The Gun Fight

Chapter Thirty

It was like some endless nightmare. She’d keep moving into the hall, past the clock and over to the head of the stairs; but, every time she did, her aunt would be down in the sitting room, talking to her mother. Louisa would come back along the hall rug, past the clock, and into her room once again. It happened that way again and again, always the same except for one thing. Every time she passed the clock, it was a different time. Two ten—two fifteen—two twenty-one—two twenty-seven—

Oh, dear God! She stood shaking at the head of the steps, wanting to scream, her cold hands clutching at the bannister. She had to get out, she had to! Only a little more than thirty minutes were left now. She bit her lower lip until it hurt and her breast shook with unresolved sobs.

I’ll tell Aunt Agatha, I’ll tell her I lied, I’ll tell her to stop the fight. I have to, I just have to! And she’d go down one step, meaning to rush downstairs and tell everything and save Robby.

But, after one downward step, she’d freeze and be unable to go any farther. She’d never been able to talk to her aunt in her life. Her aunt was remote from her, a bony-faced, dark-garbed stranger. Tell her that she’d lied? Tell her that she was in love with John Benton and had made believe that . . .

She backed up the step again, lips shaking, tears forcing their way from her eyes and dribbling down her pale cheeks. She hurried back to her room, looking at the clock as she passed. Before she reached the door, she heard the tinny resonance of the clock chiming the half hour. In thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes!

She stood alone in her room, looking around desperately for the answer. She had to tell someone—but first of all she had to get out of the house.

She moved to the window quickly. Could she climb down the trellis? No, she’d fall and hurt herself. And, even if she managed to do it, surely they’d hear her climbing down.

A whimpering started in her throat and she turned restlessly from the window. But I have to do something! The thought filled her with terror. She couldn’t just let Robby die!

She ran to the door, thinking she might climb down from her mother’s window in back. But there was no ivy trellis in back, she suddenly remembered. She’d have to jump then. But it was too high—she’d kill herself. The whimper rose. Oh . . . no, no. Oh, God, help me to stop it—please, please . . .

The minute hand was moving away from the six now. Louisa stared at it with sick fascination. I can see it moving now, she thought dizzily, they say you can’t really see a clock hand but I can—

Oh, God, it’s going to the seven! I have to do something!

She ran to the head of the stairs. Her stomach was tightening, she was starting to feel sick. I have to do something, I have to stop it, I have to. She pressed her shaking hands together, staring down the steps toward the front door.

I have to!

Suddenly, she felt herself running down the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, her shoes thudding quickly on the carpeted steps.

Before she reached the bottom step, Aunt Agatha came hurrying from the sitting room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“I have to stop it,” Louisa gasped.

“Stop it?” her aunt said, questioningly. “I don’t see what—”

“Aunt Agatha, it’s my fault—mine! Please tell them to stop. I didn’t mean to . . .”

She stood there trembling, thinking—there, it’s said, I’ve said it and I don’t care as long as Robby is safe.

“Louisa, go to your room,” Aunt Agatha said.

Louisa didn’t understand. “But I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“But we have to stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“The fight!”

Aunt Agatha’s lips pressed together. “I thought you’d found out about it,” she said. “If you’d remained in your room as I told you, this wouldn’t have—”

“But, Aunt Agatha, we have to stop it!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“But it’s my fault, Aunt Agatha! I made up the story; I didn’t tell the truth!”

Aunt Agatha’s eyes closed a moment. “I understand, Louisa,” she said calmly. “It shows you have a good heart. But I’m afraid it’s too late now.”

Louisa didn’t understand. She stared at her aunt incredulously. “But . . .” she murmured.

“I’m sure we appreciate your wish to prevent violence, Louisa. However, there is no alterna—”

“But it’s my fault!” Louisa burst out, tears springing from under her eyelids. “I made up the story! John Benton never even spoke to me!”

“Go to your room, Louisa.”

“Aunt Agatha!”

“Louisa, this instant . . .”

Louisa couldn’t believe it was true. She stared at her aunt dazedly, feeling her heart beat in great, rocking jolts.

Abruptly, she turned to her mother who had come into the hall. “Mother, you have to—”

“Lou-isa!” Agatha Winston’s voice was metallic. “That will do.”

“But you have to—”

“Go to your room, I said!”

“You’re not going to—?” Louisa began in a faint voice.

“Louisa, if I have to say another word, you’ll remain in this house for a month,” Agatha Winston stated.

“Darling, please don’t make it worse,” her mother begged.

Louisa backed away, her eyes stricken with horror at what she’d done.

Then, suddenly, she lurched for the front door and jerked it open. Before her surprised aunt could jump forward to grab her, Louisa had run out onto the porch.

“Lou-isa!” Aunt Agatha’s sharp cry followed her as she fled down the path and flung open the picket gate.

“Oh, my dear—please,” her mother pleaded in a voice that no one heard.

Agatha Winston ran as far as the gate, her lean face masked with outraged surprise. There, she stopped and watched Louisa running frantically down Davis Street toward the square.

In the hallway, she put on her bonnet with quick, agitated motions. “She’s lost her mind,” she muttered, paying no attention to her distraught sister. “She’s taken leave of her senses. Made it up, in-deed! Does she think a lie is going to stop this fight?”

She hurried from the house, leaving behind a weeping Mrs. Harper, standing in the hallway, trembling and thinking if only her dear husband were alive.

Twenty-two minutes to three.