Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“Sure!” he said, loudly. “Sure! Get a bardog to save ya! You’re too yella t’save yourself!”

His voice shook thinly as he raged and, hearing it, the tension seemed to drain off inside Benton. For a moment, he looked at O’Hara without expression. Then a thin smile relaxed his mouth, a brief chuckle sounded in his chest.

“If you ever see me with a gun on,” he said, amusedly, “you just say that again.”

“I’ll never see ya with a gun on!” O’Hara went on, furious at the lost advantage. “You ain’t got the guts t’put a gun on!”

Benton turned away casually.

“Robby Coles’ll kill ya!” O’Hara said loudly. “He’ll kill ya, Benton!”

Benton turned back quickly, face tight. “Shut your mouth, boy,” he said in quiet menace, “or, by God, I’ll belt on a gun right now; is that what you want?”

O’Hara had the self-preserving sense to glare speechlessly at Benton until the tall man had turned away. Joe Sutton watched Benton walk back to where his glass was.

“Thanks Pat,” Benton said quietly. “He might’ve killed me.”

“He might’ve at that,” Pat said, pouring.

Benton threw down the new drink. “Well, I’m goin’ back to the ranch,” he said clearly. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

“What about . . . ?” Pat didn’t finish.

“Who, Robby?” Benton shrugged and made a disgusted sound. “The hell with it,” he said quietly. “I’ve done all I’m goin’ to do for one day. I’ll just stay on my spread till the damn thing blows over. One thing sure.” He put down the glass with a gesture of finality. “Robby’s not goin’ to come after me with a gun. You know that.”

Pat said no more but he looked dubious.

When the swinging doors had shut behind Benton, O’Hara looked up.

“Lucky for him he’s got a bardog watchin’ over him.”

“Lucky for you, too,” Pat told him.

“But he said—” Joe Sutton started.

“Sure,” O’Hara said, bitterly. “Sure, he said he’d belt on a gun. What gun? Did he have one with him? Was he gonna make one outta the air?”

“Oh, shut up, O’Hara,” Pat said casually and the young man glared at him, tight mouth trembling.

Sutton looked into his foamy beer. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to believe O’Hara, he wanted to believe that Benton wasn’t afraid of anything. And yet O’Hara was right, Benton didn’t have a gun and it was easy to talk when you had nothing to force you to back yourself up with. And, besides, Benton said he was going back to the ranch. If Robby Coles was out to get him, why did Benton go back to his ranch? And why didn’t he wear a gun?

Joe Sutton shook his very young head. He didn’t understand.

Chapter Sixteen

Late afternoon. Miss Agatha Winston stalked again, a clicking of dark heels, a snapping rustle of skirt. But where the previous day it had been Davis Street, today it was Armitas. Where the previous day she had been headed, stiff-legged and shocked, for the house of her sister, this day she was, infuriated and vengeance-bound, headed for the house of Matthew Coles. She was still in black, however, she still carried, in one gaunt-handed grip, her black umbrella and, in her eyes, there still burned the fire of inflexible outrage.

At the gate which led to the Coleses’ house, Miss Winston paused not a jot but unlatched, shoved, stepped in, and slammed behind. Beneath her marching heels, the gravel crunched and flinched aside, the porch steps echoed with a wooden hollowness, the welcome mat was crushed. Miss Agatha Winston grasped the heavy knocker and hurled it against the thick-paneled door, then stood stiffly in the almost twilight air, waiting for acknowledgment.

A moment passed. Then, inside, a labored trudging of footsteps sounded. The door was drawn open slowly and the care- and time-worn face of Mrs. Coles appeared.

“Miss Winston,” she said, her tone caught between polite surprise and apprehension.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Winston announced. “Is Mister Coles at home?”

“Why . . . no, he’s still at his shop.”

Grayish lips pursed irritably. “Is your older son at home?” Miss Winston asked.

“Why, no, Robby is at his father’s shop too,” said Mrs. Coles.

“Do you expect them home soon?”

Jane Coles swallowed gingerly. “Why . . . yes, they should be home . . . very soon.”

“I see. I’d like to wait if you don’t mind,” said Miss Agatha Winston.

“Oh.” Mrs. Coles smiled faintly. “Of course,” she said and then, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped aside. “Won’t you . . . come in, Miss Winston?”

“Thank you.” The black-garbed woman entered and stopped in the center of the hallway rug.

“Won’t you . . . come into the sitting room?” Jane Coles invited. “They’ll be home soon now.”

Miss Winston nodded once and walked into the sitting room followed by Mrs. Coles, who walked on the rug as if it were a carpet of eggs.

“Please,” said Jane Coles in her nearly inaudible voice, “sit down, Miss Winston.”

Miss Winston, with one slowly modulated dip, settled down on the couch edge and, drawing her umbrella to the tip of her black shoes, leaned her hands upon the handle.

Mrs. Coles stood near the hall door, a smile faltering on her lips. She knew exactly what Miss Winston was there for but she could not, for a moment, speak of it. As a result, she stood quietly, a sick churning in her stomach as she tried to smile at the forbidding face of the other woman.

“Would you . . . care for a cup of tea?” she asked, suddenly, embarrassed by the silence.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Winston.

Mrs. Coles stood there, looking awkward.

“Please,” Miss Winston said, finally, “don’t feel obligated. If you have work to do, please do it. I’ll be perfectly all right here.”

“Oh.” A pleasant smile strained for a moment on the pale-rose features of Matthew Coles’ defeated wife. “All right.” She swallowed. “They . . . should be home very soon,” she assured.

“Yes,” said Miss Winston. “Thank you. I’ll just wait here.”

“All right.” Mrs. Coles backed off, smiling, her insides tied in great knots of dreading. “I’ll . . . get back to my . . . my work then,” she said. Another smile, another almost imperceptible movement of her throat. “If you . . . want anything,” she said, “I’ll . . . I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Miss Winston nodded, not having smiled once since she came to the door. She watched the small woman turn and fade out of the room and heard the weary trudge of Mrs. Coles’ feet moving down the hall and then the swinging open and shutting of the kitchen door.

She still sat rigidly as before in the silence of the room, her eyes straight ahead, focused only on the resolution of her inner thoughts.

In the hall, the brass-plated pendulum swung in slow, measured arcs and the ticking of the clock tapped metallically at the air. Miss Winston shifted a trifle on the edge of the horse hair couch, her nostrils dilating slightly with an indrawn breath. Her eyes focused a moment on the room and she saw, across from her, a gold-framed family photograph hanging on the wall.

There was Matthew Coles, dominating his family in light and shadow as in actuality—standing, dark-suited, face a Caesar-like cast, the hand he held on the shoulder of his seated wife appearing less as an encouragement of love than as a force pinning her down.

Mrs. Coles sat in stolid patience, on her emotionless face only hints of the charm and beauty that had once been hers. Next to her sat the gangly, freckle-spotted Jimmy Coles, his discomfort at being stuffed into low-neck clothes clearly visible.