The Gun Fight

Chapter Twelve

When Mrs. Angela DeWitt left the shop, Louisa came back to where her aunt sat writing in the ledger.

“Aunt Agatha?” she asked meekly, standing by the desk, her face drained with nervous worry.

Agatha Winston went on with her figures, her eyes shrewd and calculating behind the spectacles, her pen running crabbed hen-tracks of numbers across the lined page.

“Aunt Agatha?”

Agatha Winston’s eyes closed shut. Beneath the mouse-fuzz of her mustache, her pinched mouth grew irked. Slowly, decisively, she put down the pen.

“What is it, Louisa?” she asked in the flinted tone that she conceived to be one of patience and forbearing.

Louisa stammered. “Aunt Agatha . . . please,” she said. “May I—”

The jade eyes were hidden behind quickly lowered lids and Agatha Winston cut off the appearance of the world.

“You may not go home,” she said, concisely. “There is much too much work to be done.”

Louisa bit nervously at her finger, eyes pleading and lost.

“Heaven only knows,” her aunt continued, “I ask little enough of your mother and yourself in return for the help I give you freely, with Christian affection.” Agatha Winston sighed, head shaking once. “I’m tired, Louisa,” she said. “I would like nothing better than to retire . . . and live on my small savings. But, for your mother’s sake and for your own . . .” another sigh, “. . . I go on working. Asking nothing in return but a little help in the shop a few days out of the week.” She fixed an accusing look upon her niece. “Is that so much to ask?” she said. “Is that so—stop that!”

Louisa jerked the moist, chewed knuckle from her lips and swallowed nervously.

“Is it, Louisa?” asked her aunt.

“No, Aunt Agatha, it . . . isn’t that. I like to help you in the shop but . . .” She bit her lower lip and couldn’t help the tear that wriggled from beneath her right eyelid and trickled down her cheek. “They all look at me so,” she said, brokenly.

“And what would you like to do?” her aunt challenged. “Go home? Hide away as if you had something to be ashamed of?”

“No, Aunt Agatha, it isn’t—”

“You might just as well confess your guilt as do that!”

Louisa’s mouth twitched. “G-guilt?” she murmured, eyes wide and frightened.

“Yes,” her aunt said. “Guilt. Is that what you want people to think; that you have something to be ashamed of?”

“No, Aunt Agath—”

“That’s all there is to it,” stated Agatha Winston firmly. “We have nothing to hide and we will not hide.”

Louisa stared helplessly at her aunt.

“Let John Benton hide his face!” Agatha Winston said angrily. “Not us.” She glared at Louisa, then picked up her pen. “Now . . . kindly take care of the shop until I finish my work.”

Louisa still stood watching until her aunt looked up again, dark eyes commanding. “Well?” said her aunt.

Louisa turned and walked slowly down the length of the counter. She stopped at the front of the shop and looked out the window at the sunlit square.

She stared bleakly at the reversed letters painted on the glass—MISS WINSTON’S LADIES APPAREL. Then her eyes focused again beyond the letters and she looked at the plank sidewalk, the dirt square, the shops across the way. She looked a while at the motionless peppermint-stick pole in front of Jesse Willmark’s Barber Shop. She thought of the look Jesse had given her when she passed him that morning with her aunt. The memory made her breath catch.

Then she saw a horse man ride by and look into the shop and she turned away quickly, her cheeks coloring embarrassedly. She hoped the man didn’t see her blush. The way he looked at her . . .

She stood with her back to the window a long time, feeling a strange quiver in her body. She reached up and brushed away a tear that dripped across her cheek. Why did everybody look at her that way?

All during the last sale, Mrs. DeWitt had kept staring like that, always turning down her gaze a little too late to hide the curious brightness in her eyes. Never once did she say a word about the situation Louisa knew she was thinking about. She talked about shifts and stockings and corsets as if there were nothing else on her mind. And, all the time, her eyes kept probing up, then down, as if she were attempting to penetrate Louisa’s mind and ferret out its secrets.

All through the sale, Louisa had tried to smile, to repeat the things about the merchandise her aunt had taught her. Oh, yes this is what every woman back East is wearing now. This is delicate but completely sturdy. I think you’ll find it will not bind or roll. This is the best material of its type on the market. Words repeated in a nervous voice, when all the time she wanted to run away and hide.

Louisa glanced over her shoulder again and saw that there was no one in front of the shop. She turned back and looked out the window again. Far down in the south end of the square was the shop where Robby worked. Louisa looked in that direction.

All morning she’d been dreadfully afraid that Robby was going to come in and ask her if the story about Benton was really true. Every time she’d heard footsteps in the doorway or heard hoofbeats out front, her head had jerked up from whatever she was doing and she’d looked fearfully at the shop entrance, heart pounding suddenly. What would she tell him if he asked? How could she say she lied when Aunt Agatha was right there to hear the confession? She couldn’t; she knew she couldn’t.

He’d just have to stay away from her until everyone forgot about that silly story. They couldn’t keep thinking about it forever. As long as they left her alone, it would be all right. She wished she could stay in the house until the story was forgotten. She didn’t like people staring at her like that. It was terrible the way people gossiped and talked. All Louisa wanted to do was keep out of everyone’s way until things were back to normal again.

Louisa started suddenly at the footsteps in the doorway and her body tightened apprehensively as she turned to see who it was.

Mrs. Alma Cartwright came waddling to the counter, hurriedly erasing from her plump face the curious look that had crossed it when she saw Louisa standing there.

“How are you, my dear?” she asked.

Louisa smiled faintly. “Well, thank you,” she said.

“And your dear mother?” Mrs. Cartwright asked, sheep eyes looking quizzical.

Louisa swallowed and managed another smile. “Well,” she said, “thank you, Mrs. Cartwright.”

Mrs. Cartwright looked toward the back of the shop with forced casualness. “Oh, there’s your aunt,” she said, obviously disappointed that she wasn’t alone with Louisa. “How do, Miss Winston.”

Agatha Winston raised her head, smiled a merchant-to-buyer smile, nodded once, then returned grimly to her figures.

“May I . . . help you?” Louisa asked.

The gaze of her customer stabbed back at her. A smile was arranged on Mrs. Cartwright’s puffy lips.

“I’d like to get a shirtwaist, my dear,” she said. “Silk. For my girl. She’s sixteen next week, you know.”

“Oh,” Louisa said, trying to sound pleasantly surprised.

She could almost feel the portly woman’s eyes on her back as she fingered through the stack of shirtwaists in the drawer. A prickling sensation coursed her back, making her shudder. She drew in a quick breath and turned.

“No silk, Mrs. . . . Cartwright,” she finished weakly as the older woman forced the look of a buying customer on her face again.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Cartwright. “Well . . . perhaps . . . cotton?”

Louisa put the shirtwaist on the counter and stood there restively while the woman fingered it distractedly.

“This is the f-inest type sold in the market,” Louisa said without expression. “You’ll . . .”

She stopped as Mrs. Cartwright looked at her. The plump woman couldn’t hide the look in her eyes. Aware of it, she stopped trying. She directed a furtive glance at Miss Winston, then smiled sadly.

“My dear girl,” she said, behind the sympathy a probing inquisitiveness, “I’ve heard about this . . . terrible thing and I’m . . . I’m so shocked.”

Louisa couldn’t speak at first. She felt the heat licking up her cheeks again and had to press her lips together to keep them from shaking. She wanted to turn and run away but she knew she couldn’t so she just stood there staring wordlessly, feeling Mrs. Cartwright’s beady eyes on her, attempting to reflect compassion but conveying only a hungry curiosity.

“I’ll ask my . . . my aunt to ah-show you another kind of—” she faltered, then turned away abruptly.

“But my dear, this is—”

Her skirt rustled noisily as she hurried up the counter, trying vainly to keep the hot tears from spilling any faster across her flushed cheeks.

“Aunt . . . A-Agatha,” she sobbed.

Agatha Winston looked up suddenly, face a blank of consternation.

“What on earth . . .” she started, then stopped, her dark eyes staring at Louisa’s anguished face.

“Please,” Louisa begged, “I . . . I . . .” She couldn’t finish.

Agatha Winston glanced up at the customer, then back at her trembling niece. “Go in the back room,” she said. “Quickly.”

As Louisa stumbled away, cutting off a choking sob, Miss Winston moved in firm strides down the counter.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cartwright,” she said in a politely brittle voice. “Now what were we looking at?”

Mrs. Cartwright glanced back toward where Louisa was entering the back room.

“What did I say?” she asked. “My dear Miss Winston, I had no intention of—”

“It’s nothing, nothing,” Miss Winston assured hastily, plucking up the shirtwaist. “She’s just a little upset. Is this what we’re interested in today? Now this material is woven by the finest New England lo—”

She stopped talking and glared at Mrs. Cartwright who was looking toward the back of the shop again and acting upset.

“Mrs. Cartwright?” she asked.

The large woman looked at her, head shaking sadly. “Oh, my dear Miss Winston,” she proclaimed, “my heart goes out to that poor girl.”

Miss Winston stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

Again, Mrs. Cartwright glanced toward the back room. Then she leaned over the counter.

“Do you really think she should . . . wait counter when . . .” She gestured futilely. “Well . . .”

“Mrs. Cartwright, I’m afraid I do not know what you are talking about,” Miss Winston enunciated slowly, torn between rising anger and the unquestioning demeanor she believed all customers merited.

Mrs. Cartwright looked unhappy. “Oh, my dear,” she said in a sort of joyous agony at being involved in this moment. “We’re all lambs in the Lord’s flock. When one of us is led astray . . .”

She didn’t finish. Lambs?—Miss Winston thought—led astray? Her eyes grew harder still behind her forgotten spectacles.

“Mrs. Cartwright, I’ll thank you for an—”

“Oh, my dear Miss Winston. I feel nothing but sympathy for your poor dear niece. I would not for the world—”

“Mrs. Cartwright, what are you talking about?” Miss Winston demanded, putting aside, for the moment, the role of courteous vendor.

Mrs. Cartwright put her ample hand on the unresponsive fingers of Miss Winston.

“I know all about it,” she whispered. “And it has made my heart go out to that poor, dear girl.”

“What, exactly, do you know?” Miss Winston asked, face beginning to go slack now with the rising fear that she did not know everything.

Mrs. Cartwright looked around, looked back.

“About the baby,” she whispered. “The—”

“What!” Miss Winston’s virginal body lurched in shock, her fingers jerking out from beneath the moist warmth of Mrs. Cartwright’s hand. “What are you talking about! Are you intimating that Louisa is—”

Her hands jerked into bone-jutting fists. “Oh!” she said, absolutely dumbfounded.

Mrs. Cartwright drew back in alarm. “What have I—?”

“I don’t know where you heard this vicious gossip, Mrs. Cartwright!” Agatha Winston said, eyes burning with vengeful light, “but, let me end it now—right this very moment! It is not true, Mrs. Cartwright, it is not true at all! I’m shocked that you should believe such a terrible thing of my niece! Shocked, Mrs. Cartwright, shocked!”

“Oh, my dear Miss—”

“No. No. I don’t want to hear anymore!” Miss Winston blinked as a wave of dizziness rushed over her. Her hands clutched at the counter edge. “Please leave,” she muttered. “Please, leave my shop.”

“Oh . . .” Miss Cartwright moaned, face a wrinkle of dismay.

Miss Winston turned away. “Please,” she begged. “Please.”

When a shaken Miss Cartwright had retreated from the shop, an equally shaken Miss Agatha Winston found her unsteady way to the rear of the shop, throat constricted, eyes stark with premonition.

Louisa drew back in fright when she saw her aunt’s face.

“Aunt Agatha,” she whispered.

She gasped aloud as the clawing hand of her aunt clamped over her wrist.

“Tell me!” commanded Agatha Winston, her face terrible. “Is it true?”

Louisa shrank back. “What?” she asked, weakly.

“You had better tell me the truth!”

Louisa started sobbing again. “What?” she asked. “What, A-Aunt Agatha?”

Agatha Winston spoke slowly, teeth clenched. “Are you with child?”

Louisa gasped and stared blankly at her aunt, a heavy throbbing at her temples, legs shaking. She cried out suddenly as her aunt’s hard fingers dug into her wrist.

“Answer me!” Agatha Winston cried, almost hysterically, her face mottled with an ugly rage.

“No!” Louisa sobbed. “No, I’m not. I’m not!”

A moment more did the two look at each other.

“Is that the truth?” Agatha Winston demanded tensely.

“Yes,” Louisa insisted, tearfully. “Yes.”

Miss Winston released her niece’s wrist and sank down weakly on a stool, chest heaving with breath, in her lap, her hands trembling impotently.

“Dear Lord,” she muttered hoarsely. “Dear Lord,” her gaunt throat moving as she swallowed.

Louisa stood nearby, her body twitching with deep, unheard sobs. She wanted to run away but she was afraid to. Her mind swam with confused fears. With child?—she thought in a panic. Dear God, what was happening? She felt as if she were lost and helpless in a strange pit of terrors.

“Someone will pay for this,” she heard her aunt muttering to herself. “Someone will pay.”

That was when they heard bootfalls in the shop entrance.

Louisa glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. Abruptly, she shrank back, eyes stark with fright, a gasp clutching at her throat. Instinctively, she drew to one side, away from the back room doorway.

Agatha Winston looked up, nerves about unstrung. “What is it now?” she hissed.

“It’s . . . it—it’s him!” Louisa whispered frantically.

Agatha Winston stood up quickly and stepped to the doorway.

Her thin nostrils flared, a calcification of outrage ran down her back. Hurriedly, she stepped away from the doorway.

“Stay back here,” she ordered. “Don’t move.” Her agitated hands flew to her gray hair, to her skirt.

“Stay here,” she said again, then moved out of the room and went behind the counter.

John Benton took off his hat as she approached him. He nodded his head politely and waited until she’d reached him.

“Afternoon, ma’m,” he said then. “Are you Miss Winston?”

Her face was like stone. “I am,” she said, controlling herself.

“My name is John Benton,” he told her. “I—”

“I know your name,” she said, coldly, wondering why she didn’t erupt in his face. She would not admit nor even recognize the fact that she was afraid.

“You’re Louisa Harper’s aunt, aren’t you?” Benton asked.

She said nothing. She swallowed the lump in her throat and stared at him, a trembling in her. She couldn’t say anything but she wouldn’t answer his questions anyway.

The politeness seemed to drift from Benton’s face like a veil of smoke. His smile faded. “I’d like to speak to your niece,” he said, softly.

“She is not here,” said Agatha Winston.

Benton looked mildly confused. “What?” he said.

“My niece is not here,” said Miss Winston slowly.

“Her mother said she was here,” Benton answered.

Miss Winston’s face lost color and she pressed together her trembling lips. Then she said, “Good day, Mister Benton.”

He looked curiously at her hard, unyielding face. Then he glanced toward the back of the shop. “Miss Winston,” he said, “I believe I saw your niece when I came in.”

Miss Winston shuddered with repressed fury. “She is not here,” she said, tensely.

“Now, look here,” Benton said. “What are you—”

“Good day, Mister Benton.”

“Look here, Miss . . .” He gestured. “. . . Winston,” he finished, remembering after a momentary lapse. “I came into town because there’s some fool story goin’ around that—”

“Will you leave my shop or do I have to call the sheriff?” Miss Winston shuddered, remembering suddenly that Sheriff Wilks was out of town for the week, taking a prisoner to the city.

Benton still didn’t understand. “Look here, Miss Winston,” he said, “I came here because—”

“Get out of here!” The control was suddenly gone; Miss Winston’s face grew dark with rage again.

Benton didn’t even change expression at her hysterical demand. He stood there looking incredulously at her while, outside, on the plank sidewalk, a passing couple stopped and listened.

“Look, I’ve had about enough of this—”

Benton stopped talking. Miss Agatha Winston was headed for the back of the shop, her dark skirts rustling angrily. She turned the counter edge and came stamping down the length of the shop.

At the door, she stopped and turned, ignoring the couple who moved on awkwardly, trying to act as if they’d seen nothing.

“Get out of here, you . . . !” The proper word escaped her. Miss Winston pointed one shaking finger out at the square.

A moment more, John Benton looked at her uncomprehendingly. Then he made a sound of complete bewilderment, slapped on his Stetson, and walked out of the shop.

Outside, he turned impulsively.

“Listen, will you tell your niece to—”

The banging of the slammed door cut off his words. John Benton stood there looking a little dazed as Miss Agatha Winston drew down the dark shades of her shop and shut him away.