The Gun Fight

Chapter Two

“Well, I don’t know,” John Benton said, with a slow shake of his head. “They may scratch Hardin’s name from the black book for now.” He grinned briefly. “But I think they’ll have to put it back in again.”

He raked a sulfur match across his boot heel and held the flare to the end of the cigarette he’d just rolled. He grimaced slightly at the acrid sulfur smell in his nostrils, then blew out a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth. He shook out the match and tossed it into the sand-filled tobacco box on the floor.

“No,” he said to the three men at the bar with him. “Writin’ off Wes Hardin because he’s in Rusk Prison now—that’s a bet I wouldn’t take.”

“You think he’ll bust out?” asked Henry Oliver, the portly owner of one of Kellville’s dry goods stores.

“Well, I . . . wouldn’t think that either,” Benton said, picking the cigarette from his lips and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “He’ll try bustin’ out, sure enough, but that’s quite a place to bust out of. I used to go there quite a few times takin’ in prisoners.” He fingered his glass of whiskey. “Pretty stiff,” he said, nodding once. “I wouldn’t think he’d bust out.”

“How else can he get out then?” Bill Fisher asked him. “He’s in for twenty-five years, ain’t he?”

Benton thumped down his glass and smacked his lips as the whiskey threaded its heat down his throat.

“Well,” he said, “twenty-five years is the sentence, all right. But there’s always paroles. Even pardons.”

“Damn right,” Fisher replied, nodding purse-lipped and staring into the amber depths of his drink. “They’s plenty of folks think Wes Hardin got a bum deal for doin’ what he had to do. Ain’t that right, Benton?”

John Benton twisted his broad-muscled shoulders a little and scratched once at his crop of darkly blond hair.

“Couldn’t say, Fisher,” he answered, shaking his head. “They never put me on the case. You know as much about Hardin as I do.”

“If they had put you on the case, John Benton,” said Henry Oliver expansively, waving a thick finger at the tall man, “Mister John Wesley Hardin would have been in Rusk Prison long ago.”

“He’d a been in the boneyard long ago,” John Sutton added hurriedly, his young voice eager to please.

John Benton only chuckled softly and gestured toward Pat, the bartender, for another drink. He put the cigarette between his lips again and listened amusedly as the men went on discussing the imprisonment of Hardin and the possibilities of his escaping. He nodded once to Pat as the glass was filled, then touched the smooth sides of the glass with his long, sure fingers, a mild expression on his strongly cut face.

“Isn’t that so, Benton?” said Joe Sutton, with the tone of a novice seeking ultimate authority.

“What’s that, Sutton?” Benton asked.

“I say Wes Hardin killed more men with his border roll than any other way.”

The beginning of a smile twitched at the corners of Benton’s wide mouth. “As I said,” he answered, “what I know about Hardin you could put in a pea shell and rattle.”

He stiffened suddenly, his legs going rigid, the amiable expression wiped from his face as Joe Sutton reached down for his pistol. Instinctively, his right hand shot across his body to the spot on his left where his pistol would have been if he’d worn one.

Joe Sutton held out his pistol, butt first. “Show how he does it,” he asked, oblivious. “Show how Hardin rolls it.”

The tenseness melted imperceptibly from Benton’s face, his body relaxed and the movement of his hand continued up smoothly to his glass. The smile returned.

“Sutton, never do that,” he said, without rancor. “When a man goes for his gun, he should mean business. You can get yourself killed that way.”

Sutton looked blank. “Well,” he said, “I know you don’t pack no gun and I just thought . . .”

His pistol hand dropped and he looked crestfallen. Joe Sutton was one of the many in Kellville who idolized Benton.

“Forget it,” Benton said, grinning. “Just don’t want to see you leanin’ into a bullet. Here, give it here. I’ll show you how he does it.”

Sutton handed over the pistol happily and Benton opened the cylinder and spilled out six cartridges on the bar top.

He shook his head. “Sutton, you should only put five bullets in the wheel. You keep the hammer on the empty chamber. That’s for safety; otherwise you’re liable to shoot your leg off.”

Sutton looked rueful again. “Think I’ll throw it away,” he muttered and a chuckle sounded in Benton’s deep chest.

“Just have to be careful,” he said.

“You want to use my gun too?” Bill Fisher asked. “Hardin uses two.”

“One or two, it doesn’t matter,” Benton said. “Same in either hand.”

The three men and the bartender watched in fascination as the tall Benton stepped back from the bar and stuck the pistol under the belt of his Levi’s.

“Now say I been throwed down on,” he told them. “I didn’t get any chance to draw my iron. So the man, whoever he is, asks me to hand over my gun. So . . .”

Benton reached down and the men saw him draw the pistol slowly, then hold it out toward them, butt first, his forefinger curled limply in the trigger guard.

“Then—” Benton said.

Suddenly the pistol blurred in their sight as he rolled it backward and, before they could blink their eyes, the sound of the clicking hammer reached their ears.

“You see, you fire with the webbing of your thumb,” Benton told them. “Your trigger finger is just the pivot.”

“Jeez.” An awed Joe Sutton shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t even see it.”

Benton smiled. “You’re not s’posed to,” he said. “That’s the point, Sutton.” The smile faded. “Anyway it’s a snaky trick,” he said. “When a man’s outdone fair and square, he’s got no right to cheat his way back to winning.”

In the momentary silence, Joe Sutton asked, “Why don’t you pack a gun no more, Benton?”

Benton’s almost expressionless gaze flicked up at him.

“Don’t ask a man questions like that, Sutton,” he said quietly. “That’s a man’s own business.”

“Gee, Benton, I’m sorry. I—” Sutton looked apologetically at him.

But Benton was looking down at the pistol, hefting it idly in his palm as if he were weighing the merits of what it represented to him. For a moment, his mouth was pressed into a firm line. Then he shrugged once.

“Oh, well,” he said casually. “Here; catch.” He tossed the pistol back to Sutton.

Sutton caught it fumblingly in both hands. Benton tossed his cigarette into the gaboon and shook his head with a wry smile.

“Sutton, you’ll have to learn to snatch a gun and set it goin’ at the same time.” His eyes glinted with detached amusement. “That is,” he said, “if you mean to be a real, sure-fire gun shark.”

Sutton still looked blank as Benton took a deep breath and threw off his momentary seriousness.

“Throw it here,” he told Sutton. “I’ll show you.”

Sutton tossed the pistol and saw it plucked cleanly from the air and, in the same moment, fired.

“You see?” Benton said, “there’s a lot more to gunplay than just a fast draw.”

Without seeming to look, he flung the pistol to his left and cocked and fired it in the second his hand caught it.

“They call it the shift,” he said. “You’ll need that if your shootin’ arm takes a slug.”

He tossed the pistol back into his right hand and cocked it, the barrel aimed toward the double doors.

The young man who came pushing through them recoiled with a start, his face paling.

Benton grinned and dropped the pistol barrel. “Don’t worry, Coles,” he said, “nothin’ in the wheel but air.”

He tossed the pistol back to Sutton again and returned to his drink as the men greeted Robby.

“What time is it, Pat?” Benton asked the bartender.

Pat drew out his gold watch. “About quarter to eleven,” he said.

Benton grunted. “Have to be goin’ soon. Or the missus will be riding in after me.” His smile was inward, seeming to impart a secret pleasure to him as he picked up his glass.

Then he put down the glass and looked aside.

“You want to see me, Coles?” he asked the young man who stood tensely beside him.

“Yes, I want to see you.”

Benton’s mouth tightened as he heard the sullen anger in Robby Coles’ voice. He took his boot off the rail and turned completely.

“What is it, kid?” he asked curiously.

Robby stood there rigidly, unable to control the shaking in his slender body. At his sides, his hands were clenched into white fists and the repressed fury in his face was thinned by apprehension.

“Well?” Benton asked, his brow furrowing quizzically.

Robby swallowed convulsively.

“You better watch out,” he said, hoarsely.

The three men at the bar heard the tenseness in Robby’s voice and they looked down curiously at him.

“Watch out for what?” Benton asked.

Robby drew in a ragged breath and let it falter through clenched teeth. “Just be careful,” he said, his face growing paler.

Benton’s left hand raised up as if in a gesture of question. Then it dropped down and he shook his head in small, tight movement. “I don’t get you, kid,” he said. “What are you trying to say?”

Robby shuddered and forced his lips together.

“Just leave my girl alone,” he said, his voice weakening.

Benton’s expression grew suddenly blank. He leaned back as if to get a better look at Robby.

“Your girl?” he said, uncomprehendingly. “What does—”

“Well, she told me!” Robby burst out, suddenly. “So I know, I know! You don’t have to lie to me!”

Benton’s eyes flinted. “What are you saying?” he asked coldly.

Robby swallowed again, a look of sudden dread flaring in his eyes.

“Let’s have it, kid,” Benton said. “Chew it finer. What’s all this about your girl?”

Robby seemed to dredge down into himself for the strengthening of courage. He drew back his lean shoulders and forced out a rasping breath.

“She told me how you been botherin’ her,” he said in a clipped voice. “And I’m tellin’ you to stop.”

The anger drifted from Benton’s face. For a long moment, he looked at Robby without expression. Then he shook his head once, as if wonderingly.

“You’re out of your mind,” he said quietly and turned back to the bar with another shake of his head.

Robby stood there trembling.

“Listen, Benton,” he said, the anger desperate in his voice, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Benton glanced aside. “Kid,” he said, “go home. Get outta here and we’ll forget what you said. Just don’t hang around.”

“Benton, damn it!” Robby yelled.

Benton turned brusquely, his face hard with restrained temper. “Listen, kid, I’m tellin’ you to—”

He jerked back his head in sudden shock as the white-faced Robby flailed out with his right fist. Flinging up his left arm, he knocked aside the erratic blow.

“What are you—” he started amazedly, then had to ward aside another blow driven at his chest by Robby. His hand shot down and caught Robby’s left wrist in a grip of iron.

“Coles, have you gone plumb—”

But Robby was too far gone now. His lips drawn back in a grimace both furious and terror-stricken, he drove his right fist out again and it thudded off Benton’s broad shoulder. The men at the bar watched in dumbfounded amazement and Pat came hurrying around the foot of the counter.

Benton tried to catch Robby’s right wrist and pin him completely but, before he could, the bunched fist grazed his left cheek, reddening the skin.

“Well, the hell—” he suddenly snapped and drove a short, pulled blow into Robby’s stomach.

Robby doubled over with a breath-sucked grunt and fell against the bar, his mouth jerking open as he tried to catch in the air. Benton hauled him up by the left arm, glancing over at Pat who had just hurried up to them.

“All right?” Pat asked and Benton nodded silently.

“Come here,” he told the gagging Robby and tried to lead him to one of the tables.

Robby tore away with a whining gasp, then started to buckle and Benton caught him again.

“Come over here with me,” he said, the anger gone from his voice. “Let’s get this figured.”

Again Robby tore away with a sob and backed off, forcing himself to an erect position, hands pressed to his stomach.

“Damn you,” he gasped through shaking, blood-drained lips. “I’ll get you, Benton, I swear I’ll get you.”

Benton stood there silently, hands hanging loosely at his sides as Robby turned and staggered down the length of the saloon floor and shoved through the double doors.

After a moment, he shook his head in slow wonder.

“I’ll be damned,” he said and looked over at the staring men. “I will be damned,” he muttered to himself and returned to his still unfinished drink.

“What was on his mind?” Pat asked, behind the bar again.

“You got me,” Benton said. “It’s over my head, way over.”

Pat grunted and wiped idly at the dark, glossy wood of the bar counter. Down the way, Bill Fisher and Henry Oliver exchanged glances.

“Who is his girl, anyway?” Benton asked curiously.

Pat shrugged. “Got no notion,” he said. “Some town girl, I reckon.”

Benton made an amused sound and shook his head. “Bothered her,” he said. “I don’t even know who she is.”

“Louisa Harper, that’s his girl,” Joe Sutton said quickly and the two men, glancing aside, saw that Sutton had edged along the bar in order to join their conversation. Benton’s mouth tightened a little but he didn’t say anything.

“Her mother’s the Widow Harper,” Sutton hurried on, oblivious. “Aunt runs a lady clothes store cross the square.”

Benton and Pat exchanged a glance and the corners of Benton’s mouth twitched, repressing a wry smile. Down the bar, Henry Oliver stretched and told Bill Fisher that he intended going over to Jesse Willmark’s Barber Shop for a haircut.

Benton heard him and nodded to himself. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I keep meanin’ to get a haircut myself. Missus Benton keeps askin’ me and it keeps slippin’ my mind.” He picked up his glass and emptied it.

“You want me to find out about Robby Coles?” Sutton asked abruptly. “You want me to check for you, Benton?”

Benton looked aside, patiently.

“Listen, kid,” he said quietly, “just leave it set, hear? Just forget it.”

Sutton looked down gloomily into his drink. “Just wanted to help you,” he said.

“Well, you gotta learn the difference between helpin’ and stickin’ your nose in where it don’t belong, kid,” Benton told him, without rancor.

Sutton’s expression was dully morose. “Didn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered.

Benton clapped the young man on the shoulder once with his broad palm. “Okay, kid, let’s forget it. No hard feelin’s.” He put his Stetson on, then dug into his Levi’s pocket for silver.

“Well, I have to drag it,” he said. “Lots o’ work to do.”

The three men at the bar were silent as Benton walked in long, unhurried strides for the doors. They were still silent as he went out. It was only after they heard the sound of his buckboard rolling away from the saloon hitching rack that they turned to each other and started talking.