The Gun Fight Read online

  Praise for The Gun Fight

  “He is legend Richard Matheson, and The Gun Fight is the kind of story that made it happen. Here is a deceptively simple premise—how a lie can kill—and an unforgettable character, ex-Ranger John Benton. Matheson makes everything work just as he did in Journal of the Gun Years, which won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America.”

  —Dale L. Walker, Rocky Mountain News

  “Matheson has crafted an engrossing account of the frequently deadly consequences of mistaking vanity for honor.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With the possible exception of the modern woman’s romance, Richard Matheson has conquered every category of fiction in our time. With The Gun Fight, he has marked the American Western in its newest and most important phase with his brand. Raw, rough, and real, the book resonates with the long, sure role of history.”

  —Loren D. Estleman

  “Written in the traditional Western style, this substantive story addresses several moral issues, and the rather illusive term ‘honor’ is made crystal clear. . . . An action-packed, suspenseful tale.”

  —School Library Journal

  “The Gun Fight is another Western triumph for Richard Matheson to add to his Spur-winning Journal of the Gun Years.”

  —Norman Zollinger

  “In just three days, gossip leaves a trail of wrecked lives, death, and life long remorse. By the author of Journal of the Gun Years, this is a superbly written suspense story with a moral.”

  —Library Journal

  “Richard Matheson packs The Gun Fight with enough real people, plot twists, and authentic Western color to make this the equal of his Spur-winning Journal of the Gun Years. This is a very, very good book.”

  —Ed Gorman

  “Any novel bearing the name Richard Matheson is going to be breathtakingly good. No one writes better.”

  —Richard S. Wheeler

  ALSO BY RICHARD MATHESON

  FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

  The Beardless Warriors

  Button, Button (The Box)

  Duel

  Earthbound

  Hell House

  Hunted Past Reason

  I Am Legend

  The Incredible Shrinking Man

  Journal of the Gun Years

  The Memoirs of Wild Bill Hickok

  Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

  Noir

  Now You See It . . .

  The Path: A New Look at Reality

  7 Steps to Midnight

  Somewhere in Time

  A Stir of Echoes

  What Dreams May Come

  The GUN

  FIGHT

  Richard

  Matheson

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE GUN FIGHT

  Copyright © 1993 by RXR, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-6228-5

  First Forge Edition: November 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  With much gratitude

  I dedicate this book to

  Gary Goldstein

  for giving me a new literary world to explore.

  Prologue

  He found them on the morning of the fifth day.

  It had been difficult to track them down. The range was oven-hot from sunup to sundown, the earth so bone dry and hard, it made hoof prints hard to spot. The heat had worn him down. His canteen was almost empty by the time he reached them, his body feeling seared and weak.

  The three men were asleep beside a narrow creek, sprawled exhaustedly on their blankets in the shade of a cottonwood tree. He could make out the form of Aaran Graham, the biggest of the three, a tall, bulky man lying on his right side. The other two were younger, slight of build, lying on their backs, Stetsons shading their eyes.

  Benton’s gaze shifted to their grounded saddles. All six saddlebags bulged with their contents; what the three men had robbed from the Millersview Bank last Thursday afternoon, leaving behind one dead and one badly wounded teller.

  Benton drew in a long, tired breath and dismounted slowly. He really was getting too old for this kind of thing. Julia had been on his back for months now. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to leave the Rangers and settle down. Still, what else did he know how to do?

  He slipped the carbine from its scabbard and started down a dusty slope toward the three motionless figures. He tried to be as quiet as he could but his boots scuffed unavoidably on the hard soil.

  He was glancing at the three staked horses when Aaran Graham jerked awake, twisting around, his half-asleep expression one of startled anger.

  “Wake up!” he shouted, grabbing for the holstered pistol lying on the ground beside him.

  “Don’t do it!” Benton ordered, snapping up the carbine barrel. He saw the two younger men sitting up groggily.

  Graham paid no attention, clutching at the handle of his Colt and starting to raise it.

  Benton’s shot hit him in the center of the chest, knocking him backward; he was dead before his body hit the ground.

  “Pa!” The cry of anguish made Benton’s gaze jump to the stricken face of one of the younger men.

  Before he could react further, the other young man had snatched up his pistol and fired. Benton grunted in surprise as the bullet struck the barrel of his carbine, knocking it from his grip and numbing his fingers.

  Training made him dive to his left, avoiding the young man’s second shot by less than an inch. As he fell, his right hand dropped to his pistol. It was free of his holster and being fired before the young man could get off another shot.

  The bullet slammed into the young man’s chest just above the heart and, with a cry of dazed pain, he stumbled back, eyes already glazed over by the death which took him seconds later.

  Benton scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the remaining young man who, he saw now, was more a boy than a man. He’d had no idea until moments ago that one of Graham’s men was his son.

  The boy was staring at his dead father, then at the other young man who Benton later learned was his older brother.

  Benton was never to forget the expression on the boy’s face. Stunned and horrified, his eyes wide with total disbelief. The look in the boy’s eyes was what Benson would remember most; the look of someone whose entire world had just been shattered.

  When the boy’s hand clawed down for his pistol, Benton stiffened with amazement. “Don’t!” he cried, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  Only habitual reflex kept him alive; an ingrained mechanism that made him fire without thought, hitting the boy in the stomach. He felt a bolt of shock that his aim had been so poor. It had been, he later realized, the measure of his utter dismay that the boy had attempted such a hopeless move.

  The boy had stumbled back and sat down heavily on the ground, a blank expression on his face now. He looked down curiously at his stomach, regarding the pump of blood from the bullet hole as though it were coming from someone else.

  The
n—Benton felt sick to his stomach when he heard it—the boy began to cry.

  “Pa,” he murmured. “Henry.” He repeated the names over and over, sobbing like a frightened child, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  Then, finally, before he fainted, he cried out, once, “It hurts!”

  Benton sank down on the ground, legs suddenly devoid of strength. He looked at Aaran Graham’s body. At the body of Henry Graham. Finally, at the thinly breathing form of Graham’s younger son; his name was Albert, Benton later discovered. He knew that even if he tried to get the boy back to Millersview, he’d be dead before they were halfway there.

  One week later, Benton brought the three bodies back to Millersview after remaining with Albert Graham for the two days it took him to die.

  The first thing he did when he got home was go up to the bedroom, open a chest at the foot of the bed, and dump in his pistol, holster, and belt.

  When his wife asked him why he’d done that, he told her that he was finished, that he would never wear a pistol as a weapon again.

  3:29 P.M., Millersview, Texas, August 13, 1871.

  The First Day

  Chapter One

  The chaparral bird was running a fierce race with the black roan as it pounded across the hard earth. The long legs of the bird flashed wildly in a swirl of alkali dust, ten yards ahead of the roan’s battering hooves.

  Off the wide trail, a jackrabbit bounded into the brush with great, erratic leaps. Awakened by the muffled thunder in the earth, a coiled rattlesnake writhed sluggishly and lifted its flat head, dead eyes searching.

  The tall roan galloped along the trail, its broad legs drawing high, then driving down quickly at the dust-clouded earth. The spur rowels of its young rider raked once across its heaving flanks and the thick weave of muscles underneath its hide drove it on still faster.

  Robby Coles paid no attention to the long-beaked roadrunner skittering its weaving path on the trail ahead. He rode close-seated, his knees clamped against the roan’s flanks, his booted feet braced forward and out against the stirrups. Beneath the broad brim of his Stetson, his dark eyes peered straight ahead at the out fences of the small ranch he approached.

  The driving hooves came too close and the chaparral bird lunged off the trail, racing into the brush. The roan thundered on, following the twists of the trail, a thin froth blowing from its muzzle. Spur rowels scratched again, the horse leaped forward obediently, past the tall and spiny-branched cholla cactus, galloping past the first fence line of the ranch.

  Now the rider’s eyes focused on the far-off cluster of buildings that comprised the ranch layout. His thin lips pressed together into a blood-pinched line and there was a strained movement in his throat. Was he there? The question drifted like smoke across his mind and he felt sweat dripping down beneath his shirt collar and realized, abruptly, how thirsty he was.

  Cold resolve forced itself into his eyes again and his slender hands tightened on the sweat-slick reins. He could feel the rhythmic pounding inside his body as the hooves of his roan pistoned against the hard earth. He could feel the arid bluntness of the wind buffeting across his cheeks and against his forehead; the abrasive rubbing of his legs against the horse’s flanks.

  There were other things he felt, too.

  As the hooves of his mount drummed along the trail, Robby Coles noticed, from the corners of his eyes, the aimless wandering of cattle beyond the fences. He swallowed hot air and coughed once as the dustiness tickled in his throat. The ranch was a half mile distant now. Robby Coles reached down nervously and touched the smooth walnut of his gun stock. He wondered if he should be wearing it.

  Merv Linken was coming out of the barn, carrying a pitchfork, when the big black roan came charging into the open area between the barn and the main house.

  At first, the horse headed for the main house. Then the rider saw Merv and pulled his mount around sharply. Merv stood watching as the roan cantered over and stopped before him, its flanks heaving, hot breath steaming from its nostrils.

  “Hello there, Robby,” Merv said, smiling up at the grim-faced young rider. “What brings you out in sech a rush?”

  Robby Coles drew in a quick breath and forced it out.

  “Benton here?” he asked breathlessly, his dark-eyed gaze drifting toward the main house.

  “No, he ain’t,” Merv said. “Matter o’ fact, he’s to town gettin’ supplies.”

  He saw how the skin tightened across Robby’s cheeks and how his mouth pressed suddenly into a line.

  “Guess you rode out fer nothin’,” Merv said, then shrugged. “Unless you want to set and wait.”

  “How long’s he been gone?” Robby’s voice sounded thin and disturbed above the shuddering pants of his roan. He drew out a bandanna and mopped at his face.

  “Oh . . . I reckon, since about eight,” Merv said. “Said he was—”

  He stopped talking abruptly as Robby jerked the horse around and kicked his spur rowels in. The sweat-flecked roan started forward, breaking into a hard gallop before it passed the bunk house.

  Merv Linken stood there a while, leaning on the pitchfork, watching Robby Coles ride away toward town. Then he shrugged and turned toward the house.

  Julia Benton came walking in quick strides across the yard, drying her hands. She was a tall woman, slender and softly curved, her hair a light blond.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Young Robby Coles,” Merv answered.

  “What did he want?”

  “Got no notion, ma’m,” Merv told her. “Just came in, tight-leggin’ and asked for the old man.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all, ma’m. Reckon he’s headed for Kellville to see Mr. Benton now.”

  They stood silent for a moment, watching from beneath the shading of their palms, the roan and its rider dwindle into the distance of the brush country.

  “He’s sure bakin’ that hoss,” Merv said. “Must be anxious to see yore husband.”

  Julia Benton stood motionless in the hot sunlight, a look of uneasy curiosity in her eyes. She watched until she couldn’t see the horse any longer.

  Then she went back to her dishes.

  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.”