Richard Matheson - The Gun Fight

Benton’s eyes flinted. “What are you saying?” he asked coldly.

Robby swallowed again, a look of sudden dread flaring in his eyes.

“Let’s have it, kid,” Benton said. “Chew it finer. What’s all this about your girl?”

Robby seemed to dredge down into himself for the strengthening of courage. He drew back his lean shoulders and forced out a rasping breath.

“She told me how you been botherin’ her,” he said in a clipped voice. “And I’m tellin’ you to stop.”

The anger drifted from Benton’s face. For a long moment, he looked at Robby without expression. Then he shook his head once, as if wonderingly.

“You’re out of your mind,” he said quietly and turned back to the bar with another shake of his head.

Robby stood there trembling.

“Listen, Benton,” he said, the anger desperate in his voice, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Benton glanced aside. “Kid,” he said, “go home. Get outta here and we’ll forget what you said. Just don’t hang around.”

“Benton, damn it!” Robby yelled.

Benton turned brusquely, his face hard with restrained temper. “Listen, kid, I’m tellin’ you to—”

He jerked back his head in sudden shock as the white-faced Robby flailed out with his right fist. Flinging up his left arm, he knocked aside the erratic blow.

“What are you—” he started amazedly, then had to ward aside another blow driven at his chest by Robby. His hand shot down and caught Robby’s left wrist in a grip of iron.

“Coles, have you gone plumb—”

But Robby was too far gone now. His lips drawn back in a grimace both furious and terror-stricken, he drove his right fist out again and it thudded off Benton’s broad shoulder. The men at the bar watched in dumbfounded amazement and Pat came hurrying around the foot of the counter.

Benton tried to catch Robby’s right wrist and pin him completely but, before he could, the bunched fist grazed his left cheek, reddening the skin.

“Well, the hell—” he suddenly snapped and drove a short, pulled blow into Robby’s stomach.

Robby doubled over with a breath-sucked grunt and fell against the bar, his mouth jerking open as he tried to catch in the air. Benton hauled him up by the left arm, glancing over at Pat who had just hurried up to them.

“All right?” Pat asked and Benton nodded silently.

“Come here,” he told the gagging Robby and tried to lead him to one of the tables.

Robby tore away with a whining gasp, then started to buckle and Benton caught him again.

“Come over here with me,” he said, the anger gone from his voice. “Let’s get this figured.”

Again Robby tore away with a sob and backed off, forcing himself to an erect position, hands pressed to his stomach.

“Damn you,” he gasped through shaking, blood-drained lips. “I’ll get you, Benton, I swear I’ll get you.”

Benton stood there silently, hands hanging loosely at his sides as Robby turned and staggered down the length of the saloon floor and shoved through the double doors.

After a moment, he shook his head in slow wonder.

“I’ll be damned,” he said and looked over at the staring men. “I will be damned,” he muttered to himself and returned to his still unfinished drink.

“What was on his mind?” Pat asked, behind the bar again.

“You got me,” Benton said. “It’s over my head, way over.”

Pat grunted and wiped idly at the dark, glossy wood of the bar counter. Down the way, Bill Fisher and Henry Oliver exchanged glances.

“Who is his girl, anyway?” Benton asked curiously.

Pat shrugged. “Got no notion,” he said. “Some town girl, I reckon.”

Benton made an amused sound and shook his head. “Bothered her,” he said. “I don’t even know who she is.”

“Louisa Harper, that’s his girl,” Joe Sutton said quickly and the two men, glancing aside, saw that Sutton had edged along the bar in order to join their conversation. Benton’s mouth tightened a little but he didn’t say anything.

“Her mother’s the Widow Harper,” Sutton hurried on, oblivious. “Aunt runs a lady clothes store cross the square.”

Benton and Pat exchanged a glance and the corners of Benton’s mouth twitched, repressing a wry smile. Down the bar, Henry Oliver stretched and told Bill Fisher that he intended going over to Jesse Willmark’s Barber Shop for a haircut.

Benton heard him and nodded to himself. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I keep meanin’ to get a haircut myself. Missus Benton keeps askin’ me and it keeps slippin’ my mind.” He picked up his glass and emptied it.

“You want me to find out about Robby Coles?” Sutton asked abruptly. “You want me to check for you, Benton?”

Benton looked aside, patiently.

“Listen, kid,” he said quietly, “just leave it set, hear? Just forget it.”

Sutton looked down gloomily into his drink. “Just wanted to help you,” he said.

“Well, you gotta learn the difference between helpin’ and stickin’ your nose in where it don’t belong, kid,” Benton told him, without rancor.

Sutton’s expression was dully morose. “Didn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered.

Benton clapped the young man on the shoulder once with his broad palm. “Okay, kid, let’s forget it. No hard feelin’s.” He put his Stetson on, then dug into his Levi’s pocket for silver.

“Well, I have to drag it,” he said. “Lots o’ work to do.”

The three men at the bar were silent as Benton walked in long, unhurried strides for the doors. They were still silent as he went out. It was only after they heard the sound of his buckboard rolling away from the saloon hitching rack that they turned to each other and started talking.

Chapter Three

Jesse Willmark was sitting in one of his two barber chairs, reading the Kellville Weekly Bugle. It was quiet in the small shop, so quiet that the sluggish drone of fat flies could be clearly heard. The only other sound was that of Jesse turning the newspaper pages with idle fingers, his heavyset body slumped lethargically on the black leather cushion.

The wall clock struck eleven with a tinny resonance. Jesse reached into his pocket and checked his watch. He shook his head disgustedly. The wall clock was ten minutes slow again and he’d just had it repaired three years before.

The click of heels near the door made Jesse look up quickly. “ Oh. ” His head dipped once in a nod and he smiled as he pushed up.

“Howdy, Mr. Oliver,” he said and slid quickly from the chair, tossing the newspaper onto one of the wire-backed chairs along the wall. “Set you down and we’ll get right to it.”

Henry Oliver slid out of his waistcoat and hung it carefully on the clothes tree beside his hat. Then, he settled back in the ornate barber chair with a sigh and shifted himself into a comfortable position as Jesse fastened the big cloth around his thick neck.

“Nice day, today,” Jesse said automatically and Henry Oliver mumbled an assent as Jesse picked up the scissors, clicked the blades together his habitual four times, and began cutting.

“Funny thing at the Zorilla Saloon before,” Henry Oliver said after a few moments of idle conversation had passed.

“Oh?” Jesse said, eyebrows raising in practiced fashion. “What’s that, Mr. Oliver?”

“You know young Robby Coles,” Oliver said and Jesse said, “Mmm-hmm,” cutting and clipping. “Know his father well. Fine man, fine man.”

“Yes. Well . . .” said Henry Oliver, “the boy came charging into the saloon and started a fight. With John Benton.”

Jesse’s mouth gaped for a moment. “ No ,” he said. “ John Benton ? Well, I’ll be . . .”