The Gun Fight

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.

“That’s enough, Coles,” he warned.

“If you are not in the square by then,” Matthew Coles said, “my son will come out to your ranch and shoot you down like a dog.”

Benton turned a little and his cold voice probed into Matthew Coles’ ears. “You’re mighty free with your son’s life, Coles,” he said. “I wonder if you’d be as free with your own.”

Matthew Coles shuddered but immediately regained his composure. “Get out, Mister Benton,” he ordered. “And be thankful at this moment that you have no gun on you . . .”

Benton almost started back after him. Then, with a twitch of muscles, he turned away. “Just remember, it’s on your conscience,” he said.

Benton led Julia from the shop, his hand tight on her arm. “John,” she kept saying. “John. John . . .”

“That’s enough, Julia,” he said.

“But John, we—”

“I said that’s enough,” he ordered, helping her up onto the buckboard. He walked around it and climbed onto the other side.

“Do you want this fight?” she whispered passionately as he shoved forward the brake and snapped the reins over the mare’s back.

“Sure!” he snapped at her. “Sure, that’s it! That’s all I’ve been doin’ the last two days—lookin’ for a fight!”

“John, I didn’t mean—”

“Then, watch what you say, for God’s sake!”

“John, please. Couldn’t we go see Robby? He’d be alone at home and—”

“No,” he said.

She twisted her shoulders worriedly and bit her lower lip. “Let’s go see the Reverend Bond then,” she said. “He might—”

“No, Julia, no,” he said sternly. “I’m through scraping. I’ve had enough; I’ve had more than enough.”

She sat shivering beside him, staring at his hard-set features as the buckboard rocked and rattled across the square headed for St. Virgil Street, for the edge of town.

In the church steeple, the rust-throated bell tolled and it was one o’clock.