Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

She lowered one foot nervously and shifted her weight to the first carpeted step with a cautious movement. The stair creaked a little and Julia stiffened, her eyes fastened to the doorway below that led to the front room.

There was no sound. Julia brought the other foot down and stood on the top step, legs cold and trembling. Suddenly, she became conscious of the ticking clock and she glanced over at it, her throat moving.

Twenty minutes to one. There was so little time.

She moved down another step silently. I should tell Aunt Agatha, the thought oppressed her, Aunt Agatha could stop it.

But the idea of telling her aunt made Louisa’s stomach turn. She couldn’t do it, she just couldn’t, she’d rather tell anyone else.

Besides, she rationalized weakly, Aunt Agatha had said it was out of her hands. No, she’d have to tell someone else.

But who?

Louisa moved down another step, her lips twitching as the wood crackled in strain beneath her. I should have taken my shoes off! the thought burst in her mind. What if they heard her? What if they came out in the hall and saw her on the stairs? What would she tell Aunt Agatha; what could she tell her?

Louisa stood fixed to the step, heart thudding in heavy, irregular beats. She bit her trembling lip. No, I have to do it! she told herself, fighting off the instinct to rush back to her room and hide. I have to, I just have to!

She swallowed the obstruction in her throat and moved down another step, her hand sliding noiselessly along the bannister railing, then clamping tightly as she lowered herself. Another step; another.

She froze involuntarily. Down in the front room, her aunt was clearing her throat.

“Are we having dinner?” she heard Aunt Agatha say.

“If you . . . want some,” the pale voice of her mother replied. “I’m . . . not hungry, myself.”

“ I am ,” said Aunt Agatha.

Louisa shuddered and stood there rooted, expecting at any moment to see her aunt come walking out of the front room.

But there was only silence below. Louisa thought she heard the clicking of knitting needles but she wasn’t sure. I have to get out! she thought desperately.

She moved down another step, lowering her foot cautiously, testing her weight on the carpeted wood. Another step. She stopped and tightened as a horse galloped by in front of the house and she thought it was going to stop. She closed her eyes a moment and drew in a heavy, nervous breath. Why wasn’t there a back stairway?

“The nerve of that woman,” she heard Aunt Agatha say.

“She’s just—” her mother started and then said no more.

“Defending him like that,” said Agatha Winston in an insulted voice. “The very idea; after what he did.”

No, no, I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t—Louisa begged herself, reaching up hastily to brush aside the tears. Why did she ever tell Robby that story— why ? She drew in a rasping breath and then cut it off sharply, her eyes widening in fright.

No sound in the front room. She moved down another step and it creaked beneath her.

“Louisa?”

She felt a bolt of panic stun her heart as her aunt’s voice probed up at her. She stood there mutely, shivering without control as her aunt came out of the front room, carrying her knitting.

“What is it you want?” her aunt asked.

“I . . .” Louisa stared down dumbly at her.

“Well?”

Louisa tried to speak but there was no sound.

“Speak up, child!”

“I’m hungry.” Louisa heard herself blurt out the words.

Her aunt looked up at her suspiciously a moment, then said grumpily, “Oh.”

Turning, Aunt Agatha went back into the front room. Now! Louisa thought frantically and she ran down the steps on trembling legs.

“You can’t be that hungry,” Agatha Winston said, coming back into the hall, this time without her knitting.

Louisa felt a sudden cold sinking in her stomach and her legs were numb under her as she walked toward the kitchen, Aunt Agatha following behind her, saying, “Elizabeth? Come along, it’s dinner time,” and her mother answering, weakly, “Yes . . . Agatha.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Julia drew back on the reins and the mare stopped in front of the shop. She pulled back on the brake and stood up. John helped her down without a word, his face hard and thin-lipped. She didn’t speak to him as they walked, side by side, across the dirt, then stepped up onto the roofed-over plank sidewalk. John’s hand released hers and he opened the door of the shop for her.

The bell over the door tinkled and Matthew Coles looked up from his bench, his face tightening as he saw who it was. Slowly, with carefully controlled movement, he rose and came walking to the front counter. He said nothing, he didn’t even look at Benton.

“Mister Coles,” Julia said.

“Well?” His voice was hard and unpleasant.

“Mister Coles, this thing has gone far enough,” Julia said, trying to sound calm. “It must be stopped— now. ”

The expression on Matthew Coles’ face did not change at all. “Stopped?” he asked as if he were actually curious.

Julia Benton swallowed and Benton pressed his lips together over clenched teeth.

“Mister Coles, my husband is not guilty of what he’s been accused. I’ll say it again, Mister Coles. He is not guilty. Louisa Harper lied. ”

Only the slight tensing of skin over his cheekbones betrayed what Matthew Coles felt. His tone remained the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We do not believe that.”

Julia Benton stared at him, speechless. It’s true, she thought, realizing it then in sudden shock, dear God, it was true! They didn’t want to believe; no one did.

“Of course,” Matthew Coles said sonorously, “If your husband wishes to make a public apology and then vacate his ranch, that is something else again.”

“Listen, Coles,” Benton’s deep voice broke in suddenly. Matthew Coles looked over at him, his expression just sly enough, his head just tilted enough to give him a look of arrogant aplomb.

“Yes, Mister Benton,” he said.

Benton felt an old, almost forgotten beat churning up in his stomach, an almost forgotten tightening of his right arm muscles.

“I’m givin’ it to you straight, Coles,” he said tensely, leaning forward slightly. “If you don’t stop your kid, he’s goin’ to get blown apart.” Julia gasped but Benton kept on. “You hear me, Coles—I said blown apart ,” he went on. “I’m not foolin’, so listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” Matthew Coles said.

“This whole damn thing is a mistake,” Benton said, slowly and distinctly. “Beginning to end it’s a mistake. I don’t know Louisa Harper, I never spoke a word to her in my life. That’s it , Coles and that’s all I’m sayin’—and all I’m takin’. Don’t push your kid into this, Coles. Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry.”

Matthew Coles tried to swallow without showing it.

“Is that all?” he said.

“That’s all,” Benton said.

“Mister Coles,” Julia said, her voice pleading, “I beg of you . . .”

Benton said, “Come on, Julia,” his voice low and curt.

Her eyes moved frantically to her husband, then back to Matthew Coles again, her lips moving slightly as though she were going to say something.

“I said come on , Julia,” Benton said, voice a little louder now.

“John, we—”

His strong fingers closed over her arm. “Julia,” he said and the way he said it, it was a command.

“Three o’clock, Mister Benton,” Matthew Coles said.

Benton’s head jerked around and he looked back at Coles, the edge of his jaw whitening in sudden fury.