is very young, very impressionable.”

“I don’t see how—”

“Let me explain, Miss Winston. Please.”

Agatha Winston leaned back, eyes distrusting on the Reverend’s face.

“John Benton is what you might call . . . oh, an idol in this town, is he not?” asked Bond.

“Men shall not bow down before idols,” declared Miss Winston.

The Reverend Bond controlled himself.

“I mean to say, he is extremely admired. I do not, for a moment, say that I condone admiration for a man which is based primarily on an awe of his skill with instruments of death. However . . . this does not alter the fact that, among the younger people particularly, John Benton has achieved almost a . . . a legendary status.”

She did not nod or speak or, in any way, indicate agreement.

“I have seen myself,” the Reverend Bond went on, “in the church—young boys and girls staring at him with . . . shall we say, unduly fascinated eyes?”

“I do not—”

“Please, Miss Winston, I shall be finished in a moment. To continue: From the vantage point of my pulpit, I have seen your own niece looking so at John Benton.”

Miss Winston closed her eyes as if to shut away the thought. “I can hardly believe this,” she said, stiffly.

“I say it in no condemning way,” the Reverend Bond hastened to explain. “It is a thoroughly natural reaction in the young. I would not even have mentioned it were it not for what you have just told me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Agatha Winston. “Are you telling me that Louisa lied ? That her story is a deliberate falsehood ?”

“No, no ,” the Reverend said gently, a smile softening his features, “not a lie. Call it rather a . . . a daydream spoken aloud.”

Miss Winston rose irately.

“Reverend, I’m shocked that you should stand up for John Benton, a man who lives by violence. And I’m hurt— deeply hurt that you should accuse my niece of deliberately lying. ”

The Reverend Bond rose quickly and moved toward her.

“My dear Miss Winston,” he said, “I assure you . . .”

Agatha Winston brushed away a tear which had, somehow, managed to force its way out of her eye duct. A sob rasped dryly in her lean throat.

“I came to you because there is nothing my sister and her daughter can do to defend their good name. But instead of—”

Another sob, dry and harsh.

Against his better judgment, the Reverend Omar Bond found himself standing before Agatha Winston, explaining, apologizing.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally said, growing desperate with her. “I’ll ride out personally to John Benton’s ranch and speak to him.”

“He’ll deny it,” Agatha Winston said, agitatedly. “Do you think he’ll—”

“Miss Winston, if the incident occurred as you said, John Benton will admit it,” the Reverend Bond said firmly. “That’s all I can say for now. I sympathize with your situation, I most certainly will speak out Sunday against the insidious cruelty of this gossiping.” He gestured weakly. “And . . . and I’ll go out to see John Benton in the morning.”

He was leading her to the door finally.

“Please don’t upset yourself, Miss Winston,” he told her, “I am confident we can work it out to the satisfaction of all.”

“Oh, if only there were a man in our family to speak for us,” Agatha Winston said, vengefully.

“I will speak for you,” said Bond. “Remember, my child, we are all one family under God.”

Frankly, Miss Winston did not accept that tenet of Christianity. Her mind pushed the concept aside angrily as she strode off into the night, unsatisfied.

The Reverend Omar Bond shut the door and turned back as Clara came out of the kitchen, drying her hands.

“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, concernedly.

“Offhand, I should say the qualifications for membership in the church,” said the Reverend Bond with a weary shake of his head.

Chapter Nine

The hooves of the black roan thudded slowly down the long darkness of Armitas Street, headed for the square. Robby Coles sat slumped in the saddle, his rein-holding hands clasped loosely over the horn. He was staring ahead bleakly, between the bobbing ears of his mount, watching the dark street jog toward him, then disappear beneath the legs of the roan. His lips were pressed together; his entire face reflected the tense nervousness he felt.

When supper had ended, he’d grabbed his hat and gunbelt and started for the door, not wanting to listen to his father anymore.

“Where are you going?” Matthew Coles had asked.

“For a ride,” he’d answered.

“You’d better not,” his father said, “you might run into John Benton and then you’d have to come running home and hide in the closet.”

Robby didn’t say anything. He just jerked open the door and went out, seeing from the corners of his eyes his mother looking at him, one frail hand at her breast.

Then, halfway to the stable, Robby heard the back door open and shut quickly.

“ Son ,” his father called.

Robby didn’t want to stay. He felt like jumping on his horse and galloping out the alleyway before his father could say another word. But open defiance was not in him; he might flare up now and then under provocation but, inevitably, he obeyed his father. He was twenty-one and, supposedly, his own man; but those twenty-one years of rigid training still kept him bound.

He stood there silently, buckling on his gun belt as his father’s boots came crunching over the hard ground of the yard. He felt Matthew Coles’ hand close over his shoulder.

“Son, I didn’t mean to rile you,” Matthew Coles said, his voice no longer hard. “It’s been a hard day and I’m out of sorts. You can understand that, son.”

Robby could feel himself drawing back. Whenever his father called him son . . .

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I . . . understand.”

“I didn’t intend to blow up at the table like that,” Matthew Coles went on. “I believe a family meal should be eaten in peace.”

“Yes, sir,” Robby said, thinking of the countless meals that had degenerated into stomach-wrenching agonies because of his father’s temper.

“It’s just that . . . well.” His father gestured with his free hand. “Just that you’re my son and I want to be proud of you.”

“Yes, sir.” The tight, crawling sensation still mounted in Robby’s stomach. Don’t, he thought, don’t ; his eyes staring at the dark outline of his father’s head.

“I don’t want to force you into anything, son,” said Matthew Coles in as understanding a voice as he could manage. “You’re of age and I can’t make you do anything your mind is set against.”

Robby started to speak, then closed his mouth without a word. His father wasn’t through yet.

“I can punish your younger brother if he does something I know is wrong.” Matthew Coles shook his head once, slowly. “I can’t do that with you, son,” he said. “You’re of age and your life is your own; your decisions are your own.”

Suddenly, Robby wished his father would rage again, rant and yell. It was easier to fight that.