Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

“If they had put you on the case, John Benton,” said Henry Oliver expansively, waving a thick finger at the tall man, “Mister John Wesley Hardin would have been in Rusk Prison long ago.”

“He’d a been in the boneyard long ago,” John Sutton added hurriedly, his young voice eager to please.

John Benton only chuckled softly and gestured toward Pat, the bartender, for another drink. He put the cigarette between his lips again and listened amusedly as the men went on discussing the imprisonment of Hardin and the possibilities of his escaping. He nodded once to Pat as the glass was filled, then touched the smooth sides of the glass with his long, sure fingers, a mild expression on his strongly cut face.

“Isn’t that so, Benton?” said Joe Sutton, with the tone of a novice seeking ultimate authority.

“What’s that, Sutton?” Benton asked.

“I say Wes Hardin killed more men with his border roll than any other way.”

The beginning of a smile twitched at the corners of Benton’s wide mouth. “As I said,” he answered, “what I know about Hardin you could put in a pea shell and rattle.”

He stiffened suddenly, his legs going rigid, the amiable expression wiped from his face as Joe Sutton reached down for his pistol. Instinctively, his right hand shot across his body to the spot on his left where his pistol would have been if he’d worn one.

Joe Sutton held out his pistol, butt first. “Show how he does it,” he asked, oblivious. “Show how Hardin rolls it.”

The tenseness melted imperceptibly from Benton’s face, his body relaxed and the movement of his hand continued up smoothly to his glass. The smile returned.

“Sutton, never do that,” he said, without rancor. “When a man goes for his gun, he should mean business. You can get yourself killed that way.”

Sutton looked blank. “Well,” he said, “I know you don’t pack no gun and I just thought . . .”

His pistol hand dropped and he looked crestfallen. Joe Sutton was one of the many in Kellville who idolized Benton.

“Forget it,” Benton said, grinning. “Just don’t want to see you leanin’ into a bullet. Here, give it here. I’ll show you how he does it.”

Sutton handed over the pistol happily and Benton opened the cylinder and spilled out six cartridges on the bar top.

He shook his head. “Sutton, you should only put five bullets in the wheel. You keep the hammer on the empty chamber. That’s for safety; otherwise you’re liable to shoot your leg off.”

Sutton looked rueful again. “Think I’ll throw it away,” he muttered and a chuckle sounded in Benton’s deep chest.

“Just have to be careful,” he said.

“You want to use my gun too?” Bill Fisher asked. “Hardin uses two.”

“One or two, it doesn’t matter,” Benton said. “Same in either hand.”

The three men and the bartender watched in fascination as the tall Benton stepped back from the bar and stuck the pistol under the belt of his Levi’s.

“Now say I been throwed down on,” he told them. “I didn’t get any chance to draw my iron. So the man, whoever he is, asks me to hand over my gun. So . . .”

Benton reached down and the men saw him draw the pistol slowly, then hold it out toward them, butt first, his forefinger curled limply in the trigger guard.

“Then—” Benton said.

Suddenly the pistol blurred in their sight as he rolled it backward and, before they could blink their eyes, the sound of the clicking hammer reached their ears.

“You see, you fire with the webbing of your thumb,” Benton told them. “Your trigger finger is just the pivot.”

“ Jeez. ” An awed Joe Sutton shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t even see it.”

Benton smiled. “You’re not s’posed to,” he said. “That’s the point, Sutton.” The smile faded. “Anyway it’s a snaky trick,” he said. “When a man’s outdone fair and square, he’s got no right to cheat his way back to winning.”

In the momentary silence, Joe Sutton asked, “Why don’t you pack a gun no more, Benton?”

Benton’s almost expressionless gaze flicked up at him.

“Don’t ask a man questions like that, Sutton,” he said quietly. “That’s a man’s own business.”

“Gee, Benton, I’m sorry. I—” Sutton looked apologetically at him.

But Benton was looking down at the pistol, hefting it idly in his palm as if he were weighing the merits of what it represented to him. For a moment, his mouth was pressed into a firm line. Then he shrugged once.

“Oh, well,” he said casually. “Here; catch.” He tossed the pistol back to Sutton.

Sutton caught it fumblingly in both hands. Benton tossed his cigarette into the gaboon and shook his head with a wry smile.

“Sutton, you’ll have to learn to snatch a gun and set it goin’ at the same time.” His eyes glinted with detached amusement. “That is,” he said, “if you mean to be a real, sure-fire gun shark.”

Sutton still looked blank as Benton took a deep breath and threw off his momentary seriousness.

“Throw it here,” he told Sutton. “I’ll show you.”

Sutton tossed the pistol and saw it plucked cleanly from the air and, in the same moment, fired.

“You see?” Benton said, “there’s a lot more to gunplay than just a fast draw.”

Without seeming to look, he flung the pistol to his left and cocked and fired it in the second his hand caught it.

“They call it the shift,” he said. “You’ll need that if your shootin’ arm takes a slug.”

He tossed the pistol back into his right hand and cocked it, the barrel aimed toward the double doors.

The young man who came pushing through them recoiled with a start, his face paling.

Benton grinned and dropped the pistol barrel. “Don’t worry, Coles,” he said, “nothin’ in the wheel but air.”

He tossed the pistol back to Sutton again and returned to his drink as the men greeted Robby.

“What time is it, Pat?” Benton asked the bartender.

Pat drew out his gold watch. “About quarter to eleven,” he said.

Benton grunted. “Have to be goin’ soon. Or the missus will be riding in after me.” His smile was inward, seeming to impart a secret pleasure to him as he picked up his glass.

Then he put down the glass and looked aside.

“You want to see me, Coles?” he asked the young man who stood tensely beside him.

“Yes, I want to see you.”

Benton’s mouth tightened as he heard the sullen anger in Robby Coles’ voice. He took his boot off the rail and turned completely.

“What is it, kid?” he asked curiously.

Robby stood there rigidly, unable to control the shaking in his slender body. At his sides, his hands were clenched into white fists and the repressed fury in his face was thinned by apprehension.

“Well?” Benton asked, his brow furrowing quizzically.

Robby swallowed convulsively.

“You better watch out,” he said, hoarsely.

The three men at the bar heard the tenseness in Robby’s voice and they looked down curiously at him.

“Watch out for what?” Benton asked.

Robby drew in a ragged breath and let it falter through clenched teeth. “Just be careful,” he said, his face growing paler.

Benton’s left hand raised up as if in a gesture of question. Then it dropped down and he shook his head in small, tight movement. “I don’t get you, kid,” he said. “What are you trying to say?”

Robby shuddered and forced his lips together.

“Just leave my girl alone,” he said, his voice weakening.

Benton’s expression grew suddenly blank. He leaned back as if to get a better look at Robby.

“Your girl?” he said, uncomprehendingly. “What does—”

“Well, she told me!” Robby burst out, suddenly. “So I know, I know! You don’t have to lie to me!”