Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“What else could he do?” Sutton asked, faintly.

“Hide, most likely,” O’Hara said. “Hide on his ranch like a yella hound.”

Sutton looked pained. Then he looked up and said, “Uh-oh. Watch out.”

O’Hara looked toward the doors which were just swinging shut behind John Benton’s tall form.

“Whataya mean, watch out?” he said, a little more loudly than he’d intended. “I ain’t afraid o’ him.”

Benton glanced toward them, then walked to the bar, his face hard with anger.

“Pat,” he greeted the bartender flatly as the older man came up to him.

“The usual, Mister Benton?”

“Yeah.”

Benton could hear the voice of O’Hara in back saying something about a shirt-tail outfit as he watched the amber whiskey being poured.

“What’s goin’ on around here, Pat?” he asked then, looking up.

“You mean about Robby and—”

“Yeah. What the hell’s the matter with everybody? One day and it seems like half the town’s out to get me.”

“Well, now,” Pat said casually, “little folks always like to try’n topple the big ones, it seems. It’s human nature.”

Benton smiled ruefully. “I’m just a little feller, Pat,” he said. “No reason for anyone to—”

Abruptly, he stopped talking and glanced again toward the back table, hearing the words cold-footed spoken loudly. He squinted a little at the young man sitting in the shadows. He saw young Joe Sutton’s face twitch in the repression of a smile, then he looked back at the bar. He picked up the glass and took a swallow.

“Who’s that in the black shirt?” he asked, quietly.

“Dave O’Hara,” Pat told him.

“Don’t know him.” Benton drank some more.

“Local loudmouth,” Pat said. “He don’t amount to nothin’.”

Benton grunted, then put down his glass. “Pat?” he said.

“What’s that, Mister Benton?”

Benton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s happening around here, Pat? What’s the latest on this . . .” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “. . . this thing?”

Pat made a sound of wry amusement. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

Benton thought about the last half hour he’d spent. He thought about Miss Agatha Winston, Mr. Matthew Coles, Jesse Willmark.

“I’d believe it,” he said.

“More?” Pat asked and Benton nodded, pushing the glass forward.

Pat looked up from the bottle. “The talk is,” he said, “that Robby Coles is gonna come after ya.”

Benton looked at him blankly. “Yeah?” he said as if he expected clarification. Then, suddenly, his mouth opened. “You don’t—” He put down the glass. “You don’t mean with a gun?” he asked, incredulously.

Pat shrugged. “That’s the talk,” he said.

Benton started to say something, then stopped and stared at Pat.

“That’s crazy,” he said then. “He’s fryin’ size, for God’s sake!”

Pat said nothing. In the silence, they heard O’Hara say, “Come on, let’s belly up,” and then the scraping back of chair legs and the irregular thump of two pairs of boots across the saloon floor. Benton paid no attention. He kept staring at Pat, his expression still one of disbelief.

“My God,” he murmured. “I never thought for a minute that . . .” Slowly, he shook his head. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “Would . . . would he be fool enough to do that?”

Pat shrugged again. “Couldn’t say, Mister Benton,” he said. “But if enough people push him . . .” He didn’t finish but moved up the bar to where O’Hara and Sutton stood.

“So that’s what his old man meant,” Benton murmured to himself, remembering Matthew Coles’ words. “My God, I never . . .”

He fingered at the glass restlessly, his face a mask of worried concentration reflected back to him in the big mirror. He shook his head concernedly.

He didn’t hear the deprecating chuckle that O’Hara made. The first thing he did hear vaguely was something that sounded like, “What’re ya scared of? He ain’t got no gun on.” But he wasn’t sure that’s what it was as he glanced down the bar at the two young men. John Benton wasn’t used to having people discuss him slightingly when he was around and he couldn’t quite believe that such a thing was happening now.

He saw the movement of Sutton’s throat and how he stared into his drink suddenly. Then the insulting blue eyes of O’Hara met Benton’s. Benton looked back to his drink immediately. There were enough things to worry about already. He took a deep breath and drank some of the whiskey. It threaded its hot way down his throat. Good God, what now ? Bond was right, the thing was serious. But how did it get that way so quick? Everybody must really believe that he spoke to Louisa Harper. My God, what did they think he said to her? The barber talked about “playing around”; is that what they thought he was trying to do with the Harper girl?

Benton’s broad chest rose quickly as he drew in a worried breath. It was bad, it was really bad. This was the first time anything even remotely like it had happened in his—

The chuckling again; unmistakable. Benton heard the words cold-footed again, obviously spoken, and something jerked in his stomach muscles. He looked over quickly and saw O’Hara looking at him again. Benton felt the muscles drawing in along his arms, the rising flutter of pulse beat in his wrists. Without a sound, he put down his glass, drew his boot from the rail, and started walking along the bar.

Sutton stepped back as he approached. A failing smile faltered on the young man’s lips as he watched Benton with his dark, intent eyes.

Benton stopped a few feet from O’Hara, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“You got somethin’ to say to me?” he asked, quietly.

A look of instinctive fear paled O’Hara’s face. He pushed it away and forced back his habitual expression of arrogant assurance. But, when he spoke, the slight trembling of his voice belied the look.

“No,” he said. “I ain’t got nothin’ t’say to you.”

Benton’s mouth tightened a little.

“If you do,” he said, “say it to me, not to your friend here.”

Sutton opened his mouth as if to assure Benton that O’Hara wasn’t his friend but he said nothing.

“If I got anything to say, I’ll say it,” O’Hara replied trying to look belligerent.

“Good,” Benton said. “That’s fine.”

Then he saw the slight dipping of O’Hara’s gaze.

“No, I don’t have a gun on,” he said abruptly. “But don’t let that bother you.” He could feel the anger rising inside him like a fire, creeping along his arteries and veins. His temper was going; he was getting sick and tired of people looking to see if he was armed before they said what they really meant.

“I don’t talk to no one who—” O’Hara hesitated momentarily, looking for words a little less insulting, “who don’t wear no gun,” he finished, realizing then that he couldn’t afford to hesitate.

“Listen, flannel-mouth ,” Benton said, “I’ve had about enough from—”

“Don’t call me that!” O’Hara flared up impulsively, his voice rising shrilly. “God damn it, I’ll—”

“You’ll what!” Benton snapped in a sudden burst of rage. “What!”

O’Hara hesitated a split second, then lunged down for his pistol. Benton’s arm shot out.

“ Hold it! ”

They both twitched into immobility and looked across the bar to where Pat had a big army pistol aimed at O’Hara’s chest.

“Put it away, boy,” Pat ordered. “Would ya draw on an un-armed man?”

The look of sudden surprise on O’Hara’s face was changed to one of frustrated rage.