The Gun Fight

Chapter Twenty-seven

She’d been silent all the way back to the ranch; silent as he unhitched the mare but left his own horse saddled and tied up in front of the house. Silent as they went into the house and found the kitchen table covered with the remains of the dinner the boys had made for themselves; silent as John went into the bedroom, silent as she stood in the middle of the small kitchen, listening to the sound of his footsteps, the sound of the clock ticking, her eyes fastened to the doorway he would return through. All this time, silent.

But when he came back in, buckling on his gunbelt, she felt herself twitch suddenly and words came.

“John, you can’t,” she said, “you just can’t.”

He stopped walking and looked at her, his face strained with unvoiced tensions. For a moment his hands were motionless on the belt buckle. Then they finished up and dropped to his sides and a heavy breath of air expanded his chest before slowly emptying from it.

“I have to,” was all he said.

“But why?”

His lips pressed together a little as he stood there looking at her. Then he turned and glanced at the clock. It was almost two.

“I think you know why,” he said.

He went over to the stove and opened one of the covers. Dropping in some kindling and crumpled newspaper, he lit them with a sulfur match. Julia stood there, without a word, staring at the pistol butt bobbing slightly on his left hip as he stirred up the flames and put the coffee pot over them.

Suddenly she moved to him and her hands clutched at his arms.

“Just don’t go,” she said impulsively. “Just refuse to fight him.”

He tried to look patient with her but it didn’t work. He shook his head once, very slowly.

“But why?” she asked again, a tremor in her voice.

“Julia, you know why. You heard what Matt Coles said. If I don’t come into town, Robby’ll come out here.” His head shook again. “I won’t have that, Julia,” he said.

“But he won’t come out.”

“You know different,” he said calmly. “You know what’s behind him, pushin’.”

“But he wouldn’t shoot you down in cold blood!”

“He would if his father made him,” John said, a little more loudly now. “No, it’s no good, Julia, it’s just no good. I’m not goin’ to set here and wait for Robby to come out lookin’ for me.”

“But John, he wouldn’t shoot you, he’s not that way.”

Benton blew out a tired breath and turned back to the stove to move the coffee pot restlessly over the fire.

“Whether he shot me or not,” he said, “it’d be the same. I’d be a laughin’stock.”

“Laughingstock?” she said, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t—”

“I could never ride into town again without bein’ laughed at.”

“Well who cares about that?” Julia argued. “Isn’t it more important that—”

“I care,” Benton said, turning abruptly, his face hard and determined. “I didn’t start this fight, Julia; you know I didn’t start it. But I’m not lettin’ anybody push me into a corner and make a fool of—”

“You’d rather kill, is that it?” she said sharply.

“If that’s what you think . . .” Benton didn’t finish up but turned slowly to the stove again.

Julia felt herself trembling with nervous anger.

“We’ll move then,” she said desperately. “We’ll go away.”

“What?” He looked at her incredulously. “After all the work we’ve put into this place? Just move? What kind of an idea is that?”

“I just don’t want you to fight that boy!” she flared up at him.

His face stiffened as if he were about to yell back at her but he repressed it instantly.

“Listen, Julia,” he said, “I’ve done everything you ever asked of me. I finally left the Rangers because you couldn’t take worryin’ anymore, it wasn’t just the Grahams. I never wore a gun in the town, I only wore it on the ranch. I didn’t even join that posse though I should have. But don’t ask me to back out of this.”

“You said you’d never put on a gun against anyone as long as you lived,” she said in a hollow voice.

He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.

“Julia, what do you want me to do—forget I’m a man? Creep away from this fight? I didn’t start the damn thing, I didn’t have a thing to do with it. But, for God’s sake, don’t expect me to run away from it when—”

“You promised, John.” It was all she could say.

“I said I wouldn’t put on a gun against anybody! I never said I wouldn’t defend myself! Can’t you see there’s a difference?”

“This isn’t just anybody!” she said vehemently. “This is a boy who hasn’t got a chance against you!”

“I make it that way?” he asked. “Did I tell him to challenge me?”

“It doesn’t matter who challenged who! You can’t fight him, that’s all!”

“Julia, I’m going to fight him.”

The words seemed to come from the very depth of her fear and her fury; they fell from her lips slowly and clearly.

“John Benton,” she said, “if you draw your gun against that boy, it’ll be murder. Murder!”

He looked at her colorless face a long time before turning away to the stove and saying, “That’s right. It will be.”

She stood there shivering, watching his steady hand pour coffee into the cup. He took the cup and walked out of the room and she listened to the sound of his boots moving through the house, then the sound of him sinking down on their bed.

Her eyes suddenly closed and she flung a hand across them as a wracking sob broke in her throat. Stumbling through a haze of tears, she moved to the table and sank down, her head falling forward on her arms, her body lurching with great, hopeless sobs.

She was conscious of the clock striking two.

Then, outside, there was a sound of turning wheels and thudding hooves. She straightened up with a gasp, a look of shocked surprise on her face. Hastily, she reached into her dress pocket and drew out a handkerchief. She dabbed at her cheeks and eyes as she stood up and hurried to the door.

It’s them, the terrifying thought came suddenly. They said three but it was only a trick and they were coming at two to catch John by surprise.

Then, in the doorway, she stopped and stared out blankly at the small woman getting out of a rig with hurried, nervous movements.

Julia stood rooted there as the woman came up to her.

“Your husband hasn’t gone yet, has he?” the woman asked quickly.

“No,” Julia said, not understanding. “No, he—”

“Thank God,” Jane Coles said fervently, then stood there awkwardly, clutching the shawl to herself.

“Come in,” Julia said, feeling her heart start to throb in slow, heavy beats. What was Mrs. Coles doing there? For a second, Julia had the wild hope that the fight was canceled and Mrs. Coles was the one they’d sent with the message. But that didn’t make sense and she knew it.

As she stepped aside to let the small woman enter, John appeared in the other doorway, tensed as though he were expecting the same thing Julia had expected.

When he saw Robby’s mother, the tenseness left his face and was replaced by a look of startled surprise. He didn’t say anything as Mrs. Coles came over to him.

“Mister Benton,” she said.

He nodded once. “Missus Coles,” he replied, looking down at the small frailty of her.

“I—” She said. “I . . . wanted to—to—”

“Yes?” he said.

There was silence for a terrible moment, a silence that seemed, suddenly, as if it would be permanent, holding them all fast in it.

But then Mrs. Coles’ faint voice spoke. “I . . . came about . . . about the fight,” she said, nervously.

Benton tightened a little but still he didn’t understand. He looked down at her with confused eyes. “I . . .” he started and then waited.

“My boy is . . .” Mrs. Coles started and then suddenly it all came rushing out. “Oh, Mister Benton, don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt my boy!”

Benton jerked back the upper part of his body as if someone had struck him across the face; his expression was one of stunned shock.

“Don’t . . .” he started to repeat her words, then broke off shakily.

“Please, Mister Benton, please. I’m begging you as his mother. Don’t hurt him! He’s just a boy. He doesn’t know anything about g-guns or-or fighting. He’s just a boy, Mister Benton, just a boy!”

Benton’s lips twitched as he sought for proper words but couldn’t find them.

“Mister Benton, I beg of you,” Jane Coles went on brokenly and Julia shuddered, hearing in the older woman’s voice a repetition of her own words to Mrs. Coles’ husband a little over an hour before.

“Missus Coles, I . . .” Benton said nervously. “I . . . I didn’t ask for this fight. I didn’t—”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Jane Coles said miserably. “All I know is I love my boy and I’ll die if anything happens to him.”

“But Missus Coles, I just told you I—”

“Oh, please, Mister Benton, please.” There were tears now, running down the small woman’s cheeks, and her hands were shaking helplessly before her.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked her quietly as if he really thought she could give him an answer.

She sobbed helplessly, staring at him, unable to see any part of the situation but the threat to her boy.

“Missus Coles, what do you want me to do?” Benton asked again, his voice rising. “Just wait for your son to kill me?”

“He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t!” she sobbed. “He’s a good boy, there’s nothing mean in him. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, Mister Benton, not anyone!”

“Missus Coles, your own husband told me to be in town by three o’clock or Robby would come after me. What choice does that give me?”

She had no answer, only frightened looks and sobs.

“Missus Coles, I don’t want this thing any more than you do. I have a life too, you know. I have my wife and I have this ranch. I’m happy here, Missus Coles, I don’t want to die any more than Robby does. But I’m being forced into this, can’t you see that?”

“Don’t hurt him, Mister Benton,” she pleaded. “Don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt my boy.”

Benton started to say something, then, abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked away from her. At the door to the inner hall, he turned.

“You’d better go home and talk to your husband, Missus Coles,” he said grimly. “He’s the only one that can stop this fight now. I’m sorry but my hands are tied.”

“Mister Benton!”

But he was gone. Julia moved quickly to the trembling woman and put an arm around her.

“You’ve got to stop him, Missus Benton,” Jane Coles begged. “You’ve got to stop him from hurting my boy.”

Julia looked at her with a hopeless expression on her face. Then she sighed and spoke.

“You’d better go see your husband, Missus Coles,” she said softly. “He is the only one who can stop it now. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She fought down the sob. “You . . . don’t know how sorry I am.”

“But he won’t listen to me,” Mrs. Coles sobbed. “He just won’t listen to me.”

Julia closed her eyes and turned away.

“Please go,” she muttered thickly. “That’s all there is. Believe me, that’s all there is.”

When Jane Coles had climbed into her rig like a dying woman and driven away, Julia walked slowly into the silence of the bedroom. John was sitting on the bed, his head slumped forward, his hands hanging loosely and motionlessly between his legs. On the bedside table his coffee stood cold and untouched.

He didn’t even look up as she came into the room. Only when she sat down beside him did he turn his head slowly and meet her glance. His eyes were lifeless.

Then his head dropped forward again and his voice, as he spoke, was husky and without strength.

“I’m tired, ma,” he said. “I’m awful tired.”

Slowly, her arm moved around his back and she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“I know,” she murmured. Her eyes closed and she felt warm tears running slowly down her cheeks. “I know.”