The Gun Fight by Richard Matheson

“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
stories 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