The Gun Fight

Chapter Four

Matthew Coles was never on any horse but his chestnut gelding. He did not ride well and was a man who would not let himself be observed doing anything less than perfectly. The chestnut was a mild animal, easily seated, but one which managed to give the appearance of being excitably alert. It was a combination well suited to Matthew Coles who preferred his triumphs to appear hard-won. Thus, satisfyingly, was the gelding added to his list of conquests, which list included also his acquaintances, business associates, wife, and children. Matthew Coles was a man who kept a taut, unyielding rein on every aspect of his life.

It was just ten minutes past noon when he came riding slowly down Armitas Street. At the twelfth stroke of noon, he had risen from the bench of his gunsmith shop, donned his coat and hat, and locked up the shop, leaving in the door window the thumb-worn sign which read simply DINNER. He had mounted the docile chestnut and started for his house where, by God, Jane had better have dinner immediately ready to eat. Precision and efficiency—Matthew Coles was especially guided by these coupled verities.

Mr. Coles was in a particularly sour humor that afternoon. His elder son, Robby, had not appeared at the shop promptly at eight thirty as he was supposed to; as a matter of fact, Robby had not shown up at all. That was an added reason why Matthew Coles rode stiffly, his back a ramrod of irked authority, his face set with dominance defied. He wore black, as always, for it made his five foot ten inches appear taller and, he fancied, made him look unusually handsome for a man in his middle fifties.

As he rode into the alleyway beside the house, he saw his son’s roan tied up in back and his mouth twitched angrily. The horse hadn’t been rubbed down, it was streaked over with dry sweat. Beneath taut lips, Matthew Coles’ false teeth clamped vice-like. Fool!—he raged within. Robby didn’t deserve a horse and, by God, if he didn’t take better care of it, he wouldn’t have a horse!

The gelding stopped. Matthew Coles eased his right leg over its croup and let himself down with a grunt. Then he led the horse into the small stable and tied it up near the water trough.

He crossed the backyard with vengeful strides, then clumped loudly up the wooden porch steps, removing his hat as he ascended.

The kitchen door thudded shut behind him and his wife Jane straightened up over the chair in which Robby sat slumped.

“Good afternoon, dear,” she said hastily. “I’ll get you your—”

“What is the meaning of leaving your mount untended?” Coles asked loudly, ignoring his mouse-haired wife.

Robby looked up, his drained features tensed with nausea. “I was sick,” he muttered. “I—”

“Speak up, sir. I can’t hear you when you mumble like a child.” Mr. Coles hung up his hat with one authoritative motion.

Robby swallowed, grimacing with pain, his hands pressed over the waist of his belt-loosened trousers.

“Matthew, he’s ill.”

Matthew Coles impaled his small-framed wife with an imperious glare. “Is my dinner ready?” he challenged.

“I was—”

“I’ve been working,” her husband explained with the carefully measured articulation of a harried father addressing his idiot daughter. “I’m hungry. Are you going to stand there gaping at me or are you going to make my dinner?”

Mrs. Coles tried to look agreeable but could not summon the long-lost ability to smile. She turned away and hurried toward the stove.

“Well, sir?” Mr. Coles re-addressed his bent-over son.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Robby said, his lips drawn back from his teeth. He groaned slightly and, by the stove, his mother cast a look of anguished concern toward him.

“What’s wrong with you, sir?” Matthew Coles demanded. “And where were you this entire morning?”

“I was—” Robby leaned over suddenly, jamming the end of one fist against his pale-lipped mouth.

“Matthew, he’s ill,” Mrs. Coles said suddenly. “Please don’t—”

“This is not your discussion,” her husband informed her, face tensed with the expression of a soldier attacked on all sides. “I have an appointment at the bank at one o’clock. I expect to be there exactly on time—fed.”

Jane Coles’ hands twitched in futile empathy with her upset condition and she turned back to the stove, a hopeless expression on her face.

“Where is the boy?” her husband asked her.

“He’s not home from school yet,” she answered.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I say, he’s not home from school yet.”

“He’s supposed to be home. I think a little strapping is in order for that young man.”

His wife said nothing, knowing that no answer was expected. She went about quietly at her work as Matthew Coles concentrated on Robby again.

“Why weren’t you at your work this morning?”

Robby looked up at his stern-faced father with pain-glossed eyes.

“Sir, I expect an answer.”

“I went out,” Robby said, weakly.

“Out? Out where?”

“T-to . . . John Benton’s . . . ranch.”

“And what, may I ask, were you doing there?”

“I . . .” Robby swallowed and gasped in air. “I wanted to see . . . to see him.”

“About what?”

Robby stared at his father, his lean chest rising and falling with tight, spasmodic movements.

“I am waiting, sir,” his father said clearly.

“I . . . sir, I’d rather not—”

“What was that?” His father spoke the words in a cold, threatening tone and spots of color flared up in Robby’s pale cheeks. His throat moved again as he looked up fearfully into the hard face of his father.

Robby bit his lip. “I had to see B-Benton,” he said.

“What about?” Matthew Coles spoke the words slowly, with the repetitious demanding of a man who would not be put off.

Robby looked down at his boots. “Lou-Louisa,” he said.

“Miss Louisa Harper?” asked his father, announcing her name as if it were the title of a book.

Robby nodded slowly without looking up.

“And what about Miss Louisa Harper?”

“I . . .”

“Answer me this moment, sir!”

Robby looked up in hopeless despair. “I wanted to f-find out about her and . . . and Benton.”

At the stove the father and son heard Mrs. Coles catch her breath. “Robby,” she murmured faintly.

Matthew Coles paid no attention. His face a block of carved stone, he caught at the situation as one worthy of his stern attention.

“Make yourself clear, sir,” he said firmly and distinctly.

Robby’s throat moved convulsively as he stared up.

“Well?”

“Louisa told me that . . . that Benton annoyed her and . . . tried to . . . to—”

“To effect a meeting?” His father completed the sentence with imperial outrage, his nostrils flared, his hands clenched suddenly at his sides.

Robby’s head slumped forward and a harsh breath shuddered his body. “I guess,” he muttered.

Mr. Coles drew back his shoulders slowly as if he were getting ready to gird his loins for a battle with all the forces of evil in the world.

“You saw Benton,” he said and it wasn’t a question.

Robby nodded. “I . . . yes, I . . . did.”

“And what was his defense?”

“He . . . he acted like he didn’t kn-know anything about it.”

A thin, humorless smile raised the ends of Matthew Coles’ lips. “Of course,” he said quietly, “that would be what he’d say.” He looked down dispassionately at his son’s pain-tightened face. “There was a fight,” he stated.

Robby nodded and mumbled something.

Then Matthew Coles was leaning over his son and Mrs. Coles was watching her husband with uneasy eyes.

“Miss Harper is your intended bride, is she not?” said Matthew Coles, his voice calm.

Robby looked up quickly at his father and nodded. “Y . . . yes,” he said, almost tentatively, as if he suspected that his father was going to throw the admission back in his face.

“Well, then,” Mr. Coles said, still calmly, as he straightened up. “What do you mean to do about it?”

In the sudden silence of the kitchen, Robby distinctly heard the frightened sound his mother made. But there seemed nothing visible in the entire room except his black-suited father looking down commandingly at him.