The Gun Fight

by Richard Matheson

  Finding a fence section that needed repairs, Benton would ease himself off the bay and ground the open reins. Socks would then remain in place without being tied while his master worked. The work completed, Benton would take hold of the reins and raise the stiffness of his batwing chaps over the saddle.

  “Come on, churnhead,” he would say softly and the bay would start along the line again.

  Benton’s horse was one of the two cutting horses in the ranch’s small remuda, a bridle-wise gelding that Benton had spent over a year in training. Cutting was a ticklish and difficult job, the most exacting duty any horse could be called upon to perform. It demanded of the mount an apex of physical and mental control plus a calm dispatch that would not panic the animal being cut from the herd. A cutting horse had to spin and turn as quickly as the cow, always edging the reluctant animal away from the herd without frightening it. This twisting and turning entailed much good riding too and, although Benton had ridden since he was eight, the process of sitting a cutting horse had taken all the ability he had.

  Benton knew he rode Socks on jobs that any ordinary cow horse could manage. But he was extremely fond of the bay and never demanded a great deal of it outside of its cutting duties. Riding fence was no effort for the bay. It enjoyed the ambling walk with its master in the warm, sunlight-brimming air. Benton would pat the bay’s neck as they rode.

  “Hammerhead,” he’d tell the horse, “someday we’ll all be rich and ride to town in low-necked clothes and have thirty hands workin’ for us.”

  The bay would snort its reply and Benton would pat it again and say, “You’re all right, fuzz tail.”

  When Benton rode the range, he wore a converted Colt-Walker .44 at his left side, butt forward. Sometimes it seemed as if it even worried Julia for him to wear a gun around the ranch.

  “Honey, you want a snake to kill me?” he’d say with a grin.

  “I don’t want any thing to kill you,” she’d answer grimly. “Or any body.”

  That day, while riding fence, Benton reached across his waist and drew out the pistol with an easy movement. He held it loosely in his hand and looked at its smooth metal finish, the notches of the cylinder, the curved trigger in its heavy guard.

  He often found himself looking at the Colt; it was the only thing he had that really reminded him of the old days. He’d killed nine men with this pistol in the line of Ranger duty. There was Jack Kramer in Trinity City, Max Foster outside of Comanche, Rebel Dean, Johnny Ostrock, Bob Melton, Sam and Barney Dobie, Aaran Graham’s two sons; nine men lying in their graves because of the mechanism in this four-pound piece of apparatus.

  Benton hefted the pistol in his palm, wondering if he missed the old days, wondering if violence had become a part of him. He slipped his finger into the guard and spun the pistol around backward and forward in the old way, then shoved it back into its holster with a quick, blurred movement of his hand. Miss it, hell. He was alive, he had a good little layout, a wonderful wife; one day there would be children—that was enough for any man.

  He was grateful the percentages had passed over him. By Ranger standards he had outlived himself at least five times. Another month in the service, another year maybe and he would have died like the others, like the many others. As horrible as it had been, the incident with Graham and his sons had spared him that.

  Benton threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath of the clean air. Life, he thought, that’s what counts; killing is for animals.

  He found the trapped calf near the spring. It was stuck under the fence where it had tried to wriggle through a gap caused by water erosion. Benton could hear the loud quaver of its bawling a half mile away. He nudged his flower rowels across the bay’s flanks and the horse broke into an easy trot down the trail.

  The calf looked up at Benton’s approach, its big, dark eyes wild with fright. Its back hooves kicked futilely at the earth, spraying dirt over the long grass.

  Benton jumped down from the bay, grounded the reins, and started for the calf, a grin on his face.

  “Hello, you old acorn,” he said. “Runnin’ off to the city again?”

  The calf bawled loudly and kicked again at the scoured ground.

  “All right, little girl,” Benton said, drawing on the gloves he’d pulled from his back Levi’s pocket, “take it easy now. Poppa will get you out.”

  He hunkered down beside the fence and the calf complained loudly as Benton grabbed the wire that held it pinned down, the sharp barbs embedded deeply in its skin and flesh.

  “Easy now, deacon,” Benton spoke soothingly as he tried to draw out the barbs so he could raise the taut wire. He grimaced slightly as the calf squalled loudly, blood oozing across its spotted back. “Ea-sy now, little girl, we’ll get you out in no time.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the bay was moving across the range, leading the roped yearling. Benton glanced back and grinned at the tugging calf.

  “Gotta get your wounds fixed, runty,” he told the yearling, then turned back with a shake of his head. The calf’s mother had died the previous winter and the calf had been more trouble than it was worth since then, having to be fed because water and grass were still too heavy a fare for its young stomach and, invariably, wandering from the herd and getting lost.

  “We’re goin’ to sell you for boot leather, acorn,” Benton said lightly, not even looking back. “That’s what we’re goin’ to sell you for.”

  The calf dragged along behind, sulky and complaining.

  Back at the ranch, Benton led the calf into the barn and salved up its back, then turned it loose in the corral.

  The rig was standing in front of the house as he walked toward it. It looked familiar but he wasn’t sure where he’d seen it before. He moved in long strides across the yard and went into the kitchen. He was getting a drink of cool water from the dipper when Julia came in.

  “Who’s visitin’?” he asked.

  “The Reverend Bond,” she said.

  “Oh? What’s he want?”

  “He came to see you.”

  Benton looked at Julia curiously. “What for?” he asked.

  Julia shook her head once. “He won’t tell me,” she said. “But I think I know.”

  “What?”

  Julia turned to the stove. “Well, from the way he avoided the subject, I’d say that story.”

  “What story?”

  “About Louisa Harper and you.”

  A look of disgust crossed Benton’s face. “Oh, no,” he said in a pained voice. “More?”

  He shook his head and groaned softly to himself as he took off the bull-hide chaps and tossed them on a chair by the door. “Oh . . . blast,” he said. “What’s goin’ on in town anyway?”

  At the door, he turned to her. “Aren’t you comin’ in?” he asked.

  “You think I should?” she asked. “The Reverend doesn’t seem to think it’s anything for me to hear.”

  He came back to her, his brow lined with curious surprise. “What is it?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re startin’ to believe this thing?”

  Julia swallowed nervously. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”

  He hooked his arm in hers. “Come on, ma,” he said amusedly. “In we go.”

  In the hallway, he pinched her and she whispered, “Stop that!” But the tenseness was gone from her face.

  As they entered the small sitting room, the Reverend Omar Bond stood up and extended his hand to Benton with a smile.

  “Mr. Benton,” he said.

  “Reverend.” Benton nodded. “Excuse the hand. I been out ridin’.”

  Bond smiled. “Not at all,” he said.

  “Sit down, Reverend,” Benton said, putting Julia on a chair. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, sir,” the Reverend Bond said, “I think that . . .” He hesitated and glanced at Julia.

  “That’s all right, Reverend,” Benton said, smiling guardedly. “My wife knows all about it. Who’s been tellin’ you s
tories now? Louisa Harper?”

  The Reverend Bond looked at Benton, mouth slightly agape. Then a sudden look of relief came over his face and he beamed at both of them.

  “I’m so glad,” he said quickly. “I didn’t believe the story at all and yet . . .” He clucked and shook his head sadly. “Once the poison is put in one’s mind, one is hard put to find the adequate antidote of reason.”

  Benton glanced at his wife. “I know,” he said, trying not to smile. “That old suspicious poison.”

  He sat down on the arm of the chair. “All right now,” he said seriously, “who told you this story, Reverend? Robby Coles?”

  “No, as a matter of fact it was Louisa’s aunt, Miss Agatha Winston,” Bond said. “And . . .” he gestured with his hand, “I might add, were this not a situation of such potential gravity, I would not, for a moment, betray a confidence. You understand.”

  “It’ll go no further than this room,” Benton said. His mouth hardened. “I wish I could say the same for this damned story.”

  “John,” his wife said quietly. He glanced down at her, then up at the Reverend with a rueful smile. “Pardon,” he said, then became absorbed in thought. “Agatha Winston,” he mused. “Do I know her?”

  “She owns the ladies’ clothes shop in town, doesn’t she?” Julia asked.

  “That’s correct.” The Reverend Bond nodded. “She came to my house last night and told me that . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat embarrassedly.

  “It’s quite all right, Reverend,” Julia told him.

  “Thank you,” Bond replied. “To be terribly blunt then, Miss Winston said that your husband tried to arrange for an immoral meeting with her niece. Again,” he added quickly, “I would not say such a thing in your presence were I not convinced that the story is untrue.”

  When Bond had repeated what Agatha Winston had told him, Benton’s right hand closed angrily in his lap and his face grew suddenly taut. He sat there stone-faced until Bond had finished talking, then he said in a flat, toneless voice, “And did she say who told her this story?”

  Bond nodded his head. “Yes,” he answered, “she said that her niece, Louisa, told her. Or, rather, that she had heard the gossip in town and then checked with Louisa to verify the story.”

  “And Louisa said it was true,” Benton said disgustedly.

  Bond gestured with his hands and looked helpless. “That is what she said,” he admitted.

  Benton exhaled heavily. “Well, it’s not true,” he said. His eyes raised to Bond’s. “Do I have to tell you it’s not true?”

  “I would like you to,” Bond replied, meeting Benton’s gaze steadily.

  Benton’s mouth tightened. “It is not true,” he said slowly and Julia put her hand on his with an abrupt movement.

  Bond’s lips raised in a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t that I believed you were guilty. It was just that . . . well, I felt that the situation called for such a definite statement.” He leaned forward. “Very well,” he said, “we’ll say no more of that. What’s important now is ending this gossip before it does any more harm. I . . . understand there was some physical conflict yesterday.”

  Benton nodded then, briefly, told the Reverend about how Robby Coles had come into the Zorilla and started a fight.

  “And this was the first you heard of the matter,” Bond said.

  “That’s right,” said Benton. “The first.”

  “I see.” Bond nodded as he spoke. “I . . . imagine, then, that it all began with Louisa telling Robby that . . . telling him what she did tell him,” he finished hastily.

  “But why?” Benton asked, irritably baffled. “Does it make any sense?”

  Julia smiled a little at the Reverend Bond and he repressed an answering smile. “He really doesn’t know,” Julia said.

  Omar Bond nodded slowly. “I believe it,” he said. “Yes, I believe that firmly. Your husband is not the sort of man who indulges himself in false modesty.”

  “Know what?” Benton asked. “What are you two talking about?”

  “What I said to you yesterday, John,” Julia said. “Louisa Harper is in love with you.”

  Benton looked pained again. “Oh . . . come on, Julia,” he said.

  “I think the assumption is justified,” said the Reverend. “You see, Mister Benton, you represent something to the young people of this town. In . . . all honesty,” he went on reluctantly, “I must admit that I’m not sure what you represent to them is a . . . healthy thing. Needless to say, I do not, for a moment, think that you still are what they conceive you to be. No, I—”

  “What’s that, Reverend?” Benton interrupted. “What do they think I am?”

  Bond looked embarrassed. “A . . . fearless . . . and a very dangerous man,” he faltered. “Mind you, I’m only assuming now. But I think that . . . well, they regard your skill with a gun as one of paramount achievement.”

  “But I don’t wear a gun in town,” Benton said stiffly. “They’ve never even seen me with a gun on.”

  “They’ve never seen John Hardin either,” Bond countered, “but they know what he’s done.”

  The Reverend’s face grew sadly reflective. “It was people like this who . . . lined the roads for miles when John Hardin was taken to prison. People who waited for just one momentary glimpse of a man who had killed others with guns.” Bond shook his head grimly. “It makes no sense—to me, at any rate—but it is so, let us admit it freely; now. Your reputation as a Texas Ranger is immense, Mister Benton. It caused a, perhaps, foolish young girl to become enamored of what she conceived you to be. It caused her, in a moment of . . .” he gestured searchingly with his hands, “. . . shall we say, a moment of unthinking delusion, to pretend out loud; unhappily, to pretend in the presence of her intended husband. Perhaps she meant nothing by it; I’m sure she didn’t. It was a girlish whim, I imagine, perhaps done to make her intended husband jealous of someone—anyone. Young girls are . . . often misled by their feelings.”

  Bond leaned back, hands clasped in his lap.

  “And I believe it was your reputation—exaggerated as it may be—that caused this event. Believe me, sir, I’m not accusing you of anything but . . . perhaps this is, in some measure, an unfortunate result of the life you formerly led.”

  “Reverend, is that . . . well, fair?” Julia asked. “My husband worked for law, for order. If he killed, it was not for the sake of killing; it was because it was his job.”

  “My dear lady,” said Bond warmly, “I would not, for a moment, accuse your husband of being anything that he is not. That he, voluntarily, chose to put aside violence and live as a peaceful citizen, speaks wonderfully for his character. It is just that . . . well, I must repeat, I fear, were it not for the past events of Mister Benton’s life, this situation would not have occurred.”

  “Well, this is getting us nowhere,” Benton said, gruffly. “All right, maybe this Harper girl made up the story. But you said her aunt checked with her. Why didn’t the Harper girl tell the truth then?”

  Bond smiled gently. “You are not acquainted with her aunt, Mister Benton. Miss Winston, though, I cannot deny, a loyal Christian, often shows in her dealings with others more hasty righ teousness than understanding. And her niece is very sensitive, very retiring. Cornered . . . frightened, perhaps, she would hardly have confessed that she . . . pretended, shall we say. You can understand that.”

  “I can understand it,” Julia said. “John, you mustn’t be angry with her. I’m sure she’s more frightened than anything else with the gossip she’s started.”

  “Well, that doesn’t do me any good,” Benton said. “If she doesn’t stop the gossip, who can?”

  “Perhaps you can,” Bond answered.

  Benton looked surprised. “How?” he asked.

  “I would think that if you rode in to Kellville and spoke to Louisa Harper, spoke to her mother, perhaps to her aunt—the situation might be settled.”

  Benton looked trapped
. “But . . . what good would that do?” he asked. “They seem to have their minds made up already.”

  “I can think of nothing more direct,” Bond said. “If you wish, I could come along as . . . oh, say a middle party to ease tension.”

  “Reverend, I have a lot of work to do around here,” Benton said, his voice rising a little. “I can’t go ridin’ off to town just like that. This is a small layout; I only have three hands beside myself and that’s spreadin’ out the labor pretty thin.”

  “I appreciate that,” Bond said, nodding. “But . . . well, this situation could become quite bad. Believe me, I’ve seen such things happen before. I mean quite bad.”

  Julia looked up at her husband, her face drawn worriedly. “John,” she said, “I think you should.”

  Benton twisted his shoulders irritably. “But, honey—” He broke off then and exhaled quickly. “All right,” he said, “I’ll ride in tomorrow and . . . see what I can do.”

  Bond looked embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “I would think that—”

  “Reverend, this place is creepin’ with work that needs to be done! I just can’t do it today!”

  “John.”

  Benton looked aside at his wife, his face angrily taut. Then another thin breath fell from his nostrils.

  “All right,” he said disgustedly, “I’ll go in this afternoon. But . . .” He didn’t finish but only shook his head sadly.

  “I don’t think it will take long,” Bond told him. “Would, uh, you like me to come with you and . . .”

  “No, I’ll handle it,” Benton said. He managed a brief smile at the Reverend. “I’m thankin’ you, Reverend,” he said, “but . . . I think I can handle it myself.”

  Bond smiled. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. I think it will all work out splendidly.” He stood up. “Well, I . . . really must be getting back to town now.”

  “Oh, can’t you stay for dinner?” Julia asked. “It’s almost time.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Bond said, gratefully. “I do thank you, Mrs. Benton, but . . . well.” He sighed. “My . . . ranch, too, is overrun with work that needs to be done.”