Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

Thirteen!

He couldn’t help it. His fingers went limp suddenly and the unfastened belt and holster thumped loudly on the rug.

“Be careful, will you, a—”

Matthew Coles broke off suddenly his mouth gaping as he stood there staring with incredulous eyes at the tears that were scattering across Robby’s cheeks and listening to the hoarse, shaking sobs his son was trying, in vain, to control.

“What is the meaning of . . . ?” Again, he couldn’t finish. His head moved forward on his shoulders and he peered intently into the twisted face of his son, staring at the trembling lips, the wide, glistening eyes, the quivering chin.

“What is the meaning of this, sir?” he asked, heatedly. “Explain yourself this very—”

“I-I-I c-can’t, I can’t , father! Please, p-lease. I can’t. I . . . j-j-just can’t.”

“What?” The word came slowly from Matthew Coles’ lips, rising with anger.

“I can’t, I c-can’t. He’ll kill me, he’ll k- ill me, father. I’m a-f- fraid .” Robby didn’t even try to brush away the tears that laced across his cheeks and dripped from his chin and jaw.

“Can’t, sir?” Matthew Coles was having trouble adjusting to this. “Can’t? What are you saying to me? There is no question of—”

“I won’t do it!” Robby cried suddenly, his voice cracking. “I won’t ! I’m not gonna die f-for nothing!”

His father seemed to swell up before him and Robby stepped back, nervously, a rasping sob in his throat. Matthew Coles looked at him with terrible eyes, his hands twitching at his sides.

“Pick up your weapon, sir,” he said in a slow, menacing voice.

“No . . . n-no,” Robby muttered fearfully, his chest jerking with uncontrolled breaths.

“ Pick up your weapon. ”

“No. No, I can’t, father, I can’t !”

“You have given your word, sir,” Matthew Coles said, his voice quivering as he repressed the volcano of fury within himself. “You have promised to defend the honor of your intended bride. Everyone is waiting, sir, everyone expects it. Pick up your weapon and we’ll say no more of this.”

Robby backed away another step, shaking his head with little, twitching movements. “No,” he muttered. “No, I . . .”

“Pick up your weapon!” his father shouted, his face growing purple with released fury. He took two quick steps across the rug and clamped his rigid fingers on Robby’s arm. Robby winced as the fingers dug into his flesh. He stood there staring at his father, his head still jerking back and forth, his lips moving as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t.

“You cannot back out of this! This is something you have to do, do you understand! It’s a matter of honor! If you do this thing to me, there will be no place in this house for you! Do you understand that !”

“F-f-father, I—”

“ Are you going to pick up that gun and come with me! ”

Robby tried to answer, to explain but terror welled over him again and he started to cry harder, his shoulders twitching helplessly, his throat clutched with breathless sobs.

“ No! ” he cried out and his head snapped to the side suddenly as Matthew Coles’ broad palm drove stunningly against his cheek. The room seemed to blacken for a moment and Robby stumbled back, clutching at his cheek with one hand, his eyes dumb with shock.

“Coward!” his father screamed at him. “Coward, coward, coward ! My own son a coward!”

Matthew Coles lurched away toward the hall, his face a mask of near-mad rage. At the doorway, he twisted around.

“When I come back tonight I want you gone! Do you hear me, gone ! I don’t want a coward in my house! I won’t have one! Do you understand!”

Robby stood there, shivering without control, staring with blank eyes at his father.

A moment more his father looked at him.

“Swine,” Matthew Coles said through clenched teeth. “Filthy little coward. You should have been a girl, a little girl cooking in the kitchen—hanging on your mother’s apron strings.”

Then Matthew Coles was gone in the hall and Robby heard the front door jerked open.

“By tonight!” he heard his father shout from there. “If you’re still in my house then, I’ll throw you out!”

The door slammed deafeningly, shaking the house. Robby slumped down on the couch and covered his face with shaking hands. Trying to fight off the deep sobs only made them worse. He couldn’t control anything. He sat there trembling helplessly, hearing his father gallop away outside, the sound of the gelding’s hooves drowning out the noise of the turning wheels.

Suddenly, Robby looked up and caught his breath. Jimmy was standing on the bottom step, looking at him. Robby felt himself grow rigid as he looked at his younger brother. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jimmy’s face and couldn’t help recognizing the look of withdrawal and disappointed shame there. He opened his mouth as if to speak but couldn’t. He didn’t even hear the back door shut.

He stood up nervously and walked on shaky legs to where the gunbelt was. Bending over, he picked it up and held it in his hand, seeing, from the corners of his eyes, that Jimmy was still there. It’s true—the words lanced at him—it’s true, I am a coward, I am !

That was when his mother came in.

She stopped for an instant in the hallway, her eyes on Jimmy. Then she looked into the sitting room. When she saw the dazed, hurt look on Robby’s face, she started toward him.

“Darling, what is it?” she asked, hurrying across the rug, her arms outstretched to him.

Robby stepped back. His mother rushing to embrace him, in his mind the lashing words of his father— You should have been a girl, a little girl cooking in the kitchen, hanging on your mother’s —

“Oh, my darling, what happened?”

It was the sound in her voice that did it; that sound of a mother speaking to her little boy who she never wants to grow up and be a man.

“No!” he said in a strangled voice, suddenly twisting away from her arms and running toward the hall, the gunbelt clutched in his cold hand.

“Robby!”

He didn’t answer. He saw the face of his younger brother rush by in a blur and then he was flying down the hall and into the kitchen, the frightened cries of his mother following him. He was on the porch, jumping down the steps and running into the stable where his horse was already saddled.

As he galloped out of the stable, his mother rushed out onto the porch, one thin arm raised, her eyes dumb with terror.

“No, Robby!” she screamed, all the agony of her life trembling in the words.

As he started down Armitas Street for the square, Robby began buckling on the gun.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Two fifteen. She stood in the leaden heat of the sun, shivering fitfully while she watched the shape of her husband dwindle away. She stayed there until he was gone from her sight. Then, slowly, with the tread of a very old and very tired woman, she walked back to the house.

She shuddered as she stepped into the relative coolness of the kitchen and her eyes moved slowly around the room as if she were searching for something.

In the middle of clearing the table, she suddenly pushed aside the stack of dishes and sank down heavily on a chair. She sat there, shivering still, feeling the waves of coldness run through her body. We’ll have to move now—the thought assailed her—we can’t possibly stay here with a murder on our conscience; we just can’t.

Her right forefinger traced a straggly and invisible pattern on the rough table top and her unblinking eyes watched the finger moving.