Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“She is not here,” said Agatha Winston.

Benton looked mildly confused. “What?” he said.

“My niece is not here,” said Miss Winston slowly.

“Her mother said she was here,” Benton answered.

Miss Winston’s face lost color and she pressed together her trembling lips. Then she said, “Good day, Mister Benton.”

He looked curiously at her hard, unyielding face. Then he glanced toward the back of the shop. “Miss Winston,” he said, “I believe I saw your niece when I came in.”

Miss Winston shuddered with repressed fury. “She is not here,” she said, tensely.

“Now, look here,” Benton said. “What are you—”

“Good day , Mister Benton.”

“Look here, Miss . . .” He gestured. “. . . Winston,” he finished, remembering after a momentary lapse. “I came into town because there’s some fool story goin’ around that—”

“Will you leave my shop or do I have to call the sheriff?” Miss Winston shuddered, remembering suddenly that Sheriff Wilks was out of town for the week, taking a prisoner to the city.

Benton still didn’t understand. “Look here, Miss Winston,” he said, “I came here because—”

“Get out of here!” The control was suddenly gone; Miss Winston’s face grew dark with rage again.

Benton didn’t even change expression at her hysterical demand. He stood there looking incredulously at her while, outside, on the plank sidewalk, a passing couple stopped and listened.

“Look, I’ve had about enough of this—”

Benton stopped talking. Miss Agatha Winston was headed for the back of the shop, her dark skirts rustling angrily. She turned the counter edge and came stamping down the length of the shop.

At the door, she stopped and turned, ignoring the couple who moved on awkwardly, trying to act as if they’d seen nothing.

“Get out of here, you . . . !” The proper word escaped her. Miss Winston pointed one shaking finger out at the square.

A moment more, John Benton looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then he made a sound of complete bewilderment, slapped on his Stetson, and walked out of the shop.

Outside, he turned impulsively.

“Listen, will you tell your niece to—”

The banging of the slammed door cut off his words. John Benton stood there looking a little dazed as Miss Agatha Winston drew down the dark shades of her shop and shut him away.

Chapter Thirteen

Benton moved for his horse, not seeing the couple that stared at him, whispering between themselves. His face was tight with confusion as he swung up onto the saddle and drew Socks around. He started across the square for St. Virgil Street.

Then, halfway there, he pulled his mount around and headed for the small shop at the south end of the square. He’d try Robby then; maybe he could talk a little sense to a man. That woman—good God above! Benton shook his head amazedly, thinking about the way Miss Winston had acted. Maybe the Reverend was right, maybe this thing was getting a little bigger than it should. If it weren’t, he would have ridden right back to the ranch and forgotten about it. But . . . well, he was here; he might as well try to end the thing if he could.

But with Robby, not with that Winston woman. Benton hissed slowly to himself. What a one she was.

In front of the shop, Benton reined up and dismounted. He tied Socks to the rack, then ducked under the bar and stepped up onto the plank sidewalk.

As he entered the small shop, it seemed to be empty. His gaze moved over the sun-speckled benches, the pistols and rifles hanging on the walls, the glass case on the front counter. That was a good-looking Colt there with its white-bone stock and shiny new metal. Benton felt the slight flexing in his fingers that came whenever he saw the well-made symmetry of the pistol he knew so well. It was so habitual, he hardly noticed it. His gaze drifted over the other pistols in the case.

He was looking at a Smith and Wesson .44 caliber six-shooter when Matthew Coles came out of the back room. Benton looked up at the sound of footsteps and met the glare of the older man.

Mr. Coles walked quickly to the counter. “State your business,” he said curtly.

There was a slight wrinkling of skin around Benton’s eyes as he looked inquisitively at Matthew Coles.

“Is your son here?” he asked.

“He is not.”

Benton met the older man’s stony look without change of expression. “Where can I find him?” he asked.

Matthew Coles was silent.

“I said—where can I find your son?” Benton repeated as if he hadn’t noticed the slight.

“When the time comes,” said Matthew Coles, “he will find you.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Benton said, the tanned skin tensing across his cheek bones. “Let’s get this straight. This fool story about me and—”

“I am not interested in stories,” Matthew Coles declared.

Benton took a deep, controlling breath. “I think you better be interested in this one,” he said.

Mr. Coles said nothing.

“Listen, Coles, this thing isn’t funny anymore.”

“It is, decidedly, not funny,” said Matthew Coles, his gaze dropping for a searching instant to John Benton’s left hip, then raising as instantly, assured. “You have presumed too much on your popularity, Mister Benton. That was a mistake.”

“If you’re talkin’ about that girl, you’re all wrong,” Benton said. “I never even spoke to her since I been in Kellville.”

The thinnest hint of a smile played at the corners of Matthew Coles’ mouth. “You don’t have to come explaining to me,” he said.

Benton strained forward a moment, body tensed, something in his eyes making Matthew Coles draw back, slack-faced.

Benton swallowed, controlling himself with difficulty.

“Where’s your son?” he asked, tensely. “I want to see him.”

“He does not wish to see you,” Coles said.

Repressed anger seemed to ripple beneath the surface of Benton’s face. “Listen, Coles,” he said, “I came into town to end this fool story, not to be pushed around.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Matthew Coles, stiffly. “However, since you are no longer man enough to wear a gun you cannot very well command respect, can you?”

Again the tightening of Benton’s muscles; at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“You’re an old man,” he said, softly. “But don’t overplay it, Coles, don’t overplay it.”

Mindless rage flared up lividly in Matthew Coles’ face. “Get out of my shop!” he ordered.

“My pleasure,” Benton said, turning on his heel and starting for the door.

“You will hear from us, sir!” Coles shouted after him.

“I’m sure I will,” Benton said, without looking back.

Then, at the door, he turned.

“Now listen to me, old man,” he said, warningly. “Stop pushing this damn thing. If you don’t, somebody’s goin’ to get hurt, understand? You’ve got a good kid. Don’t push him into somethin’ he’s not up to. I’ve got no grudge against Robby and he’s got no reason to hold any grudge against me. Understand? None at all. Tell him that.” Benton’s face hardened in an instant. “And stay away !”

The look was gone as quickly as it came. “I don’t want trouble from anyone, Coles,” Benton said. “Not from anyone.”

Matthew Coles stood shaking with wordless rage behind the counter, staring at Benton’s back as he went out of the shop, stepped off the plank walk, and untied his horse.

For a long time he stood there in the silence of the shop, trembling with impotent fury, his shallow chest rising and falling strainedly.

Then he went to the back of his shop and looked through the collection of new pistols for the one his son would use to kill John Benton.