The Gun Fight

Chapter Fourteen

“Why do you think he left the Rangers?” Jesse Willmark challenged his suds-faced customer. “ ’Cause he got tired of it? No. ’Cause he was too old? No. I’ll tell you why.” He leaned forward, gesturing with the sun-reflecting razor. “Because he turned yella, that’s why.”

“Couldn’t say,” the customer muttered.

“Look, ya remember the time—’bout a year or so ago, I guess it was—when they was gettin’ up a posse to chase Tom Labine? You remember that?” Jesse asked, setting up his coup de grace.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I’ll tell you what about it,” Jesse broke in intently. “They asked Benton t’help them. Sheriff Wilks don’t know a dang thing about trailin’ or ’bout anythin’ for that matter. So they asked Mister John Benton t’help them out. You think he would? The hell he would! Can’t do it, he says, cut me out. Why? Why wouldn’t he help out his neighbors?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to,” the customer suggested.

“Hell, man,” Jesse said, “I’ll tell ya why he wouldn’t do it.” He raked the razor across the man’s soap-stubbled cheek with a practiced gesture. “He was yella, that’s why. He didn’t have the guts to ride another posse. His nerves is gone and that’s a fact.”

“Could be,” the customer said.

Jesse wiped the beard-flecked lather off his razor. He rubbed his pudgy fingers over the customer’s cheek, rubbing in the warm soap.

“I’ll tell ya somethin’ else,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It happens to all o’ them. I don’t know how—or why—but one day—” he snapped his fingers, “like that—they’re yella.”

He started shaving again. “They go on year after year shootin’ ’em down like sittin’ ducks,” he said, “then, one day—bang—they turn yella; they get scared o’ their own shadda. It’s nerves what it is. Ain’t no man alive can go on like that year after year without losin’ his nerve.”

He nodded grimly.

“And that’s what happened to Benton,” he said. “Mind, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from the man. He was a big lawman in his day, brave as they come, quick on the draw. Course he never was as big as they painted him but—” he shrugged, “—he was a good lawman. But that don’t mean he can’t turn yella. That don’t mean he didn’t. He did—and that’s a fact.”

He shaved away beard from the customer’s throat.

“Hard to say,” the customer said, looking at the paint-flaked ceiling.

“All right,” Jesse said, wiping off the razor edge again. “If he’s still brave as he was, why don’t he wear a gun, answer me that?”

The customer said he didn’t know.

“Because he’s scared to pack one!” Jesse exclaimed as if it were a great truth he had to convey. “No man goes around without a gun less’n he’s too scared to use it. Ain’t that true?”

The customer shrugged. “It’s a point,” he conceded.

“Sure as hell is a point!” Jesse said. “Benton don’t pack no gun ’cause he’s scared to back hisself up with hot lead.”

The customer grunted, then sat up as Jesse adjusted the head rest.

“Then to go and do what he done,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Him a married man and all.”

The customer could see the front door in the mirror.

“Jesse,” he said, softly.

“I’ll tell ya, it sure surprised the hell outta me,” Jesse said, stropping the razor. “It’s a bad thing when a man starts goin’ down.”

“Jesse.” A warning; but too soft. The customer sat stiffly in the chair, trying not to look at the mirror.

“Specially a man like Benton,” said Jesse. “Him bein’ such a big lawdog and all. First he yellas out, then he starts playin’ around with—”

“Jesse.”

Jesse broke off and looked at the customer. “What is—?” he started to ask, then saw how the man was looking into the mirror. His throat tightened abruptly as he glanced up and saw the reflection of John Benton, tall and grim-faced, standing in the doorway.

Jesse didn’t dare turn. He stood there, staring helplessly into the mirror, his throat moving as he tried to swallow fear.

“I’d keep my mouth shut unless I knew what I was talkin’ about,” Benton said coldly.

Then he turned and was gone and a white-faced Jesse whirled to exclaim, “Honest, Mister Benton, I didn’t—!”

But Benton was gone. Jesse hurried to the doorway, razor in shaking hand, and watched Benton mount his horse.

Then he turned back hurriedly to his customer, a look of uncontrollable dread on his face.

“Jesus,” he said, hollowly. “You don’t think he’ll do anything to me, do you?”

The customer looked blandly at the slack-faced barber in the mirror.

“You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?” Jesse asked, getting weaker. “Do you?”

The barest suggestion of a smile. “How can he?” the customer asked. “He’s yella.”