The Gun Fight Read online

  “Couldn’t say,” the customer muttered.

  “Look, ya remember the time—’bout a year or so ago, I guess it was—when they was gettin’ up a posse to chase Tom Labine? You remember that?” Jesse asked, setting up his coup de grace.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I’ll tell you what about it,” Jesse broke in intently. “They asked Benton t’help them. Sheriff Wilks don’t know a dang thing about trailin’ or ’bout anythin’ for that matter. So they asked Mister John Benton t’help them out. You think he would? The hell he would! Can’t do it, he says, cut me out. Why? Why wouldn’t he help out his neighbors?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to,” the customer suggested.

  “Hell, man,” Jesse said, “I’ll tell ya why he wouldn’t do it.” He raked the razor across the man’s soap-stubbled cheek with a practiced gesture. “He was yella, that’s why. He didn’t have the guts to ride another posse. His nerves is gone and that’s a fact.”

  “Could be,” the customer said.

  Jesse wiped the beard-flecked lather off his razor. He rubbed his pudgy fingers over the customer’s cheek, rubbing in the warm soap.

  “I’ll tell ya somethin’ else,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It happens to all o’ them. I don’t know how—or why—but one day—” he snapped his fingers, “like that—they’re yella.”

  He started shaving again. “They go on year after year shootin’ ’em down like sittin’ ducks,” he said, “then, one day—bang—they turn yella; they get scared o’ their own shadda. It’s nerves what it is. Ain’t no man alive can go on like that year after year without losin’ his nerve.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “And that’s what happened to Benton,” he said. “Mind, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ away from the man. He was a big lawman in his day, brave as they come, quick on the draw. Course he never was as big as they painted him but—” he shrugged, “—he was a good lawman. But that don’t mean he can’t turn yella. That don’t mean he didn’t. He did—and that’s a fact.”

  He shaved away beard from the customer’s throat.

  “Hard to say,” the customer said, looking at the paint-flaked ceiling.

  “All right,” Jesse said, wiping off the razor edge again. “If he’s still brave as he was, why don’t he wear a gun, answer me that?”

  The customer said he didn’t know.

  “Because he’s scared to pack one!” Jesse exclaimed as if it were a great truth he had to convey. “No man goes around without a gun less’n he’s too scared to use it. Ain’t that true?”

  The customer shrugged. “It’s a point,” he conceded.

  “Sure as hell is a point!” Jesse said. “Benton don’t pack no gun ’cause he’s scared to back hisself up with hot lead.”

  The customer grunted, then sat up as Jesse adjusted the head rest.

  “Then to go and do what he done,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Him a married man and all.”

  The customer could see the front door in the mirror.

  “Jesse,” he said, softly.

  “I’ll tell ya, it sure surprised the hell outta me,” Jesse said, stropping the razor. “It’s a bad thing when a man starts goin’ down.”

  “Jesse.” A warning; but too soft. The customer sat stiffly in the chair, trying not to look at the mirror.

  “Specially a man like Benton,” said Jesse. “Him bein’ such a big lawdog and all. First he yellas out, then he starts playin’ around with—”

  “Jesse.”

  Jesse broke off and looked at the customer. “What is—?” he started to ask, then saw how the man was looking into the mirror. His throat tightened abruptly as he glanced up and saw the reflection of John Benton, tall and grim-faced, standing in the doorway.

  Jesse didn’t dare turn. He stood there, staring helplessly into the mirror, his throat moving as he tried to swallow fear.

  “I’d keep my mouth shut unless I knew what I was talkin’ about,” Benton said coldly.

  Then he turned and was gone and a white-faced Jesse whirled to exclaim, “Honest, Mister Benton, I didn’t—!”

  But Benton was gone. Jesse hurried to the doorway, razor in shaking hand, and watched Benton mount his horse.

  Then he turned back hurriedly to his customer, a look of uncontrollable dread on his face.

  “Jesus,” he said, hollowly. “You don’t think he’ll do anything to me, do you?”

  The customer looked blandly at the slack-faced barber in the mirror.

  “You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?” Jesse asked, getting weaker. “Do you?”

  The barest suggestion of a smile. “How can he?” the customer asked. “He’s yella.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  David James O’Hara could be a very impressive young bully when he tried. His face was lean and hard beneath a short crop of reddish hair. He moved with a catlike swiftness, swaggered convincingly, swore and gambled, wore a Colt .44 low on his hip, thonged to his leg, and spoke deprecatingly of every gunman who ever rode within a hundred miles of Kellville.

  There had been a few shootings in the little town but, somehow, Dave O’Hara was never around when they occurred. He was twenty-three years old and still believed in his own courage because it had never been tried. The one man who had challenged O’Hara had left town without fighting and thus strongly increased O’Hara’s opinion of himself.

  It was about two-thirty in the afternoon. O’Hara was sitting at a back table in the Zorilla talking to Joe Sutton who was losing at cards and arguing.

  “You kiddin’, Sutton?” O’Hara said, putting down his card with a slap. “He’s cold-footed. If he ain’t scared o’ Robby, why don’t he wear a gun?”

  Sutton swallowed. “Well, why don’t he?” O’Hara challenged.

  “He wouldn’t say,” Sutton answered.

  “Y’mean you asked him?” O’Hara looked up in surprise from his hand.

  “Yeah,” said Joe Sutton, “I ast him yestiday mornin’ but—”

  “But he wouldn’t tell ya,” O’Hara finished. “Course he wouldn’t tell ya. Think a man’s gonna come right out and admit he’s yella? Play your card.”

  Sutton licked his lips and looked worriedly at his hand, deeply troubled by the impending crumble of faith.

  “Well, you should’ve seen him,” he said then, looking up. “You should’ve seen him do the border roll and . . . and the shift. You know, tossin’ his iron from one hand to the other. It was so fast I couldn’t hardly see it.” He swallowed at O’Hara’s unresponsive stare. “That’s how fast it was,” he repeated weakly.

  “So what does that mean?” O’Hara asked. “Anybody can do tricks with a gun when they’s no one facin’ ’em. I’d like t’see him do gun tricks with another guy throwin’ down on him.”

  Sutton swallowed. “Well . . .” he said but that was all. He swallowed again and played the wrong card.

  “Him and that cocklebur outfit o’ his,” O’Hara muttered. “He’s no better’n a sheep herder.” His fingers tightened on the dog-eared cards. “Livin’ on his repitation, that’s what he’s tryin’ t’do. Thinks he can play around with any girl he wants cause he has a repitation. Well, Robby’ll show ’im.”

  Joe Sutton shook his head. “Y’think he’ll really go after Benton?” he asked.

  O’Hara pointed a finger at Sutton. “You bet ya damn life he will,” he said. “Then we’ll see how good ol’ law-dog Benton is. Bet he won’t even put on a gun!”

  “What else could he do?” Sutton asked, faintly.

  “Hide, most likely,” O’Hara said. “Hide on his ranch like a yella hound.”

  Sutton looked pained. Then he looked up and said, “Uh-oh. Watch out.”

  O’Hara looked toward the doors which were just swinging shut behind John Benton’s tall form.

  “Whataya mean, watch out?” he said, a little more loudly than he’d intended. “I ain’t afraid o’ him.”

  Benton glanced toward them, then walked to
the bar, his face hard with anger.

  “Pat,” he greeted the bartender flatly as the older man came up to him.

  “The usual, Mister Benton?”

  “Yeah.”

  Benton could hear the voice of O’Hara in back saying something about a shirt-tail outfit as he watched the amber whiskey being poured.

  “What’s goin’ on around here, Pat?” he asked then, looking up.

  “You mean about Robby and—”

  “Yeah. What the hell’s the matter with everybody? One day and it seems like half the town’s out to get me.”

  “Well, now,” Pat said casually, “little folks always like to try’n topple the big ones, it seems. It’s human nature.”

  Benton smiled ruefully. “I’m just a little feller, Pat,” he said. “No reason for anyone to—”

  Abruptly, he stopped talking and glanced again toward the back table, hearing the words cold-footed spoken loudly. He squinted a little at the young man sitting in the shadows. He saw young Joe Sutton’s face twitch in the repression of a smile, then he looked back at the bar. He picked up the glass and took a swallow.

  “Who’s that in the black shirt?” he asked, quietly.

  “Dave O’Hara,” Pat told him.

  “Don’t know him.” Benton drank some more.

  “Local loudmouth,” Pat said. “He don’t amount to nothin’.”

  Benton grunted, then put down his glass. “Pat?” he said.

  “What’s that, Mister Benton?”

  Benton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s happening around here, Pat? What’s the latest on this . . .” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “. . . this thing?”

  Pat made a sound of wry amusement. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

  Benton thought about the last half hour he’d spent. He thought about Miss Agatha Winston, Mr. Matthew Coles, Jesse Willmark.

  “I’d believe it,” he said.

  “More?” Pat asked and Benton nodded, pushing the glass forward.

  Pat looked up from the bottle. “The talk is,” he said, “that Robby Coles is gonna come after ya.”

  Benton looked at him blankly. “Yeah?” he said as if he expected clarification. Then, suddenly, his mouth opened. “You don’t—” He put down the glass. “You don’t mean with a gun?” he asked, incredulously.

  Pat shrugged. “That’s the talk,” he said.

  Benton started to say something, then stopped and stared at Pat.

  “That’s crazy,” he said then. “He’s fryin’ size, for God’s sake!”

  Pat said nothing. In the silence, they heard O’Hara say, “Come on, let’s belly up,” and then the scraping back of chair legs and the irregular thump of two pairs of boots across the saloon floor. Benton paid no attention. He kept staring at Pat, his expression still one of disbelief.

  “My God,” he murmured. “I never thought for a minute that . . .” Slowly, he shook his head. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “Would . . . would he be fool enough to do that?”

  Pat shrugged again. “Couldn’t say, Mister Benton,” he said. “But if enough people push him . . .” He didn’t finish but moved up the bar to where O’Hara and Sutton stood.

  “So that’s what his old man meant,” Benton murmured to himself, remembering Matthew Coles’ words. “My God, I never . . .”

  He fingered at the glass restlessly, his face a mask of worried concentration reflected back to him in the big mirror. He shook his head concernedly.

  He didn’t hear the deprecating chuckle that O’Hara made. The first thing he did hear vaguely was something that sounded like, “What’re ya scared of? He ain’t got no gun on.” But he wasn’t sure that’s what it was as he glanced down the bar at the two young men. John Benton wasn’t used to having people discuss him slightingly when he was around and he couldn’t quite believe that such a thing was happening now.

  He saw the movement of Sutton’s throat and how he stared into his drink suddenly. Then the insulting blue eyes of O’Hara met Benton’s. Benton looked back to his drink immediately. There were enough things to worry about already. He took a deep breath and drank some of the whiskey. It threaded its hot way down his throat. Good God, what now? Bond was right, the thing was serious. But how did it get that way so quick? Everybody must really believe that he spoke to Louisa Harper. My God, what did they think he said to her? The barber talked about “playing around”; is that what they thought he was trying to do with the Harper girl?

  Benton’s broad chest rose quickly as he drew in a worried breath. It was bad, it was really bad. This was the first time anything even remotely like it had happened in his—

  The chuckling again; unmistakable. Benton heard the words cold-footed again, obviously spoken, and something jerked in his stomach muscles. He looked over quickly and saw O’Hara looking at him again. Benton felt the muscles drawing in along his arms, the rising flutter of pulse beat in his wrists. Without a sound, he put down his glass, drew his boot from the rail, and started walking along the bar.

  Sutton stepped back as he approached. A failing smile faltered on the young man’s lips as he watched Benton with his dark, intent eyes.

  Benton stopped a few feet from O’Hara, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  “You got somethin’ to say to me?” he asked, quietly.

  A look of instinctive fear paled O’Hara’s face. He pushed it away and forced back his habitual expression of arrogant assurance. But, when he spoke, the slight trembling of his voice belied the look.

  “No,” he said. “I ain’t got nothin’ t’say to you.”

  Benton’s mouth tightened a little.

  “If you do,” he said, “say it to me, not to your friend here.”

  Sutton opened his mouth as if to assure Benton that O’Hara wasn’t his friend but he said nothing.

  “If I got anything to say, I’ll say it,” O’Hara replied trying to look belligerent.

  “Good,” Benton said. “That’s fine.”

  Then he saw the slight dipping of O’Hara’s gaze.

  “No, I don’t have a gun on,” he said abruptly. “But don’t let that bother you.” He could feel the anger rising inside him like a fire, creeping along his arteries and veins. His temper was going; he was getting sick and tired of people looking to see if he was armed before they said what they really meant.

  “I don’t talk to no one who—” O’Hara hesitated momentarily, looking for words a little less insulting, “who don’t wear no gun,” he finished, realizing then that he couldn’t afford to hesitate.

  “Listen, flannel-mouth,” Benton said, “I’ve had about enough from—”

  “Don’t call me that!” O’Hara flared up impulsively, his voice rising shrilly. “God damn it, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what!” Benton snapped in a sudden burst of rage. “What!”

  O’Hara hesitated a split second, then lunged down for his pistol. Benton’s arm shot out.

  “Hold it!”

  They both twitched into immobility and looked across the bar to where Pat had a big army pistol aimed at O’Hara’s chest.

  “Put it away, boy,” Pat ordered. “Would ya draw on an un-armed man?”

  The look of sudden surprise on O’Hara’s face was changed to one of frustrated rage.

  “Sure!” he said, loudly. “Sure! Get a bardog to save ya! You’re too yella t’save yourself!”

  His voice shook thinly as he raged and, hearing it, the tension seemed to drain off inside Benton. For a moment, he looked at O’Hara without expression. Then a thin smile relaxed his mouth, a brief chuckle sounded in his chest.

  “If you ever see me with a gun on,” he said, amusedly, “you just say that again.”

  “I’ll never see ya with a gun on!” O’Hara went on, furious at the lost advantage. “You ain’t got the guts t’put a gun on!”

  Benton turned away casually.

  “Robby Coles’ll kill ya!” O’Hara said loudly. “He’ll kill ya, Benton!�
��

  Benton turned back quickly, face tight. “Shut your mouth, boy,” he said in quiet menace, “or, by God, I’ll belt on a gun right now; is that what you want?”

  O’Hara had the self-preserving sense to glare speechlessly at Benton until the tall man had turned away. Joe Sutton watched Benton walk back to where his glass was.

  “Thanks Pat,” Benton said quietly. “He might’ve killed me.”

  “He might’ve at that,” Pat said, pouring.

  Benton threw down the new drink. “Well, I’m goin’ back to the ranch,” he said clearly. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “What about . . . ?” Pat didn’t finish.

  “Who, Robby?” Benton shrugged and made a disgusted sound. “The hell with it,” he said quietly. “I’ve done all I’m goin’ to do for one day. I’ll just stay on my spread till the damn thing blows over. One thing sure.” He put down the glass with a gesture of finality. “Robby’s not goin’ to come after me with a gun. You know that.”

  Pat said no more but he looked dubious.

  When the swinging doors had shut behind Benton, O’Hara looked up.

  “Lucky for him he’s got a bardog watchin’ over him.”

  “Lucky for you, too,” Pat told him.

  “But he said—” Joe Sutton started.

  “Sure,” O’Hara said, bitterly. “Sure, he said he’d belt on a gun. What gun? Did he have one with him? Was he gonna make one outta the air?”

  “Oh, shut up, O’Hara,” Pat said casually and the young man glared at him, tight mouth trembling.

  Sutton looked into his foamy beer. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to believe O’Hara, he wanted to believe that Benton wasn’t afraid of anything. And yet O’Hara was right, Benton didn’t have a gun and it was easy to talk when you had nothing to force you to back yourself up with. And, besides, Benton said he was going back to the ranch. If Robby Coles was out to get him, why did Benton go back to his ranch? And why didn’t he wear a gun?

  Joe Sutton shook his very young head. He didn’t understand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Late afternoon. Miss Agatha Winston stalked again, a clicking of dark heels, a snapping rustle of skirt. But where the previous day it had been Davis Street, today it was Armitas. Where the previous day she had been headed, stiff-legged and shocked, for the house of her sister, this day she was, infuriated and vengeance-bound, headed for the house of Matthew Coles. She was still in black, however, she still carried, in one gaunt-handed grip, her black umbrella and, in her eyes, there still burned the fire of inflexible outrage.