The Gun Fight

by Richard Matheson

  “No, I just can’t take that chance, Reverend,” Benton said. “If I was in practice—yes, I might do it but . . . not now.”

  He hesitated, then started in again, his voice rising. “Reverend, hittin’ an arm or a leg in the split second a gunslingin’ takes is hard enough t’do when a man’s with it every day. But I been away from it over eight years.” He shook his head. “I just can’t do it, Reverend, I . . . just can’t. I want to live too—just like him.”

  “Well, will you try to keep the fight from starting until I can reach Louisa Harper then?” Bond asked in a hurried, anxious voice.

  “Reverend, I . . .” Benton exhaled heavily. “I’ll try,” he said. “But you’d better hurry.”

  He tugged at the reins then and the bay moved off toward the square.

  Bond rushed up the path to his house and into the hall, his eyes seeking for the clock as he entered. Two forty-seven.

  Thirteen minutes.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” he muttered in a choked voice as he headed for the kitchen.

  “Omar, what is—?” his wife started to ask as he dashed toward the back door.

  “No time!” he cried and then was gone.

  When she appeared on the porch, he was trying feverishly to get the bridle on their gray mare and attach the animal to the rig.

  “Omar, what is it?” she asked, anxiously.

  “Benton and young Coles going to fight in the square at three!” he gasped, his fingers fumbling at the leather.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Bond murmured.

  “I’m going to Louisa Harper’s house to try and stop it!” Bond told her.

  A minute and a half later, he was whipping the mare out the alley and the rig was groaning as it turned onto St. Virgil Street and headed for Davis Street.

  Mrs. Bond went back into the kitchen, shaken by the sight of her husband so upset, so white.

  When the front doorbell jangled suddenly in the stillness, Mrs. Bond dropped the wooden spoon she was stirring with. Before the clatter had died in her ears, she was in the hallway, moving on skirt-whipping legs toward the door.

  Her eyes widened as she saw who it was.

  “Where’s the Reverend?” Louisa Harper gasped.

  Mrs. Bond knew about the affair and a succession of emotions jolted through her as she stared at the flushed, perspiring face of the young girl—shock first, then confusion, then excited resolve, then a sudden dread as she realized that Omar had said three o’clock.

  “Quickly, child,” she said. “The story you told. It wasn’t true, was it?”

  Louisa draw back a little, staring at Mrs. Bond with a startled expression. “Where’s the Reverend?” she asked in a thin, frightened voice.

  “Child, he’s gone!” Mrs. Bond answered quickly. “He went to see you. We must hurry! That story—it wasn’t true was it?”

  Louisa still stared, her chest jerking with laboring breath.

  “Child, there’s no time! There are only minutes left!”

  “No!” Louisa sobbed. “They have to stop! I didn’t tell the truth. John B-Benton didn’t speak to me.”

  “Will you repeat that to Robby Coles?” Mrs. Bond asked desperately, glancing toward the clock. Two fifty-one.

  Louisa bit her shaking lips and stood there panting, the hair straggling across her forehead.

  “Child, for the love of God! Will you repeat it?”

  “Yes!” Louisa burst out. “Yes, I will, I will!”

  “Quickly then!” Mrs. Bond grabbed her hand. “We’ll have to run!”

  They started down the path, the two of them, rushing for the square. In the empty hall the minute hand edged toward the eleven. Eight minutes—seven minutes, fifty-nine seconds—seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds—seven minutes, fifty-seven . . .

  Chapter Thirty-two

  He was tired. He tried to sit up straight in the saddle but he couldn’t. His muscles ached; his arm muscles and the muscles in his shoulders and back—they all ached from digging and pushing the cows from the bog.

  But that was only the immediate fatigue. There was the lack of sleep from the night before too. And all of that was only the surface of the endless undercurrent of exhaustion he’d felt since he’d bought the small ranch with his Ranger earnings and tried to make a going thing of it. Life in the Rangers hadn’t prepared him for it. Life in the Rangers had been a hard one but more because it was dangerous than anything else. And danger didn’t make the body ache with weariness.

  He was near the square now. He took out his watch and opened it.

  Seven minutes to three. He eased the bay over the side of the street and reined up. No point in leaving Socks anywhere near the square where a stray slug might hit him.

  Benton dismounted and started tying up. He watched his tanned hands as they wound the leather rein twice around the rough wood of the hitching bar, then looped it under. His hands didn’t shake but that didn’t mean anything; that was just learned habit. He could be twisted in knots inside and none of it would show in his hands or his face. That was the way he was.

  He finished tying up the horse now and stood there a moment, looking at Socks with a sad smile. There was a tightness around his lower stomach starting. It came to him as a sudden jolt that he was nervous.

  He swallowed and patted the bay’s muzzle.

  “See you, churnhead,” he said softly, then stooped down and moved under the hitching rack and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

  He stood there, looking around. The street seemed to be deserted but he knew that people were watching him from their windows. From the corners of his eyes he noted the momentary flutter of a window shade across the street and his mouth tightened. He started walking for the square, his hands swinging in short, tense arcs at his sides.

  About five minutes now, he thought. Robby would probably be in the square already, waiting with his father. Benton took a deep breath. He wished it was Matthew Coles he was meeting. That wouldn’t bother him so much.

  He tried not to think about it. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing he could do; that it really was out of his hands. He was defending himself, that was all.

  But he knew it wasn’t so. It was a lot more than that. He didn’t want this fight, he didn’t want it at all. Robby was just a kid. Julia had been right; he didn’t want to believe it but there was nothing else he could do. It would be . . . murder. John Benton, if you draw your gun against that boy . . . He blinked and tried to drive away her words.

  Now he saw the square. It was strange to see it so empty. The last time he’d seen an empty square was in Trinity City. That was the time Jack Kramer had been waiting for him. That one had been easy. He’d hated Jack Kramer and he’d been in top condition. Kramer went down with two slugs in his chest before he’d even gotten a chance to draw his two Colts.

  No use thinking of that now. This wasn’t the same. He didn’t hate Robby Coles, he didn’t hate him at all. He felt sorry for—

  No! He fought that off too. It didn’t matter what he felt, he told himself, he was still fighting for his life. If he didn’t get Robby, Robby would get him. It was as simple as that.

  If only he could forget Julia, if only he didn’t keep hearing what she’d said. John Benton, if you draw your gun against that—

  He stopped abruptly and caught hold of himself. Drawing out his watch, he snapped open the cover. Three minutes. Well, there was no point in planning on Bond getting to the girl in time. Benton swallowed dryly. Did he dare wait and not be in the square at three? Maybe if he could stall a little longer, Bond might . . .

  No. That was impossible too. They had said three and it was no use fighting himself. Maybe it was pointless, maybe even stupid but when three o’clock came, he had to be in the square. It was the way he was and there was no way to change it now.

  He put the watch away and took out his pistol. Opening the cylinder, he took a cartridge from his belt and filled the empty chamber. One of these slugs—the thought came—is going to kill Robb
y Coles.

  Or was it?

  He shuddered as he slid the pistol into its holster and started walking again, his mud-caked boots thudding on the plank sidewalk. What kind of question was that? He didn’t understand where it had come from. And yet it was true—he didn’t know how fast Robby was. He’d never given it a thought; it just never seemed as if it were possible that . . .

  And yet it was, of course. Benton felt a cold sinking in his stomach. I’ve been away from it too long, he thought, I’m starting to worry about it. That’s what happens when you’re away too long.

  He shoved the thought aside. How could Robby possibly outdraw him when all he did was work in a shop all day? No, he was going to die.

  Benton’s throat moved as he thought, once again, of Julia’s words. And he wondered, as he approached the square, if it were possible to do what Bond had asked. At one time, it might have been simple. But he hadn’t drawn on anyone in a long time. Could he possibly . . .

  His chest shuddered with forced breath. Too much thinking, he told himself angrily, too damned much thinking! He tried to blank his mind to all thought but one: There was an armed man in the square, waiting to kill him.

  He stopped at the end of an alleyway that led to Taylor Street. He squinted toward the sun-drenched square. They’d expect him to come down St. Virgil Street because it led out of town to the trail.

  Abruptly, he moved into the shaded length of the alley. Maybe he’d come out where they didn’t expect him. They might not see him right away, it might put more distance between them. That might save a minute and give Bond a chance to get back with the girl. It was worth a try anyway.

  He was halfway down the alley when the two of them entered it from the other end. The second they saw him, they froze in their tracks.

  Benton didn’t stop. He kept walking until he was fifteen feet from them, then he stopped. He paid no attention to Joe Sutton; his eyes were fastened to the stiff features of Dave O’Hara.

  “Well?” he said.

  O’Hara swallowed and tried not to move his hands.

  “I told you if you ever saw me with a gun on, you could say it again,” Benton told him.

  O’Hara swallowed convulsively.

  “What do you say, little boy?” Benton snapped. “I haven’t got all day.”

  O’Hara’s lips started shaking. His dark eyes stared petrified at Benton.

  “All right, unbuckle your belt,” Benton ordered.

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  With cold, shaking fingers, O’Hara fumbled at the buckle until it came loose. He let the whole belt drop to the ground with a crash.

  “Pick it up,” Benton told him, standing motionless, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

  O’Hara bent over obediently and picked up the belt.

  “Now drop it in that trough,” Benton told him.

  O’Hara started to say something and then changed his mind. Biting his lip, he moved on unsteady legs to the trough while Joe Sutton watched incredulously, taking it all in.

  “Drop it in.”

  The belt was released and it made a loud splash as it hit the water. They all heard it thump as it hit the bottom of the trough.

  “You’re not big enough for a gun yet, sonny,” Benton said coldly. “Don’t let me see you with one anymore.”

  His eyes shifted to Sutton and he looked at him a moment without saying anything.

  He didn’t have to say anything.

  Without another word, he walked past the two of them and turned left at the end of the alley, a thin smile playing on his lips. Flannel mouth, he thought.

  Then the smile was gone and he walked in long, regular strides until he’d reached the foot of Taylor Street.

  John Benton stepped down from the sidewalk and walked out onto the edge of the square.

  His eyes moved slowly around the edge of the square until they settled on the two figures far across from him, standing in front of their gunsmith shop.

  Benton felt his heart start pumping heavily and he pulled out his watch. Two seconds after three o’clock. He was on time.

  He’d stand right there, the idea came. He wouldn’t move; then it would take Robby longer to reach him and maybe Bond could get back in time to stop it.

  He put his watch away and took a deep breath. Far across the square, Robby Coles left the side of his father and started walking slowly toward Benton.

  Benton felt his fingers twitch and then felt that indicative tensing of his right arm muscles.

  But it was different. A look of tense uncertainty flitted across his face. The heat of anger wasn’t there, the confidence-inspiring knowledge that the man he was about to face deserved to die.

  His heartbeat faltered. It’s different, he thought, it’s different. He hadn’t even conceived it could be like this. It had always been so definite before, so clearly defined. He’d had a job to do and there had been a badge on his chest that gave him the permission to kill. And, deep inside he’d known that, if he killed, the man who died deserved no more.

  Until the Grahams . . .

  He almost backed away. There was a cold lacing of sweat across his brow and Julia’s words hit him again. It’ll be murder. Murder! His throat moved nervously and he began to look around for Bond. He had to get to the girl in time, he had to!

  Desperately, he tried to tell himself it was self defense, he was forced into it. But he couldn’t convince himself. And now his hands were shaking, something that had never happened before. Dear God, how could he fire on someone he had no reason to fire on?

  He felt a shudder run down his back. It’ll be murder. He blinked and brushed away the sweat drops that ran into his eyebrows and over his upper cheeks. One salty drop of it ran into his mouth. He clenched his teeth and looked across the square at the approaching figure of Robby. How far away was he? A hundred yards? No, less, less.

  He stood there rigidly, throat tightening as he watched Robby come closer. Go back, he thought suddenly, go back! Again his glance fled to all the street openings of the square, searching. Where was Bond!

  His eyes shifted again. How far now? Seventy-five yards. No, it wasn’t that far.

  Should he turn and leave? What could they do? By the time they found him, Louisa could be forced to tell the truth.

  No. He couldn’t do that, he knew he couldn’t. It didn’t matter how desperate he was not to fight Robby, he couldn’t run. It just wasn’t in him to run. But what was he going to—

  All right! His face grew taut in the instant he made his decision and, with a slight lurch, he began walking across the wide square toward Robby.

  There was no noise at all. It was so quiet, the sound of his boots pressing down on the earth sounded clearly. He walked slowly and unhesitantly, eyes focused on the approaching boy.

  Now he could see Robby’s face. It was tight and without expression of any kind—a white mask of rigidly held determination.

  Sixty yards now, fifty-nine, eight, seven. Benton felt his arm muscles tightening, readying. I’ve got to let him draw first, he ordered himself, I’ve got to let him draw first.

  His boot heels crunched over the hot, dry ground, his eyes were fastened to the hands of Robby Coles.

  Fifty yards.

  Benton suddenly tensed as Robby’s hand flew up to his pistol and he fought down the instinct of muscles to draw at the same time.

  The roar of the Colt cracked a million jagged lines of sound in the silence of the square. Dirt kicked up two yards in front of Benton. Good God, what’s wrong with him?—the question lanced across his mind. It was an easy shot.

  He had his hand on his pistol butt just as the second blast of gunfire sent echoes rocking through the square. Dirt kicked up at his feet and he heard the slug whine ricocheting into the air.

  The gun was in his hand then, suddenly. He stopped walking and twisted himself a half turn so he could extend his arm and aim. The third shot roared and he saw Robby’s lips jerk back from clenched t
eeth as the bullet struck him in the right arm. He saw Robby’s gun fall and hit the ground and, slowly, he lowered his arm.

  Then he stiffened again, his breath catching. Robby had fallen to his knees and was trying to pick up the pistol, his face twisted with pain and terror.

  The pistol fell from Robby’s numbed right hand and, with a sob that Benton could hear, Robby grabbed at the Colt with his left hand. And, as Robby looked up, it seemed to Benton, in that instant, that he could see, in Robby’s eyes, the same agonized dread he’d seen in Albert Graham’s eyes just before he’d shot him.

  Benton’s shout filled the square.

  “Robby! Leave it alone!”

  But Robby had already thrown up the pistol, forced back the hammer and fired again. Benton heard the slug whistling by his right shoulder and, jerking up his pistol automatically, he thumbed back the hammer and fired.

  The shot was too rushed, too shaken. The bullet only creased the edge of Robby’s left arm and he was so numbed by fear that he didn’t feel it. He jerked at the trigger and the silence was shattered again.

  Benton staggered back with a startled grunt as though he’d been struck across the chest with a club. The Colt slipped from his suddenly lax fingers and, before it hit the ground, another slug drove into his chest, knocking him back further. With a sharp gasp, he fell to one knee, face dazed, dumbstruck eyes staring at the white-face boy who was sitting on the ground fifty yards away, the Colt still clutched in his left hand.

  Then the square began to waver before his eyes and there was a terrible burning in his chest. Blinking, he looked down at himself and saw red blood spilling out between his clutching fingers. He tried to speak but he couldn’t; his throat was clogged.

  He looked up again dizzily and watched the wave of blackness rush at him across the square, break over him, followed by another and another.

  That was when the buckboard reached the square. The woman in it dragged back the reins and braked suddenly, standing up. The people coming out from behind locked doors could see the look of stupefaction on her face. They watched how she half climbed, half fell from the buckboard and started walking across the square, then broke into a stiff, weaving run.