The Gun Fight

Praise for
The Gun Fight

“He is legend Richard Matheson, and
The Gun Fight
is the kind of story that made it happen. Here is a deceptively simple premise—how a lie can kill—and an unforgettable character, ex-Ranger John Benton. Matheson makes everything work just as he did in
Journal of the Gun Years
, which won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America.”

—Dale L. Walker,
Rocky Mountain News

“Matheson has crafted an engrossing account of the frequently deadly consequences of mistaking vanity for honor.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“With the possible exception of the modern woman’s romance, Richard Matheson has conquered every category of fiction in our time. With
The Gun Fight
, he has marked the American Western in its newest and most important phase with his brand. Raw, rough, and real, the book resonates with the long, sure role of history.”

—Loren D. Estleman

“Written in the traditional Western style, this substantive story addresses several moral issues, and the rather illusive term ‘honor’ is made crystal clear. . . . An action-packed, suspenseful tale.”

—
School Library Journal

“
The Gun Fight
is another Western triumph for Richard Matheson to add to his Spur-winning
Journal of the Gun Years
.”

—Norman Zollinger

“In just three days, gossip leaves a trail of wrecked lives, death, and life long remorse. By the author of
Journal of the Gun Years
, this is a superbly written suspense story with a moral.”

—
Library Journal

“Richard Matheson packs
The Gun Fight
with enough real people, plot twists, and authentic Western color to make this the equal of his Spur-winning
Journal of the Gun Years
. This is a very, very good book.”

—Ed Gorman

“Any novel bearing the name Richard Matheson is going to be breathtakingly good. No one writes better.”

—Richard S. Wheeler

ALSO BY RICHARD MATHESON
FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

The Beardless Warriors

Button, Button
(
The Box
)

Duel

Earthbound

Hell House

Hunted Past Reason

I Am Legend

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Journal of the Gun Years

The Memoirs of Wild Bill Hickok

Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Noir

Now You See It . . .

The Path: A New Look at Reality

7 Steps to Midnight

Somewhere in Time

A Stir of Echoes

What Dreams May Come

Richard
Matheson

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK

NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE GUN FIGHT

Copyright © 1993 by RXR, Inc.

All rights reserved.

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-7653-6228-5

First Forge Edition: November 2009

Printed in the United States of America

0  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

With much gratitude
I dedicate this book to
Gary Goldstein
for giving me a new literary world to explore.

H
e found them on the morning of the fifth day.

It had been difficult to track them down. The range was oven-hot from sunup to sundown, the earth so bone dry and hard, it made hoof prints hard to spot. The heat had worn him down. His canteen was almost empty by the time he reached them, his body feeling seared and weak.

The three men were asleep beside a narrow creek, sprawled exhaustedly on their blankets in the shade of a cottonwood tree. He could make out the form of Aaran Graham, the biggest of the three, a tall, bulky man lying on his right side. The other two were younger, slight of build, lying on their backs, Stetsons shading their eyes.

Benton’s gaze shifted to their grounded saddles. All six saddlebags bulged with their contents; what the three men had robbed from the Millersview Bank last Thursday afternoon, leaving behind one dead and one badly wounded teller.

Benton drew in a long, tired breath and dismounted slowly. He really
was
getting too old for this kind of thing. Julia had been on his back for months now. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to leave the Rangers and settle down. Still, what else did he know how to do?

He slipped the carbine from its scabbard and started down a dusty slope toward the three motionless figures.
He tried to be as quiet as he could but his boots scuffed unavoidably on the hard soil.

He was glancing at the three staked horses when Aaran Graham jerked awake, twisting around, his half-asleep expression one of startled anger.

“Wake up!” he shouted, grabbing for the holstered pistol lying on the ground beside him.

“
Don’t do it!
” Benton ordered, snapping up the carbine barrel. He saw the two younger men sitting up groggily.

Graham paid no attention, clutching at the handle of his Colt and starting to raise it.

Benton’s shot hit him in the center of the chest, knocking him backward; he was dead before his body hit the ground.

“
Pa!
” The cry of anguish made Benton’s gaze jump to the stricken face of one of the younger men.

Before he could react further, the other young man had snatched up his pistol and fired. Benton grunted in surprise as the bullet struck the barrel of his carbine, knocking it from his grip and numbing his fingers.

Training made him dive to his left, avoiding the young man’s second shot by less than an inch. As he fell, his right hand dropped to his pistol. It was free of his holster and being fired before the young man could get off another shot.

The bullet slammed into the young man’s chest just above the heart and, with a cry of dazed pain, he stumbled back, eyes already glazed over by the death which took him seconds later.

Benton scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the remaining young man who, he saw now, was more a boy than a man. He’d had no idea until moments ago that one of Graham’s men was his son.

The boy was staring at his dead father, then at the other young man who Benton later learned was his older brother.

Benton was never to forget the expression on the
boy’s face. Stunned and horrified, his eyes wide with total disbelief. The look in the boy’s eyes was what Benson would remember most; the look of someone whose entire world had just been shattered.

When the boy’s hand clawed down for his pistol, Benton stiffened with amazement. “
Don’t!
” he cried, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Only habitual reflex kept him alive; an ingrained mechanism that made him fire without thought, hitting the boy in the stomach. He felt a bolt of shock that his aim had been so poor. It had been, he later realized, the measure of his utter dismay that the boy had attempted such a hopeless move.

The boy had stumbled back and sat down heavily on the ground, a blank expression on his face now. He looked down curiously at his stomach, regarding the pump of blood from the bullet hole as though it were coming from someone else.

Then—Benton felt sick to his stomach when he heard it—the boy began to cry.

“Pa,” he murmured. “Henry.” He repeated the names over and over, sobbing like a frightened child, tears flowing down his cheeks.

Then, finally, before he fainted, he cried out, once, “
It hurts!
”

Benton sank down on the ground, legs suddenly devoid of strength. He looked at Aaran Graham’s body. At the body of Henry Graham. Finally, at the thinly breathing form of Graham’s younger son; his name was Albert, Benton later discovered. He knew that even if he tried to get the boy back to Millersview, he’d be dead before they were halfway there.

One week later, Benton brought the three bodies back to Millersview after remaining with Albert Graham for the two days it took him to die.

The first thing he did when he got home was go up to the bedroom, open a chest at the foot of the bed, and dump in his pistol, holster, and belt.

When his wife asked him why he’d done that, he told her that he was finished, that he would never wear a pistol as a weapon again.

3:29
P.M.
, Millersview, Texas, August 13, 1871.

T
he chaparral bird was running a fierce race with the black roan as it pounded across the hard earth. The long legs of the bird flashed wildly in a swirl of alkali dust, ten yards ahead of the roan’s battering hooves.

Off the wide trail, a jackrabbit bounded into the brush with great, erratic leaps. Awakened by the muffled thunder in the earth, a coiled rattlesnake writhed sluggishly and lifted its flat head, dead eyes searching.

The tall roan galloped along the trail, its broad legs drawing high, then driving down quickly at the dust-clouded earth. The spur rowels of its young rider raked once across its heaving flanks and the thick weave of muscles underneath its hide drove it on still faster.

Robby Coles paid no attention to the long-beaked roadrunner skittering its weaving path on the trail ahead. He rode close-seated, his knees clamped against the roan’s flanks, his booted feet braced forward and out against the stirrups. Beneath the broad brim of his Stetson, his dark eyes peered straight ahead at the out fences of the small ranch he approached.