The Gun Fight

Chapter Twenty-three

He’s out of town,” Benton told her when they met at the foot of Davis Street.

Julia stared up at him blankly. “Out of town?” she repeated in a faint voice.

“That’s what the deputy said.”

“But . . . for how long?”

“Three days yet,” John said gravely. “He’s takin’ a prisoner to the Rangers.” On the plank sidewalk, passing men and women glanced at them and tried to hear what they were saying.

“Well, what about the deputy?” Julia said. “He can stop it, can’t he?”

“Well—” John started to say, then glanced over suddenly at the sidewalk where two men looked away and walked off quickly along the planks toward the Zorilla Saloon.

Mouth tightened, Benton dismounted and tied Socks to the back of the buckboard. A thin-wheeled rig came crackling up Davis Street and was guided around them. From the corners of his eyes, Benton saw Henry Oliver looking at him curiously.

Then the rig turned left into the square and Benton climbed up on the seat beside Julia.

“He won’t do anything,” he told her. “Too many people are for it. Guess this thing is bigger than we thought. Half the town knows about it, looks like.”

“But . . .” Julia stared at him, dazedly, trying to think but unable to, “. . . what are we going to do?”

John didn’t even bother shrugging. “I don’t know, ma,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. “I just don’t know.” He looked up at her. “What happened at the girl’s house?”

“Her aunt was there,” Julia said.

“She wouldn’t even let you in, I expect,” John said grimly and she started to say something but didn’t. They sat there in the motionless buckboard, trying to ignore the passersby who stared at them.

“Well, let’s not just sit here,” John said abruptly. “Here, you want me to drive?” He reached for the reins, then glanced up irritably at a passing man who was gaping at him.

“Give me the reins, Julia,” he said tersely.

She looked over at him. “Where are we going?” she asked, worriedly.

His mouth opened a little as if he were about to speak, then he hesitated and blew out a tired breath.

“Where can we go?” he asked her.

“Well . . .”

“We’ll have to go back to the ranch,” he said.

“John, we can’t.”

“Julia, what else is there to do?”

“Can’t we see the deputy sheriff again? He has to keep the peace; it’s his job.”

“Honey, the job’s no bigger than the man. Catwell’s just a store clerk with a badge on. He’s not goin’ to stand up against half the town. He’s not the kind.”

“But we can’t go back, John,” she said, more heatedly. “We’ve got to stop it somehow.”

“What would you suggest?” he asked, his voice flat and unencouraging.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to get control of her scattered thoughts. “But we have to do something.”

John shrugged and let his hands fall to his lap and he sat there staring at his mud-caked boots.

“I almost think you want this—” Julia started to say, then stopped as he looked over quickly at her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John,” she said hastily. “It’s just that . . .”

She pressed her hands together. “Can’t we . . .” She hesitated and then said quickly, “We’ll go talk to Robby.”

“Honey, you heard his old man this morning,” John said. “Did he sound like he was open to reason?”

“We’ll talk to Robby, not his father.”

“Same thing,” he said, disgustedly.

“John, we have to do something,” she said slowly and tensely. “You know we have to.”

He let go of the reins and pressed his lips together.

“All right,” he said curtly. “All right, Julia. But not much more. You understand? Not much more.”

With a nervous twitching of her hands, Julia shook the reins and the buckboard lurched forward into the square.