The Gun Fight

Chapter Twenty-two

The two women sat in the front room. They both had yarn and needles in their laps but only one of them was knitting; that was Agatha Winston. Her sister sat without moving, her limpid eyes unfocused, on her face a look of disconcerted reflection.

Miss Winston looked up. “You’ll never finish the shawl like that,” she said, curtly.

Elizabeth Harper’s hands twitched in her lap and her gaze lifted for a moment to the carved features of her sister.

“I can’t,” she said then, with an unhappy sigh.

Agatha Winston’s thin lips pressed a grimace into her face and she went back to her knitting without another word.

In the hall, the clock chimed a hollow stroke and then eleven more. Elizabeth Harper sat listening, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes on the calmly moving fingers of Agatha Winston. Noon, she thought, it’s noon.

“How can you be so—?” she began to say and then was halted by the coldness in her sister’s eyes.

Miss Winston put down her work. “What is happening,” she said, “is beyond our control. It had to be this way. John Benton made it so.” She picked up her work again. “And there’s no point in our dwelling on it,” she said.

Elizabeth Harper stirred restlessly on the chair. “But that poor boy,” she murmured. “What will happen to him?”

“He is not a boy, Elizabeth.”

“But he’s not . . .” Mrs. Harper looked upset. “Oh . . . how can he hope to do anything against that . . . that awful man?”

Miss Winston breathed in deeply. “It is what he has to do,” was all she said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

Elizabeth Harper looked back at her hands, feeling her body tighten as she thought about Robby Coles going against a man who had lived by violence for—how many years? She bit her lip. It was terrible, it was a terrible thing. If only her dear husband were alive; he’d have found a way to avoid violence. Indeed, he’d have raised Louisa so strictly that this terrible thing would never have happened in the first place. She’d been unable to control the girl since Mr. Harper died. Oh, why was he dead, why?

She brushed away an unexpected tear, looking up guiltily to see if Agatha had seen; but Miss Winston was absorbed in knitting.

Three o’clock, Mrs. Harper thought. Less than three hours now. It was terrible, terrible.

“You’re . . . certain he said—?” she started.

“What?” Agatha Winston looked up irritably.

Elizabeth Harper swallowed. “You’re . . . sure he said three o’clock?”

“That is what he said,” Miss Winston answered, looking back to her work. She’d met Matthew Coles that morning on the way to her shop and he’d told her that Robby was going to meet John Benton in the square at three o’clock that afternoon. After she’d heard that, she’d gone immediately to her sister’s house to see personally that Louisa remained in the house all day. Naturally, she’d have to leave the shop closed all day too.

“What is it?” she asked, pettishly, hearing Elizabeth speak her name again.

Mrs. Harper swallowed nervously. “Don’t you . . . think we should tell Louisa?”

“Of course I don’t think we should tell her,” Miss Winston said sharply. “Hasn’t she enough to be concerned with without worrying more?”

“But . . . what if Robby . . . ?” Mrs. Harper dared not finish the sentence.

Miss Winston spoke clearly and authoritatively.

“We will not think about it,” she declared.

Upstairs, Louisa was standing restively by the window, looking out at the great tree in the front yard. She’d come up to her room shortly after breakfast when her Aunt Agatha had arrived at the house. Since then, a strange uneasiness had oppressed her.

What was Aunt Agatha doing at their house? She hadn’t missed opening her shop one day in the past twelve years—outside of Sundays, of course. No one was more strict in her habits than Aunt Agatha. No shop owner could have been more religious in his hours. At nine, the shop was unlocked, dusted, and prepared for the day’s business. At twelve it was shut for dinner, at one, reopened, and, promptly at five, it was locked up for the night. Now, this—Aunt Agatha sitting down in the front room with her mother. They’d been there almost three hours now . . .

. . . as if they were waiting for something.

Louisa bit her lower lip and her breasts trembled with a harsh breath. Something was wrong, she could feel it. But what could be wrong? Certainly Robby wasn’t going to . . . no, that was ridiculous, he knew better than that. Maybe something was happening but not that, it couldn’t be that. Maybe Robby and his father were going out to ask John Benton about the story she’d told. That was bad enough—the idea made her sick with dread of what would happen if Aunt Agatha found out she’d lied.

But that was all, that was the worst that could happen.

Then why was Aunt Agatha downstairs with her mother? Why hadn’t Aunt Agatha spoken more than a few words to her that morning, suggesting, almost as soon as she was in the house, that Louisa go up to her room?

Louisa turned from the window and walked in quick, nervous steps across the floor, her small hands closed into fists swinging at her sides. For some reason, her throat felt constricted and she had trouble breathing. For some reason, the muscles in her stomach felt tight as if she were about to be sick—even though there was no reason for it.

She sank down on the bed and forced herself to pick up her embroidery. Then, in a few moments, she put it down on the bedside table again and stroked restless fingers at the skirt of her gingham dress.

No, there was something wrong. No matter how she tried to explain things to herself, she couldn’t find any good reason for Aunt Agatha to be there. Not if everything was all right, not if the story she’d told was being forgotten. No, there was something—

Louisa started as she heard the sound of hooves out front, the rattling squeak of a buckboard. Quickly, heart beating, she jumped up and hurried to the window.

Her breath caught as she saw John Benton’s wife climbing down off the buckboard in front of the house and, unconsciously, a look of apprehensive dread contorted her face. With frightened eyes, she watched Mrs. Benton open the gate and shut it behind her.

Suddenly, she jerked back as Mrs. Benton glanced up at the window. She pressed herself against the wall, feeling her chest throb with great, frantic heartbeats. Why was Mrs. Benton here? Louisa fought down a sob and dug her teeth into her lip. Fear welled over her like rising waters. Mrs. Benton was going to tell Aunt Agatha the truth and then Aunt Agatha would know everything. She brushed away the sudden tears spilling from her eyes.

Then she stiffened against the wall as the front doorbell tinkled. She stood there, petrified, listening.

Downstairs, there were footsteps.

Suddenly, Louisa found herself pressing off her shoes and rushing across the room to open the door, then moving stealthily into the hall. As she edged cautiously for the head of the stairs, she heard the footsteps halting at the front door.

“Oh!” She heard her mother gasp and then the footsteps again and the almost inaudible sound of her mother and aunt talking guardedly. Louisa crouched down by the bannisters and listened, her chest twitching with panic-stricken heartbeats.

Footsteps again—her aunt’s; she knew they were Aunt Agatha’s, there was something about the way Aunt Agatha walked. Louisa’s hands froze on the bannister she was clutching and there was a clicking in her throat.

Downstairs, she heard Aunt Agatha clear her throat. Then the doorknob was turned and her aunt was saying, “Yes?” in that cold, unreceptive way she had.

“Oh.” Mrs. Benton sounded surprised. Then she said, “Miss Winston, I’d like to talk to your sister.”

“Oh?” Aunt Agatha’s voice was still chilled and unwelcoming.

There was a moment’s pause, then the hesitant voice of Mrs. Benton saying, “May . . . I come in?”

Aunt Agatha drew in a quick breath. “I’m afraid not,” she said and Louisa felt a cold shudder run down her back. “My niece is indisposed,” Agatha Winston added and Louisa felt the skin tightening on her face.

“Miss Winston, please. I don’t believe you realize what’s happening.”

Her aunt’s voice hard and controlled, saying, “I know exactly what is happening.” Louisa didn’t realize that she was holding her breath as she pressed her paling cheek against the hard bannister. What’s happening? The words dug at her.

“Well, then, you must know how serious it is,” Mrs. Benton said, “This terrible thing has to be stopped before it’s too late.”

“It is too late, Mrs. Benton,” Agatha Winston’s voice said.

“But it isn’t,” Julia Benton said quickly. “It can still be avoided.”

Another pause. Louisa drew in a quick, wavering breath, listening intently.

“Miss Winston, you simply must—”

“Mrs. Benton,” Agatha Winston interrupted, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you. The situation is quite out of my hands. I . . . don’t like to say it but—well, your husband should have considered the consequences before he—”

“But that’s the whole point, Miss Winston!” Julia Benton exclaimed, “He didn’t do it! He’s had nothing to do with your niece—nothing!”

Louisa’s eyes closed suddenly and she felt herself shivering helplessly. Now everyone would know, now she’d be punished. Oh God, I want to die! she thought in an agony of shame—I want to die!

“I would like to believe that,” her aunt said to Mrs. Benton then, “but I’m afraid it’s gone too far for that.”

“Too far?” Julia Benton sounded stunned. “How can it have gone so far you won’t listen to the truth?”

Louisa felt numbed as she pressed against the bannister, her fingers clutching whitely at it. She heard her aunt say, a little less assuredly now, “I told you, Mrs. Benton, the matter is out of my hands.”

“It’s not out of Louisa’s hands!”

Louisa gasped. Now, she thought in terror, now Aunt Agatha would find out and everyone would know . . .

But her aunt said, “It is out of her hands too,” an undertone of anger in her voice.

“Dear God, what’s the matter with everybody!” Julia Benton burst out. “Do you all want Robby killed!”

Up on the landing, Louisa couldn’t breathe suddenly. She felt as if her heart had stopped, her blood had ceased to flow, as if every function of her body had stopped in that instant. On her drained face, a look of utter horror froze.

Robby killed?

She hardly heard her aunt speak out angrily, “How dare you accuse us of that!”

“What else can I say when you won’t listen to facts!”

“I think you’d better go, Mrs. Benton.”

“I must see Louisa.”

“I’ve already told you—!”

“I know what you told me! But I’m not going to stand by and watch that boy killed over nothing!”

Louisa flinched at the word, her lips trembling and cold. I didn’t know, I didn’t know—the words stumbled in her shocked mind—oh God, I didn’t know.

Now, downstairs, her aunt suddenly cried out, “You’re not coming in here!”

“Miss Winston, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I am in full sympathy with your concern, Mrs. Benton,” Miss Winston said, her words tightly articulated, “but I cannot allow you to upset my niece any further. If you want to argue with anyone, argue with Mister Coles and his son. The matter is—”

“Miss Winston, there isn’t time!”

“—in their hands now, not ours!” Miss Winston finished her sentence loudly.

“Miss Winston, Louisa is the only one who can—”

The loud slamming of the front door cut off Julia Benton’s frantic voice and made Louisa start violently, her hands tightening spasmodically on the bannister. Downstairs, she heard a drawn-in breath rasp in her aunt’s throat, then a choked sob. The doorbell rang insistently.

“Go away!” Agatha Winston cried out in a broken voice. “You’re not welcome here!”

Suddenly, Louisa pushed herself up and moved around the bannister railing, desperately thinking—I’ve got to stop it!

The sight of her aunt drove her back and a whimper started in her throat as she drew away from the head of the stairs. No, no, I have to tell her!—she thought in terrified anguish.

She whirled and ran down the hall, her feet soundless on the thick rug. Pushing open the door, she shut it quickly and silently behind herself and rushed across the room toward the window.

As she reached it, she saw Julia Benton moving for the gate. Her mouth opened and she tried to call to her but the sound would not come—it froze in her throat. In her mind a flood of frightened thoughts drowned resolve—Aunt Agatha finding out, Robby finding out, John Benton finding out, the whole town finding out . . .

A sob broke in her throat and her hands clutched desperately at the windowsill. But I have to tell! she thought, agonized, I can’t let him be killed!

“Mrs. Benton!” she called. But the call was a strangled whispering and, with sickened eyes, she watched Julia Benton get in the buckboard.

Then Mrs. Benton looked at the house, her face white and shaken. Louisa raised her hand suddenly. “Mrs. Benton!” she said, a little louder but not loud enough.

Julia Benton tugged at the dark reins and the horse pulled the buckboard away.

“No!” Louisa couldn’t keep from crying out. She clapped a shaking hand over her mouth and whirled to face the door. Had Aunt Agatha heard her? She stared at the closed door for a full minute, lips shaking, her eyes stark with dread.

Aunt Agatha did not come up. Louisa leaned back against the wall weakly, her mind confused with a tangling of thoughts. What was she going to do? Oh God, what was she going to do?

Out in the hall, a wall clock ticked its endless beat while the minute hand moved slowly for the number six. In ten minutes, it would be twelve-thirty.