Free The Gun Fight by Richard Matheson Page B

Benton could hear the loud quaver of its bawling a half mile away. He nudged his flower rowels across the bay’s flanks and the horse broke into an easy trot down the trail.
    The calf looked up at Benton’s approach, its big, dark eyes wild with fright. Its back hooves kicked futilely at the earth, spraying dirt over the long grass.
    Benton jumped down from the bay, grounded the reins, and started for the calf, a grin on his face.
    “Hello, you old acorn,” he said. “Runnin’ off to the city again?”
    The calf bawled loudly and kicked again at the scoured ground.
    “All right, little girl,” Benton said, drawing on the gloves he’d pulled from his back Levi’s pocket, “take it easy now. Poppa will get you out.”
    He hunkered down beside the fence and the calf complained loudly as Benton grabbed the wire that held it pinned down, the sharp barbs embedded deeply in its skin and flesh.
    “Easy now, deacon,” Benton spoke soothingly as he tried to draw out the barbs so he could raise the taut wire. He grimaced slightly as the calf squalled loudly, blood oozing across its spotted back. “
Ea
-sy now, little girl, we’ll get you out in no time.”
    Fifteen minutes later, the bay was moving across the range, leading the roped yearling. Benton glanced back and grinned at the tugging calf.
    “Gotta get your wounds fixed, runty,” he told the yearling, then turned back with a shake of his head. The calf’s mother had died the previous winter and the calf had been more trouble than it was worth since then, having to be fed because water and grass were still too heavy a fare for its young stomach and, invariably, wandering from the herd and getting lost.
    “We’re goin’ to sell you for boot leather, acorn,” Benton said lightly, not even looking back. “That’s what we’re goin’ to sell you for.”
    The calf dragged along behind, sulky and complaining.
    Back at the ranch, Benton led the calf into the barn and salved up its back, then turned it loose in the corral.
    The rig was standing in front of the house as he walked toward it. It looked familiar but he wasn’t sure where he’d seen it before. He moved in long strides across the yard and went into the kitchen. He was getting a drink of cool water from the dipper when Julia came in.
    “Who’s visitin’?” he asked.
    “The Reverend Bond,” she said.
    “Oh? What’s
he
want?”
    “He came to see you.”
    Benton looked at Julia curiously. “What for?” he asked.
    Julia shook her head once. “He won’t tell me,” she said. “But I think I know.”
    “What?”
    Julia turned to the stove. “Well, from the way he avoided the subject, I’d say that story.”
    “What story?”
    “About Louisa Harper and you.”
    A look of disgust crossed Benton’s face. “Oh, no,” he said in a pained voice. “
More?
”
    He shook his head and groaned softly to himself as he took off the bull-hide chaps and tossed them on a chair by the door. “Oh . . . blast,” he said. “What’s goin’ on in town anyway?”
    At the door, he turned to her. “Aren’t you comin’ in?” he asked.
    “You think I should?” she asked. “The Reverend doesn’t seem to think it’s anything for me to hear.”
    He came back to her, his brow lined with curious surprise. “What is it?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re startin’ to
believe
this thing?”
    Julia swallowed nervously. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”
    He hooked his arm in hers. “Come on, ma,” he said amusedly. “In we go.”
    In the hallway, he pinched her and she whispered, “Stop that!” But the tenseness was gone from her face.
    As they entered the small sitting room, the Reverend Omar Bond stood up and extended his hand to Benton with a smile.
    “Mr. Benton,” he said.
    “Reverend.” Benton nodded. “Excuse the hand. I been out ridin’.”
    Bond smiled. “Not at all,” he said.
    “Sit down, Reverend,” Benton said, putting Julia on a chair.