Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

He saw that his roan was walking past the first stores of downtown Kellville and his hands lifted from the horn to guide the horse right at the next intersection. He didn’t want to ride into the square. Someone might see him; someone who knew.

When Robby turned onto St. Virgil Street, the horseman came out of the night toward him.

For a moment, Robby felt a cold, rippling sensation in his groin that made him twitch. It’s him , the thought lashed at his mind. He almost jerked the horse around and fled. Then, with a sudden stiffening, he lowered his head and looked intently at the saddle horn, feeling the roan bump steadily beneath him, hearing the thud of the approaching hoofbeats. He can’t shoot if I’m not looking at him, his mind thought desperately, no one shoots a man that isn’t looking. His heart beat faster and harder, sweat broke out thinly on his forehead. The horse came closer. You don’t shoot a man when he’s not looking!—he thought in anguish—you never shoot a man when he’s—

The horse man rode by without a word and Robby sagged forward weakly in the saddle, lips trembling, breath caught in his throat.

It was no use, no use; he realized it then. He couldn’t fight Benton; the very thought petrified him. No matter what happened, no matter what anyone said, he couldn’t fight Benton. He wouldn’t fight him.

A heavy breath faltered between Robby’s parted lips. In a way, it was relieving to make the decision. It gave him a settled feeling. Even realizing that he’d have to face his father with the decision, it made him feel better.

As he rode for the edge of town, Robby wondered what Louisa would want him to do. She certainly seemed astounded that morning when he paled and went storming from the house after she told him about Benton asking her for a meeting. No, he didn’t think Louisa would expect him to fight Benton with a gun.

Yet, what if she did? He loved her and felt responsible for her. His father had been right in that respect anyway. Someone had to defend her and he seemed to be the only one to do it.

But did he have to die for her honor?

Robby nudged his boot heels into the roan’s flanks and the big horse broke into a rocking-chair canter up St. Virgil Street toward the edge of Kellville.

The horsemen seemed to appear from nowhere. One moment, Robby was alone, riding in his thoughts. The next, three horses were milling around him and he was cringing with frightened surprise in his saddle.

“Hey, Robby,” one of the young men shouted above the stirring hooves of the four horses.

Robby swallowed. “Oh . . . hello,” he said, recognizing the voice of Dave O’Hara, an old school friend of his he hadn’t seen more than three times in the past year.

The horses twisted around, snorting, while Robby stared at O’Hara’s dark form.

“Where ya goin’?” O’Hara asked.

“No place.”

“What’s that?”

“ No place!”

“Well, come on with us then. We’re headin’ for the Zorilla.”

Robby hesitated long enough for O’Hara to lean forward and look intently at him.

“You goin’ after Benton, Robby?” O’Hara asked, almost eagerly.

It felt like someone driving a cold fist against his heart. Robby jolted in the saddle with a grunt they didn’t hear because of the milling horses.

“N-no,” he faltered, “I—”

“Heard what he done to your girl,” O’Hara said grimly. “You ain’t lettin’ him get away with that, are you?”

It was like a nightmare—sitting in darkness on the shifting saddle, watching the three horsemen move about him in the jerky little movements caused by their restless mounts, hearing the deep-chested snortings of their horses.

“No, I’m . . . going to do what . . .” Robby’s mind searched desperately for an answer that wouldn’t commit him. Then he grew nervous at his own revealing hesitation and finished quickly.

“I’ll do what has to be done,” he said, his voice sounding thin and strengthless.

“Damn right,” O’Hara said vengefully and the other two men said something between themselves. “The bastard’s got a slug comin’ for what he done. Him and his damn rep. Why’d he leave the Rangers anyhow? And, he’s so brave, why don’t he tote no gun?” O’Hara’s voice was tight with a bitter jealousy. He was one of Kellville’s young men who had made the inevitable step from idolizing Benton to envying and hating him.

Robby sat his mount numbly, hearing the voice of Dave O’Hara as if it were a million miles away.

“When you goin’ for him, Robby?”

Robby bit his teeth together. “I . . .”

The three riders watching him, Dave O’Hara and the other two. When are you going for him? When are you going to die? A shudder ran down Robby’s back. Then he stiffened himself.

“When the time comes,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud.

The dark riders still moved around him. “Well, that’s your own business, Robby,” O’Hara said, “but I want ya to know we’re all behind ya. Everybody knows Benton’s a dirty coward who’s too yella to tote a gun. And after what he done to your girl . . . well, there ain’t nothin’ more to say.”

“That’s right,” Robby said, feeling as if he were trapped there with the three of them. “There’s nothing more.”

“Well how about headin’ for the Zorilla with us and let me buy ya a drink?”

“No, I . . . have to get home.” Loudly, forcedly. “I was just on an errand for my father.”

“Oh . . .” O’Hara punched him lightly on the arm. “We’re all behind ya, Robby,” he said, almost happily. “Ain’t a man in town that ain’t behind ya. When the time comes . . .” Another punch. “We’ll back ya.”

They were gone in a clouding of night dust. Robby waited a moment, then twisted around in his saddle and saw the three of them spurring for the square.

How did the story get around so fast ? Robby couldn’t understand it. Only three men had seen the fight outside of Pat and Pat wasn’t the kind to spread tales.

It was horrible how fast the story was traveling. And now he’d be trapped further, now O’Hara and his two friends would tell everybody that he was going to get John Benton.

“ No. ” Robby couldn’t keep the shaking word from escaping his lips. No, he didn’t want to fight Benton, he didn’t want to! A shudder ran down his back and he couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs to breathe.

Ten minutes to nine, Kellville, Texas, September 12, 1879. The end of the first day.

The Second Day

Chapter Ten

Benton was riding fence. There were only three men working for him and he couldn’t afford to spare any of them for this simple but hour-consuming chore. Mounted on his blood bay, Socks, so named for the whiteness of its feet extending to the fetlocks, Benton was riding leisurely along the rutted trail that preceding fence rides had worn.

Five times during the morning, he’d stopped to fix loose or broken wires, missing staples, once a sagging post. Each time, he’d gotten the supplies he needed from the saddle-fastened pouch in which were staples, a hatchet, a pair of wire cutters, and a coil of stay wire.

Finding a fence section that needed repairs, Benton would ease himself off the bay and ground the open reins. Socks would then remain in place without being tied while his master worked. The work completed, Benton would take hold of the reins and raise the stiffness of his batwing chaps over the saddle.

“Come on, churnhead,” he would say softly and the bay would start along the line again.