The Gun Fight

by Richard Matheson

  “Offhand, I should say the qualifications for membership in the church,” said the Reverend Bond with a weary shake of his head.

  Chapter Nine

  The hooves of the black roan thudded slowly down the long darkness of Armitas Street, headed for the square. Robby Coles sat slumped in the saddle, his rein-holding hands clasped loosely over the horn. He was staring ahead bleakly, between the bobbing ears of his mount, watching the dark street jog toward him, then disappear beneath the legs of the roan. His lips were pressed together; his entire face reflected the tense nervousness he felt.

  When supper had ended, he’d grabbed his hat and gunbelt and started for the door, not wanting to listen to his father anymore.

  “Where are you going?” Matthew Coles had asked.

  “For a ride,” he’d answered.

  “You’d better not,” his father said, “you might run into John Benton and then you’d have to come running home and hide in the closet.”

  Robby didn’t say anything. He just jerked open the door and went out, seeing from the corners of his eyes his mother looking at him, one frail hand at her breast.

  Then, halfway to the stable, Robby heard the back door open and shut quickly.

  “Son,” his father called.

  Robby didn’t want to stay. He felt like jumping on his horse and galloping out the alleyway before his father could say another word. But open defiance was not in him; he might flare up now and then under provocation but, inevitably, he obeyed his father. He was twenty-one and, supposedly, his own man; but those twenty-one years of rigid training still kept him bound.

  He stood there silently, buckling on his gun belt as his father’s boots came crunching over the hard ground of the yard. He felt Matthew Coles’ hand close over his shoulder.

  “Son, I didn’t mean to rile you,” Matthew Coles said, his voice no longer hard. “It’s been a hard day and I’m out of sorts. You can understand that, son.”

  Robby could feel himself drawing back. Whenever his father called him son . . .

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I . . . understand.”

  “I didn’t intend to blow up at the table like that,” Matthew Coles went on. “I believe a family meal should be eaten in peace.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robby said, thinking of the countless meals that had degenerated into stomach-wrenching agonies because of his father’s temper.

  “It’s just that . . . well.” His father gestured with his free hand. “Just that you’re my son and I want to be proud of you.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tight, crawling sensation still mounted in Robby’s stomach. Don’t, he thought, don’t; his eyes staring at the dark outline of his father’s head.

  “I don’t want to force you into anything, son,” said Matthew Coles in as understanding a voice as he could manage. “You’re of age and I can’t make you do anything your mind is set against.”

  Robby started to speak, then closed his mouth without a word. His father wasn’t through yet.

  “I can punish your younger brother if he does something I know is wrong.” Matthew Coles shook his head once, slowly. “I can’t do that with you, son,” he said. “You’re of age and your life is your own; your decisions are your own.”

  Suddenly, Robby wished his father would rage again, rant and yell. It was easier to fight that.

  “But I don’t believe you realize, son,” said Matthew Coles, his voice a steady, coercive flow. “This is a very serious matter. I couldn’t talk about it at the table because of your mother and your younger brother. It’s not the sort of subject men discuss over a family supper table.”

  Now his father’s arm was around his shoulders and, as they ambled slowly toward the stable, Robby could feel his stomach muscles trembling and he had to clench his hands to keep the fingers steady.

  “Son,” his father said, “there are certain things a man must face in this life. I don’t say these things are just or fair . . . or even reasonable. But they’re a part of our life and no man can avoid them.” Matthew Coles paused for emphasis. “And the most important of those,” he said, “is that a man defend his home and defend his family.”

  But she’s not my family. Robby wanted to say it but he was afraid to.

  “I . . . want to do what’s right,” he said instead, his throat feeling dry and tight, the gun at his waist seeming very heavy. He wished he hadn’t taken the gun with him. What if he ran into John Benton and Benton had a gun on too?

  “Of course, you want to do what’s right, son,” said Matthew Coles, nodding. “You’re a Coles and the men of our family have always done what’s right—what has to be done.”

  They were in the darkness of the stable now. Robby could smell the odor of damp hay and hear the soft stamping of the two horses in their stalls. He heard his roan nicker quietly and it made him swallow nervously. I’ll ride you when I’m ready, he thought belligerently as if the horse had asked to be ridden toward town, toward the possibility of meeting Benton.

  “Sit down, son,” Robby heard the firm voice of his father say. Weakly, he sank down on the wooden bench and his father sat down beside him, arm still around Robby’s lean shoulders.

  His father’s voice kept on, seeming to surround Robby in the cool, damp-smelling blackness of the stable.

  “I know that, strictly speaking, Louisa Harper is not yet a part of our family. And, if there were men folks alive in her family now, I would say no more. It would be their responsibility to defend her honor.”

  Honor. Honor—the word thumped dully in Robby’s mind as he stared straight ahead, listening.

  “However,” said Matthew Coles, “there are no men left in the Harper family. There are no men left in the Winston family which was the family that Louisa’s mother was born to.”

  I know all that, Robby thought, trying hard not to shiver. He said quietly, “Yes, sir.”

  “And because there are no men in Louisa Harper’s family, the responsibility must shift itself to you. Since the young lady is your intended bride, you are the only one who can defend her name.”

  Silence then. Robby felt his father’s hand pat once-twice on his shoulder as if to say—You see then, it’s settled, now go out and shoot John Benton.

  “But . . . well, I . . . what about what I said to Benton?” Robby asked.

  “Your conversation with Benton, you mean?” his father said, without expression.

  Robby’s throat moved quickly. “Well . . . it was more than just a conversation, sir. I told him in . . . in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t leave Louisa alone, I’d—”

  “Son,” Matthew Coles interrupted in a slow, firm voice, “the damage has been done. This is not a situation which can be settled by talk. John Benton attempted to arrange an immoral meeting with your intended bride. Son, the facts are clear.”

  “But, Louisa didn’t say—”

  “Sir?”

  Robby felt his throat muscles tighten at the slight but very certain stiffening in his father’s voice. But he knew he had to go on or he’d be cornered and defenseless.

  “Sir, Louisa didn’t say that Benson tried to arrange an . . .” he swallowed, “an immoral meeting.”

  “Son,” his father said, almost sadly it seemed, “you are a grown man, not a child. For what purpose do you suppose John Benton requested a meeting?”

  Robby drew in a ragged breath; answerless.

  “There is only one question involved here,” Matthew Coles completed his case, “and that is—do you mean to defend the honor of your intended bride or do you mean to let yourself be judged a coward—for, believe me, sir, you will be judged a coward and the meanest sort of coward—a man who will not stand up for his woman.”

  Robby’s head sank forward, his heart beating heavily, his hands pressed tightly together in his lap.

  “I want to do what’s . . . what’s right, sir,” he said huskily. “But—”

  “Of course you do,” his father said, arm tightening around Robby’s shoulder. “Of co
urse you do, sir.”

  Abruptly, his father was up on his feet, looking down at Robby.

  “I will leave the working out of this to you,” he said. “You are a man and a man must do things his own way.”

  Robby tried to say something but he couldn’t.

  “I would suggest, however,” said his father, “that, for tonight anyway, you leave your gun at home. For if you should run into John Benton and he be armed . . .”

  Robby shivered in the darkness, his body slumped on the hard wooden bench. His stomach hurt again.

  “You’re not in good physical form tonight,” his father continued. “I think you should wait until—”

  “Sir, I’ll do what I think is right but . . .” Robby swallowed convulsively. “Let me . . . m-make my own plans.” His voice was thin and shaking in the darkness.

  His father pretended not to hear the nervous fear in his son’s voice.

  “The problem is yours, sir,” he said in a satisfied voice. He patted Robby briskly on the shoulder. “I will say no more—to anyone.” Pause. “You know exactly what has to be done.”

  Then his father had turned and Robby was watching the dark shadow of him moving for the yard.

  At the door, his father looked back.

  “Don’t be too late,” he said. “Remember, there’s a good deal of work to be done at the shop tomorrow.”

  Matthew Coles turned away and Robby listened to the crunching of his boots on the ground, then the measured clumping up the porch steps, the opening and closing of the back door.

  In the silence, a shaking breath caught in Robby’s throat. He sat there for a long time, staring into the blackness with hopeless eyes.

  Then, after a while, he stood, unbuckled his gun belt and left it hanging on a nail.

  Now he was riding slowly down Armitas Street, staring ahead, his hands clenched around the horn. He didn’t want to go into town; he was afraid of seeing anyone. But, even less, did he want to go into the house and see his father. Because, in spite of what had been said, Robby wasn’t sure whether he was going to put on a gun against Benton. It was simply that he didn’t want to die. It was simply that honor seemed a very little thing beside life.

  Robby tilted back his head and looked up into the jet expanses of the sky, sprinkled with glowing star dots. He felt the rhythmic jogging of the horse beneath him as he watched the sky.

  Those are the stars, he thought. They were so far away no man could ever count the miles, much less travel them. It gave him a strange feeling to watch them and know how far away they were and how big. Once, his school teacher had told Robby that if a man could gallop a horse as fast as possible and keep on galloping all his life, he still wouldn’t even travel a thousandth of the way to a star. So far away they were and he was so small and what he did was so unimportant to the stars. Why was it so important to him then?

  Robby Coles looked down quickly at the darkness of the earth. It was no use looking at stars. Stars couldn’t save him; he had to save himself.

  He saw that his roan was walking past the first stores of downtown Kellville and his hands lifted from the horn to guide the horse right at the next intersection. He didn’t want to ride into the square. Someone might see him; someone who knew.

  When Robby turned onto St. Virgil Street, the horseman came out of the night toward him.

  For a moment, Robby felt a cold, rippling sensation in his groin that made him twitch. It’s him, the thought lashed at his mind. He almost jerked the horse around and fled. Then, with a sudden stiffening, he lowered his head and looked intently at the saddle horn, feeling the roan bump steadily beneath him, hearing the thud of the approaching hoofbeats. He can’t shoot if I’m not looking at him, his mind thought desperately, no one shoots a man that isn’t looking. His heart beat faster and harder, sweat broke out thinly on his forehead. The horse came closer. You don’t shoot a man when he’s not looking!—he thought in anguish—you never shoot a man when he’s—

  The horse man rode by without a word and Robby sagged forward weakly in the saddle, lips trembling, breath caught in his throat.

  It was no use, no use; he realized it then. He couldn’t fight Benton; the very thought petrified him. No matter what happened, no matter what anyone said, he couldn’t fight Benton. He wouldn’t fight him.

  A heavy breath faltered between Robby’s parted lips. In a way, it was relieving to make the decision. It gave him a settled feeling. Even realizing that he’d have to face his father with the decision, it made him feel better.

  As he rode for the edge of town, Robby wondered what Louisa would want him to do. She certainly seemed astounded that morning when he paled and went storming from the house after she told him about Benton asking her for a meeting. No, he didn’t think Louisa would expect him to fight Benton with a gun.

  Yet, what if she did? He loved her and felt responsible for her. His father had been right in that respect anyway. Someone had to defend her and he seemed to be the only one to do it.

  But did he have to die for her honor?

  Robby nudged his boot heels into the roan’s flanks and the big horse broke into a rocking-chair canter up St. Virgil Street toward the edge of Kellville.

  The horsemen seemed to appear from nowhere. One moment, Robby was alone, riding in his thoughts. The next, three horses were milling around him and he was cringing with frightened surprise in his saddle.

  “Hey, Robby,” one of the young men shouted above the stirring hooves of the four horses.

  Robby swallowed. “Oh . . . hello,” he said, recognizing the voice of Dave O’Hara, an old school friend of his he hadn’t seen more than three times in the past year.

  The horses twisted around, snorting, while Robby stared at O’Hara’s dark form.

  “Where ya goin’?” O’Hara asked.

  “No place.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No place!”

  “Well, come on with us then. We’re headin’ for the Zorilla.”

  Robby hesitated long enough for O’Hara to lean forward and look intently at him.

  “You goin’ after Benton, Robby?” O’Hara asked, almost eagerly.

  It felt like someone driving a cold fist against his heart. Robby jolted in the saddle with a grunt they didn’t hear because of the milling horses.

  “N-no,” he faltered, “I—”

  “Heard what he done to your girl,” O’Hara said grimly. “You ain’t lettin’ him get away with that, are you?”

  It was like a nightmare—sitting in darkness on the shifting saddle, watching the three horsemen move about him in the jerky little movements caused by their restless mounts, hearing the deep-chested snortings of their horses.

  “No, I’m . . . going to do what . . .” Robby’s mind searched desperately for an answer that wouldn’t commit him. Then he grew nervous at his own revealing hesitation and finished quickly.

  “I’ll do what has to be done,” he said, his voice sounding thin and strengthless.

  “Damn right,” O’Hara said vengefully and the other two men said something between themselves. “The bastard’s got a slug comin’ for what he done. Him and his damn rep. Why’d he leave the Rangers anyhow? And, he’s so brave, why don’t he tote no gun?” O’Hara’s voice was tight with a bitter jealousy. He was one of Kellville’s young men who had made the inevitable step from idolizing Benton to envying and hating him.

  Robby sat his mount numbly, hearing the voice of Dave O’Hara as if it were a million miles away.

  “When you goin’ for him, Robby?”

  Robby bit his teeth together. “I . . .”

  The three riders watching him, Dave O’Hara and the other two. When are you going for him? When are you going to die? A shudder ran down Robby’s back. Then he stiffened himself.

  “When the time comes,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud.

  The dark riders still moved around him. “Well, that’s your own business, Robby,” O’Hara said, “but I want ya to know we’
re all behind ya. Everybody knows Benton’s a dirty coward who’s too yella to tote a gun. And after what he done to your girl . . . well, there ain’t nothin’ more to say.”

  “That’s right,” Robby said, feeling as if he were trapped there with the three of them. “There’s nothing more.”

  “Well how about headin’ for the Zorilla with us and let me buy ya a drink?”

  “No, I . . . have to get home.” Loudly, forcedly. “I was just on an errand for my father.”

  “Oh . . .” O’Hara punched him lightly on the arm. “We’re all behind ya, Robby,” he said, almost happily. “Ain’t a man in town that ain’t behind ya. When the time comes . . .” Another punch. “We’ll back ya.”

  They were gone in a clouding of night dust. Robby waited a moment, then twisted around in his saddle and saw the three of them spurring for the square.

  How did the story get around so fast? Robby couldn’t understand it. Only three men had seen the fight outside of Pat and Pat wasn’t the kind to spread tales.

  It was horrible how fast the story was traveling. And now he’d be trapped further, now O’Hara and his two friends would tell everybody that he was going to get John Benton.

  “No.” Robby couldn’t keep the shaking word from escaping his lips. No, he didn’t want to fight Benton, he didn’t want to! A shudder ran down his back and he couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs to breathe.

  Ten minutes to nine, Kellville, Texas, September 12, 1879. The end of the first day.

  The Second Day

  Chapter Ten

  Benton was riding fence. There were only three men working for him and he couldn’t afford to spare any of them for this simple but hour-consuming chore. Mounted on his blood bay, Socks, so named for the whiteness of its feet extending to the fetlocks, Benton was riding leisurely along the rutted trail that preceding fence rides had worn.

  Five times during the morning, he’d stopped to fix loose or broken wires, missing staples, once a sagging post. Each time, he’d gotten the supplies he needed from the saddle-fastened pouch in which were staples, a hatchet, a pair of wire cutters, and a coil of stay wire.