The Gun Fight by Richard Matheson Page B

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.”
    Later, over dinner, Benton shook his head and groaned to himself, thinking about all the work time he was going to lose.
    “This is hogwash,” he muttered.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Julia asked.
    Benton shook his head. “No, I’m ridin’ in fast. Maybe I can get it settled quick and come back in time to get some work done.”
    Julia poured in more coffee, then stood beside thetable, smiling down at her husband. After a moment, he looked up at her. A slow grin relaxed his mouth.
    “I know,” he said, amusedly, “get a haircut.”
    Julia laughed. “How did you guess?”

Chapter Eleven
    H e was surrounded by guns. On the wall racks behind him and at his right were rifles—a Springfield .45 caliber breech-loader, a Sharps and Hanker .52 caliber rim-fire carbine, a Henry Deringer rifle, a Colt .44 revolving rifle, a new Sharps-Borschardt .45, three 45/10 nine-shot Winchesters—all of them resting on wooden pegs, their metal glinting in the sunlit brightness of the shop, their stocks glossy with rubbed-in oils.
    Across from him, behind his father’s bench, was the board on which his father and he hung repaired pistols like a watchmaker hung repaired watches. Dangling by their trigger guards were five Colt revolvers, a Remington .36 caliber Navy pistol, an Allen and Thurber .32 caliber pepperbox, and three .41 caliber Deringer