Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“Well, that doesn’t do me any good,” Benton said. “If she doesn’t stop the gossip, who can?”

“Perhaps you can,” Bond answered.

Benton looked surprised. “How?” he asked.

“I would think that if you rode in to Kellville and spoke to Louisa Harper, spoke to her mother, perhaps to her aunt—the situation might be settled.”

Benton looked trapped. “But . . . what good would that do?” he asked. “They seem to have their minds made up already.”

“I can think of nothing more direct,” Bond said. “If you wish, I could come along as . . . oh, say a middle party to ease tension.”

“Reverend, I have a lot of work to do around here,” Benton said, his voice rising a little. “I can’t go ridin’ off to town just like that. This is a small layout; I only have three hands beside myself and that’s spreadin’ out the labor pretty thin.”

“I appreciate that,” Bond said, nodding. “But . . . well, this situation could become quite bad. Believe me, I’ve seen such things happen before. I mean quite bad.”

Julia looked up at her husband, her face drawn worriedly. “John,” she said, “I think you should.”

Benton twisted his shoulders irritably. “But, honey—” He broke off then and exhaled quickly. “All right,” he said, “I’ll ride in tomorrow and . . . see what I can do.”

Bond looked embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “I would think that—”

“Reverend, this place is creepin’ with work that needs to be done! I just can’t do it today!”

“John.”

Benton looked aside at his wife, his face angrily taut. Then another thin breath fell from his nostrils.

“All right,” he said disgustedly, “I’ll go in this afternoon. But . . .” He didn’t finish but only shook his head sadly.

“I don’t think it will take long,” Bond told him. “Would, uh, you like me to come with you and . . .”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Benton said. He managed a brief smile at the Reverend. “I’m thankin’ you, Reverend,” he said, “but . . . I think I can handle it myself.”

Bond smiled. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I think it will all work out splendidly.” He stood up. “Well, I . . . really must be getting back to town now.”

“Oh, can’t you stay for dinner?” Julia asked. “It’s almost time.”

“I’m afraid not,” Bond said, gratefully. “I do thank you, Mrs. Benton, but . . . well.” He sighed. “My . . . ranch, too, is overrun with work that needs to be done.”

Later, over dinner, Benton shook his head and groaned to himself, thinking about all the work time he was going to lose.

“This is hogwash,” he muttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Julia asked.

Benton shook his head. “No, I’m ridin’ in fast. Maybe I can get it settled quick and come back in time to get some work done.”

Julia poured in more coffee, then stood beside the table, smiling down at her husband. After a moment, he looked up at her. A slow grin relaxed his mouth.

“I know,” he said, amusedly, “get a haircut.”

Julia laughed. “How did you guess?”

Chapter Eleven

He was surrounded by guns. On the wall racks behind him and at his right were rifles—a Springfield .45 caliber breech-loader, a Sharps and Hanker .52 caliber rim-fire carbine, a Henry Deringer rifle, a Colt .44 revolving rifle, a new Sharps-Borschardt .45, three 45/10 nine-shot Winchesters—all of them resting on wooden pegs, their metal glinting in the sunlit brightness of the shop, their stocks glossy with rubbed-in oils.

Across from him, behind his father’s bench, was the board on which his father and he hung repaired pistols like a watchmaker hung repaired watches. Dangling by their trigger guards were five Colt revolvers, a Remington .36 caliber Navy pistol, an Allen and Thurber .32 caliber pepperbox, and three .41 caliber Deringer pistols. All of them had tags tied to them which had the names of the owner and the cost of the repair job.

On the bench in front of Robby Coles were the parts of a .44 caliber 1860 Model Colt which he had converted from percussion to cartridge fire by cutting off the rear end of the cylinder and replacing it with a breechblock containing a loading gate and rebounding fire pin. He’d only managed to get a section of it assembled all morning.

He couldn’t seem to concentrate, that was the trouble. Every few moments he’d start thinking about his father or O’Hara or Louisa and his fingers would put down the part he was working on and, for a long time, he’d sit staring across the small shop, brooding.

Then, in the middle of a thought, Robby’s eyes would focus suddenly and he’d find himself staring at the pistols hanging across the shop from him. He would sit there, looking at the long-barreled Colts, at their plow-handle shaped stocks, their hammers like steer horns jutting out behind the cylinder, the scimiter triggers filed to a hair.

He’d think of John Benton aiming one of them at him, squeezing the trigger. And, suddenly, he’d shudder in the warm shop and his cheek would be pale. No, he’d think, no. And go back to work; or, at least, try to go back to work.

But then, a few minutes later, abruptly, he’d remember the look some men gave him as he rode to work that morning. And his throat would move and the chain of thoughts would begin all over again. He’d end up staring at the pistols on the board again and shuddering. Through ten o’clock, through eleven, through—

Robby’s hands twitched on the bench top, dropping the smooth cylinder as heavy footsteps sounded in the doorway. Looking up quickly, Robby saw his father coming across the floor, seeming very tall in his dark suit and hat, his face grave and still. Robby felt his hand start to shake and, around the edge of his stomach, all the muscles and tendons started tightening in like drawn wires.

Matthew Coles stopped by the bench and looked down at the litter of Colt parts across the bench top. He glanced up at Robby, his face a mask of unpleasant surprise.

“Sir?” he said

Robby swallowed. “I’m sorry, father. I . . .”

“I understand your concern with other thoughts, sir,” said Matthew Coles. “However . . . we have duties to perform in life beside those necessary ones of honor.”

“Yes, sir.” Robby picked up the cylinder again and started working, hoping that his father would leave it at that.

“I’ve just come from the bank,” said Matthew Coles, removing his dark coat and hanging it up carefully on the clothes tree in a back corner of the shop. “There was talk about the Benton incident. Hard talk, sir.”

Robby’s throat moved again and his teeth gritted together as he kept on trying to work.

“I was asked by several men when you were going to settle this matter.” Matthew Coles was adjusting arm garters to keep the sleeves up and away from filings and oil. “I told them,” he said, “that it was your decision to make but that I assumed it would be soon.”

Robby felt his stomach muscles start throbbing. Then, a bolt of terror numbed him as he felt a betraying looseness around his eyes. He forced his lips together and stared down at the bench without seeing anything, his eyes strained and unblinking.

“. . . a matter of honor that needs settling,” he heard the tail-end of his father’s words but didn’t dare reply for fear there would be a break in his voice. His hands fumbled and pretended to work on the cool metal of the Colt parts.

Silence a moment as his father adjusted the apron over his shirt and trouser front, sat down at the other bench, and looked over the disassembled Winchester.

Matthew Coles reached for the long barrel, then glanced up.