Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“Son, between you and me,” he said, “when do you intend to settle this thing? Mind you, I’m not pushing; you’re of age and I believe the final decision is yours to make. But the situation is getting more grave by the hour. I heard talk of it all over town. People are expecting this thing of you, sir. And soon.”

Robby drew in a ragged breath. “Father, I . . .”

“It’s Thursday today,” Matthew Coles estimated. “I believe the matter should be settled before the weekend.”

Robby’s eyes closed suddenly as he bent over his work. A low gasp caught in his throat. No . . . no ! He bit his shaking lower lip. He was in a corner, everyone was surrounding him, pushing him, demanding.

“I have heard that Louisa Harper is being kept in her house until this situation is cleared up. For myself, I believe that there is no other way. Certainly, she cannot face anyone in the street while the matter goes unsettled.”

Stop looking at me! Robby’s mind erupted, still working, head down, fingers unable to do more than fumble and slip.

“I spoke to young Jim Bonney,” said Matthew Coles. “He agreed with me that your decision to face Benton was the only one possible under the circumstances. However, he also said that, if he were in your place, he would have ended the situation immediately.”

Robby swallowed with effort. “Easy for him to talk,” he said, without looking up. “He doesn’t have to do it.”

He didn’t even have to look up to know the expression on his father’s face. It was the one that said as clearly as if words were spoken—What has that to do with what we are discussing?

“Sir?” his father asked.

“Nothing,” Robby said.

“ Sir? ” Urgency now; bilked authority.

Robby felt the cold shudder running down his back and across his stomach.

“I said it was easy for him to talk,” he repeated, holding his voice tightly in check, “he doesn’t have to put on a—” his throat moved convulsively. “He doesn’t have to face Benton.”

“I fail to see . . .” His father left the question a challenge hanging in the air.

Robby looked up quickly and forced himself to stare straight into his father’s eyes. The two of them looked at each other across the shop.

“Father,” Robby said, tensely, “Benton has been in the Rangers, he’s killed thirteen men—”

“I fail, sir, to see what this has to do with the situation at hand,” Matthew Coles interrupted, his voice rising steadily to the end of the sentence.

No, you wouldn’t!—the words tore at Robby’s mind but he didn’t have the strength to speak them aloud. He lowered his head and went back to the pistol, screwing on the walnut stock with tense, jerky movements.

“Sir, I’m beginning to wonder just what you’re trying to say to me,” Matthew Coles challenged, putting down the Winchester barrel with a determined thud.

Robby shook his head. “Nothing. I—”

“Sir?”

He shook his head again. “It’s nothing, father.” He felt his heart start pounding heavily.

“Sir, I demand an explanation!”

“I told you I’d do it!” Robby shouted, head jerked up so suddenly it made his neck muscles hurt. “Now leave me alone, will you!”

He couldn’t seem to get the lump out of his throat. He kept swallowing futilely while his fingers shook helplessly on the Colt parts. He kept his eyes down, sensing the look his father was directing toward him.

Rigid control; that was the sound in his father’s voice when he spoke again. The sort of rigid control that only a lifetime of practice could achieve; the sort of control based upon unyielding will.

“I have already accepted your statement to that effect,” said Matthew Coles flatly. “It is no longer a question of doing or not doing, it is a question of time. Let me remind you, sir, that it is not only the honor of your intended bride that is at stake. Your own honor, too, as well as the honor of our family name, is at stake.” Pause, a brief sound of metal clicking on metal.

“The next few days will determine the future of that honor,” said Matthew Coles.

There was silence in the shop then, a heavy, ominous absence of sound, broken only occasionally by the slight clicking sounds of his father’s work, the infrequent insect-like gasp of the small files. Robby Coles sat numbly, working on the pistol. Another chance was gone; he was in deeper yet. Every time he wanted to bring up the point of whether he should face Benton at all, his father or someone would make it clear that this point was not even in question, that the only thing that mattered now was— when ?

Robby looked up cautiously at his father but Matthew Coles was studiedly absorbed in his work. For a long moment, Robby looked at the hard features that seemed chipped from granite—a deep blow for each eye, several harsh cuts for the large dominant nose, one long, unhesitating blow for the straight, unmoving mouth.

Then he looked back to his work. While he finished putting the Colt together with quick, agitated hand motions, he thought of Louisa being kept in the house because of what had happened.

The more he thought of it, the more it bothered him. She was his girl; he loved her and wanted to marry her. It was his job to defend her; nothing anyone said could change that, no argument could refute it.

And, after all, no one really wanted to see him die. His father hadn’t raised him twenty-one years just to push him into being killed. O’Hara didn’t have any reason to want Robby dead. All the people in town had no grudge against him. It was simply that they all expected him to defend the honor of his woman and Louisa was his woman. Either he stood up for her or he lost her for good and, with her, his self-respect. It was as simple as that; the thought struck him forcibly.

It was strange how this different approach to the matter seemed to pour courage, strength, into him. Louisa was his woman. He loved her and he’d fight for her. That was his responsibility, his duty. Louisa was his intended bride, it was his job to—

The clicking of the trigger made Robby’s flesh crawl.

He found himself suddenly, the assembled Colt held tensely in his right hand, his finger closed over the trigger.

With a spasmodic movement, he shoved the pistol away from himself and it banged down on the bench.

“Be careful!” Matthew Coles snapped.

Robby hardly heard his father. He sat shivering, his eyes fixed to the heavy, glinting form of the Colt, in his mind the hideous impression that, somehow, it was Benton’s pistol and that he’d repaired it and put it together for Benton and it was in perfect working order now; it could fire, it could shoot a bullet.

It could kill.

Chapter Twelve

When Mrs. Angela DeWitt left the shop, Louisa came back to where her aunt sat writing in the ledger.

“Aunt Agatha?” she asked meekly, standing by the desk, her face drained with nervous worry.

Agatha Winston went on with her figures, her eyes shrewd and calculating behind the spectacles, her pen running crabbed hen-tracks of numbers across the lined page.

“Aunt Agatha?”

Agatha Winston’s eyes closed shut. Beneath the mouse-fuzz of her mustache, her pinched mouth grew irked. Slowly, decisively, she put down the pen.

“What is it, Louisa?” she asked in the flinted tone that she conceived to be one of patience and forbearing.

Louisa stammered. “Aunt Agatha . . . please ,” she said. “May I—”

The jade eyes were hidden behind quickly lowered lids and Agatha Winston cut off the appearance of the world.

“You may not go home,” she said, concisely. “There is much too much work to be done.”