“No!” he cried out and his head snapped to the side suddenly as Matthew Coles’ broad palm drove stunningly against his cheek. The room seemed to blacken for a moment and Robby stumbled back, clutching at his cheek with one hand, his eyes dumb with shock.
“Coward!” his father screamed at him. “Coward, coward, coward! My own son a coward!”
Matthew Coles lurched away toward the hall, his face a mask of near-mad rage. At the doorway, he twisted around.
“When I come back tonight I want you gone! Do you hear me, gone! I don’t want a coward in my house! I won’t have one! Do you understand!”
Robby stood there, shivering without control, staring with blank eyes at his father.
A moment more his father looked at him.
“Swine,” Matthew Coles said through clenched teeth. “Filthy little coward. You should have been a girl, a little girl cooking in the kitchen—hanging on your mother’s apron strings.”
Then Matthew Coles was gone in the hall and Robby heard the front door jerked open.
“By tonight!” he heard his father shout from there. “If you’re still in my house then, I’ll throw you out!”
The door slammed deafeningly, shaking the house. Robby slumped down on the couch and covered his face with shaking hands. Trying to fight off the deep sobs only made them worse. He couldn’t control anything. He sat there trembling helplessly, hearing his father gallop away outside, the sound of the gelding’s hooves drowning out the noise of the turning wheels.
Suddenly, Robby looked up and caught his breath. Jimmy was standing on the bottom step, looking at him. Robby felt himself grow rigid as he looked at his younger brother. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jimmy’s face and couldn’t help recognizing the look of withdrawal and disappointed shame there. He opened his mouth as if to speak but couldn’t. He didn’t even hear the back door shut.
He stood up nervously and walked on shaky legs to where the gunbelt was. Bending over, he picked it up and held it in his hand, seeing, from the corners of his eyes, that Jimmy was still there. It’s true—the words lanced at him—it’s true, I am a coward, I am!
That was when his mother came in.
She stopped for an instant in the hallway, her eyes on Jimmy. Then she looked into the sitting room. When she saw the dazed, hurt look on Robby’s face, she started toward him.
“Darling, what is it?” she asked, hurrying across the rug, her arms outstretched to him.
Robby stepped back. His mother rushing to embrace him, in his mind the lashing words of his father—You should have been a girl, a little girl cooking in the kitchen, hanging on your mother’s—
“Oh, my darling, what happened?”
It was the sound in her voice that did it; that sound of a mother speaking to her little boy who she never wants to grow up and be a man.
“No!” he said in a strangled voice, suddenly twisting away from her arms and running toward the hall, the gunbelt clutched in his cold hand.
“Robby!”
He didn’t answer. He saw the face of his younger brother rush by in a blur and then he was flying down the hall and into the kitchen, the frightened cries of his mother following him. He was on the porch, jumping down the steps and running into the stable where his horse was already saddled.
As he galloped out of the stable, his mother rushed out onto the porch, one thin arm raised, her eyes dumb with terror.
“No, Robby!” she screamed, all the agony of her life trembling in the words.
As he started down Armitas Street for the square, Robby began buckling on the gun.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Two fifteen. She stood in the leaden heat of the sun, shivering fitfully while she watched the shape of her husband dwindle away. She stayed there until he was gone from her sight. Then, slowly, with the tread of a very old and very tired woman, she walked back to the house.
She shuddered as she stepped into the relative coolness of the kitchen and her eyes moved slowly around the room as if she were searching for something.
In the middle of clearing the table, she suddenly pushed aside the stack of dishes and sank down heavily on a chair. She sat there, shivering still, feeling the waves of coldness run through her body. We’ll have to move now—the thought assailed her—we can’t possibly stay here with a murder on our conscience; we just can’t.
Her right forefinger traced a straggly and invisible pattern on the rough table top and her unblinking eyes watched the finger moving.
Suddenly, her head jerked up and she felt her heartbeat catch. A horse coming in.
Julia pushed up with a muttering sound of excitement in her throat. He was coming back; he wasn’t going into town! Her footsteps clicked rapidly across the kitchen floor and she jerked open the top half of the Dutch door.
It was like being drained of all her energy in an instant. Dumbly, she stood there, watching Merv Linken as he rode over to the bunk house, reined up, and dismounted. When he’d gone in, she turned away from the door slowly, unable to control the awful sinking in her stomach.
A moment later, she was running across the hard earth toward the bunk house, her blond hair fluttering across her temples.
Merv looked up in surprise as he bandaged his right wrist.
“Ma’m?” he asked.
She stood panting in the open doorway. “Will you hitch up the buckboard for me, Merv?” she asked breathlessly.
“Why . . . sure, Miz Benton,” he said.
“What, what happened to your wrist?” she asked vaguely.
“Snagged it on some barbed wire,” he said. “It’s nothin’.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Will . . . you do it for me right away, Merv?” she asked. “I have to get into—”
From the way the skin tightened over his leathery face, Julia realized suddenly that he knew.
“I just passed him,” Merv said grimly. “He didn’t say nothin’ to me. Nothin’ at all. Didn’t even look at me.”
Abruptly, he tore off the end of the clean rag he was bandaging his wrist with and started for the door without another question.
“I’ll have her ready for you in a jiffy,” he told her.
Ten minutes later, she was driving out of the ranch on the lurching, rattling buckboard, headed for Kellville.
For her husband.
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 sh
e 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.
Chapter Thirty-one
It was exactly twenty minutes to three when the Reverend Omar Bond came out of the white-steepled church on the way to his adjoining house and saw John Benton riding slowly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.
“Oh, Mister Benton,” he called, stepping out into the street.
Benton glanced over, then when he’d seen who it was, he tugged a little at the barbit, reining the bay to a slow halt. The Reverend Bond walked up to the horse, smiling up at Benton.
“Afternoon, Reverend,” Benton said to him.
“Good afternoon, Mister Benton,” Bond answered. “My apologies for stopping you. I just wanted to find out how things went yesterday.”
Benton looked down in surprise at the dark-suited man. “You don’t know?” he asked.
The smile faded. “Know?” the Reverend said, disturbedly.
“I’m to meet Robby Coles in the square at three o’clock,” Benton told him.
“Meet him,” Bond repeated blankly.
Then it struck him. “Oh, dear Lord, no!” he said in a shocked voice. “In one day?”
Benton didn’t say anything. He drew out his watch and looked at it, his expression unchanged.
“But it must be stopped,” Bond said.
Benton’s mouth tightened. “It’s no use talkin’ to anyone, Reverend,” he said. “Nobody wants to listen. They want what they want and that’s it.”
“Oh, no, Mister Benton,” Bond said, arguing desperately. “This meeting must not take place.”
“It’s too late, Reverend,” Benton said quietly. “There’s not much more than fifteen minutes left.”
“Dear God, it must be stopped,” said the Reverend in a tight, unaccepting voice. He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Benton. “Come with me to Louisa Harper’s home,” he asked. “She will surely confess when she hears that there is a life at stake.”
Benton looked restless. “Reverend,” he said, “I been all through this. Yesterday I came in like you asked. I tried to talk reason with these people. And this mornin’ both Julia and I came in. The girl’s aunt wouldn’t even let my wife in the house. Nobody would listen.”
“But surely they don’t realize—”
“Reverend, they do realize,” Benton said. “It doesn’t matter to them. They don’t care, they don’t want to believe I didn’t do what they said. They want blood, Reverend.” Benton’s lips tightened for a fraction of a second. “They’ll get blood,” he said.
“Oh, no . . . no.”
“I have to go, Reverend,” Benton said.
“The sheriff, then!”
“He’s out of town, Reverend. I’m sorry. I have to go now.”
“Is there no one?”
“No one, Reverend.”
“There is you, Mister Benton. I beg of you to reconsider.”
“Reverend, I have to be in the square by three o’clock,” Benton told him firmly. “I’m sorry.” The coldness left his voice then. “Believe me, I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t ask for this thing. I did everything I could to stop it, I swear to that. But—” his head shook slowly, “it’s no use.”
/> “I’ll go to Louisa,” Bond said quickly. “I’ll tell her. She must confess her lie!”
Benton said nothing but his gaze moved restlessly up St. Virgil Street toward the square.
“Mister Benton, can’t you hold this thing off? Can’t you prevent it from happening until I can reach the girl?”
Benton shifted in the saddle. “Reverend, they said three o’clock,” he said. “I’ll do what I can but . . .” He shrugged with a hopeless gesture.
“Then . . .” Bond looked carefully at the tall man, his mind a twisting rush of conflicts. “Mister Benton I . . . I know nothing of these things, nothing. But . . . well, you have a reputation for . . .” he struggled for the words, “. . . for accuracy and . . . and quickness with your . . . your weapon.”
Benton looked down expressionlessly at the churchman. “What do you mean?” he asked guardedly.
“I know this may be unreasonable but . . . isn’t it possible for you to—to merely wound young Coles? Even if you cannot avoid the meeting in time, couldn’t you end it without taking his life?”
Benton looked down with a tense expression.
“Reverend . . . you don’t know what you’re asking me.” He rubbed a hand across his sweat-streaked brow and wiped it on his Levi’s. “Beggin’ your pardon but . . . well, you just don’t know what a gunslingin’ is like. It’s not somethin’ that . . . that lasts. It’s not somethin’ you can play with. It happens too fast, Reverend, too damn fast.”
Bond stood there, looking up blankly at the worried face of John Benton.
“And . . . well, besides that,” Benton said grudgingly, as if he felt he must be understood, “I’ve been away from it a long time. I haven’t drawn a gun on anybody in more than eight years—and gunslingin’ is somethin’ you have to keep up with or you lose the touch.”
He gritted his teeth, seeing that he wasn’t getting across to Bond.
“How do I know how fast Robby is?” he asked. “What if I go into this meanin’ to crease him and then he outdraws me before I even get the chance?”
“But, surely . . .”
The Gun Fight Page 17