Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“It’s not enough, mother,” Robby said, almost angrily now. “Can’t you see that? The whole town believes he did it and . . .” he punched a fist on his leg, “. . . and Louisa is suffering for it. I have to speak for her, mother, can’t you see that I have to?”

She sat in the chair shivering, staring at his tense young face, knowing that he was trying desperately to hang on to his resolve, feeling, in her body, a twisting and knotting of sick terror for him.

“No . . .” she murmured, hardly realizing it herself. In her mind a dozen different questions flung about in a weave of stricken panic. But you didn’t ask Louisa if it were true, did you? Why should John Benton do such a thing? Why do you believe everything they tell you? Why do you let them all make your decision for you? Robby, it’s your life ! There’s only one! A rushing torrent of words she could never speak to him in a hundred years.

“What are . . . what are you going to do?” she asked, without meaning to.

They were both silent, looking at each other and Jane Coles could hear the clock in the hall ticking away the moments.

Then her son said, “There’s only one thing.”

Her hand reached out instinctively and closed over his as a rush of horror enveloped her.

“No, darling!” she begged him. “Please don’t! Please! ”

Robby bit his lip and there was a strained sound in his throat as if he had felt himself about to cry and fought it away. He drew his hand from her quickly, his face hardening and, for a hideous moment, Jane Coles saw the face of her husband reflected on Robby’s pale features.

“ There’s nothing else, I said, ” he told her tensely.

“But not with—!” She broke off suddenly, afraid even of the word.

“Yes,” he said and she could see clearly how hard he was trying to believe it himself. “There’s no other way a man like him would understand. It’s all he deserves. He won’t apologize or . . .” He saw the straining fear on her face and his voice snapped angrily. “I believe Louisa! She wouldn’t lie to me! Not about something like this. It’s my duty to . . . to defend her honor.”

“Oh dear God!” Jane Coles slumped over, pressing her shaking hands to her face. “Dear God, it’s your father talking, it’s not you. It’s him, him! Oh, dear God, dear God . . .” The tears ran between her trembling fingers.

Robby sat there stiffly, staring at his mother with half-frightened eyes, desperately afraid that he was going to cry too. He leaned back in the chair looking at her with an expression in his eyes that shifted from resolution to pitying contrition and back to resolute strength again.

“You don’t have to cry, mother,” he said, feeling a twinge at the cold sound of his voice. “I’m not afraid of John Benton. I . . . I’m not a little boy anymore, mother, I’m twenty-one.”

His mother looked up with an anguished sob. “You’re not old enough for this!” she cried, almost a fierce anger in her voice. “You mustn’t fight him, son, you mustn’t!”

She kept crying and, for some strange reason, Robby felt suddenly remorseless and cold toward his sobbing mother. There was no strength in her, the thought crept vaguely through his brain, there was only weakness and surrender. He was a man now and he had a job to do. He was going to do it no matter what happened.

He wished it was morning so he could buckle on his gun and get it over with. He found to his astonishment that he actually wasn’t afraid of Benton now, that he wanted only to get the job over with. Louisa was his intended bride; someday she would be his wife. His father was right; he had to defend her, now and always, it was his responsibility. When men stopped fighting for their women, the society would fail, he was certain of it.

“Go to bed, mother,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone, “there’s nothing to cry about.”

Jane Coles sat slumped on her chair, still weeping, her thin shoulders palsied with sobbing. Robby sat looking at her as he would look at a stranger. He felt cold inside, hollowed out by determination, drained of fear, empty of all but the one resolution he knew he had to obey.

He had said tomorrow. Tomorrow it would be.

Slowly, consciously, his fingers closed on the table top; they made a hard, white fist.

Twelve twenty-one, the end of the second day.

The Third Day

Chapter Twenty

Julia was just putting the rack of loaves into the hot oven when the hound began barking outside the kitchen door at the muffled drumming of hoofbeats. Pushing up the oven door, she moved quickly across the floor toward the window and looked out.

A sudden weakness dragged at her and she caught at the windowsill, her heart suddenly pumping in slow, heavy beats as she saw who it was.

The chestnut gelding was reined up to a careful stop before the house and stood there fidgeting while the hound cringed nearby, ears back, head snapping with each hoarse, excited bark it gave.

“ Benton! ” Julia heard Matthew Coles call out and her stomach muscles shuddered at the sound.

“No,” she murmured without realizing it, gasping to draw breath into her lungs.

“Benton!” Coles shouted again, his voice sharp and demanding. Julia stared out at him, hoping desperately that he would think no one was home and ride away.

Then Matthew Coles started to dismount and she pushed from the window and opened the door with a spasmodic pull.

Matthew Coles twitched back, face whitening.

“I am unarm—!” he started to cry out, then broke off with a tightening of his mouth when he saw it was her.

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Benton?” he asked quickly, trying to cover up his momentary panic. The hound dog backed toward Julia as she stood in the doorway.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked, weakly.

“Mrs. Benton, I expect an answer.”

She drew in a shaking breath. “He’s not here,” she said.

“Where is he?”

She swallowed quickly and stared at him, feeling sick and dizzy.

“Mrs. Benton, I demand an—”

“Why do you want to know?”

“That is not your concern, ma’m,” said Matthew Coles.

“It’s about Louisa Harper, isn’t it?” she asked suddenly.

His face hardened. “Where is your husband, ma’m?” he asked.

“Mister Coles, it isn’t true! My husband had nothing to do with that girl!”

“I’m afraid the facts speak differently, ma’m,” Matthew Coles said with imperious calm. “Now, where is he?”

“Mister Coles, I beg of you—listen to me! My husband had nothing to do with Louisa Harper, I sw—”

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Benton?”

“I swear to you, Mister—”

“Where is he, Mrs. Benton?” Matthew Coles asked, his voice rising.

“Why won’t you listen to me? Don’t you think I’d know?”

“Mrs. Benton, I demand an answer!”

“What are you trying to do—kill your son?!”

The hint of a smile played at Matthew Coles’ lips. “I don’t believe it’s my son you’re concerned for,” he said.

“Who else would I be concerned for?” she answered heatedly. “You don’t think he’d have a chance against my husband, do you? For the love of God, stop this terrible thing before—”

Matthew Coles turned on his heel and lifted his boot toe into the stirrup.

“Mister Coles!” Her cry followed him as she took a quick step into the morning sunlight, face pale and tense.

He said nothing but swung up into the saddle and pulled his horse around.