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Authors: Richard Matheson
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name.”
Silence then. Robby felt his father’s hand pat once-twice on his shoulder as if to say—You see then, it’s settled, now go out and shoot John Benton.
“But . . . well, I . . . what about what I said to Benton?” Robby asked.
“Your conversation with Benton, you mean?” his father said, without expression.
Robby’s throat moved quickly. “Well . . . it was more than just a conversation, sir. I told him in . . . in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t leave Louisa alone, I’d—”
“
Son
,” Matthew Coles interrupted in a slow, firm voice, “the damage has been done. This is not a situation which can be settled by talk. John Benton attempted to arrange an immoral meeting with your intended bride. Son, the facts are clear.”
“But, Louisa didn’t say—”
“Sir?”
Robby felt his throat muscles tighten at the slight but very certain stiffening in his father’s voice. But he knew he had to go on or he’d be cornered and defenseless.
“Sir, Louisa didn’t say that Benson tried to arrange an . . .” he swallowed, “an
immoral
meeting.”
“Son,” his father said, almost sadly it seemed, “you are a grown man, not a child. For what purpose do you suppose John Benton requested a meeting?”
Robby drew in a ragged breath; answerless.
“There is only one question involved here,” Matthew Coles completed his case, “and that is—do you mean to defend the honor of your intended bride or do you mean to let yourself be judged a coward—for, believe me, sir, you
will
be judged a coward and the meanest sort of coward—a man who will not stand up for his woman.”
Robby’s head sank forward, his heart beating heavily, his hands pressed tightly together in his lap.
“I want to do what’s . . . what’s right, sir,” he said huskily. “But—”
“Of course you do,” his father said, arm tightening around Robby’s shoulder. “Of course you do, sir.”
Abruptly, his father was up on his feet, looking down at Robby.
“I will leave the working out of this to you,” he said. “You are a man and a man must do things his own way.”
Robby tried to say something but he couldn’t.
“I would suggest, however,” said his father, “that, for tonight anyway, you leave your gun at home. For if you should run into John Benton and he be armed . . .”
Robby shivered in the darkness, his body slumped on the hard wooden bench. His stomach hurt again.
“You’re not in good physical form tonight,” his father continued. “I think you should wait until—”
“Sir, I’ll do what I think is right but . . .” Robby swallowed convulsively. “Let me . . . m-make my own plans.” His voice was thin and shaking in the darkness.
His father pretended not to hear the nervous fear in his son’s voice.
“The problem is yours, sir,” he said in a satisfied voice. He patted Robby briskly on the shoulder. “I will say no more—to anyone.” Pause. “You know exactly what has to be done.”
Then his father had turned and Robby was watching the dark shadow of him moving for the yard.
At the door, his father looked back.
“Don’t be too late,” he said. “Remember, there’s a good deal of work to be done at the shop tomorrow.”
Matthew Coles turned away and Robby listened to the crunching of his boots on the ground, then the measured clumping up the porch steps, the opening and closing of the back door.
In the silence, a shaking breath caught in Robby’s throat. He sat there for a long time, staring into the blackness with hopeless eyes.
Then, after a while, he stood, unbuckled his gun belt and left it hanging on a nail.
Now he was riding slowly down Armitas Street, staring ahead, his hands clenched around the horn. He didn’t want to go into town; he was afraid of seeing anyone. But, even less, did he want to go into the house and see his father. Because, in spite of what had been said, Robby wasn’t sure whether he was going to put on a gun
Silence then. Robby felt his father’s hand pat once-twice on his shoulder as if to say—You see then, it’s settled, now go out and shoot John Benton.
“But . . . well, I . . . what about what I said to Benton?” Robby asked.
“Your conversation with Benton, you mean?” his father said, without expression.
Robby’s throat moved quickly. “Well . . . it was more than just a conversation, sir. I told him in . . . in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t leave Louisa alone, I’d—”
“
Son
,” Matthew Coles interrupted in a slow, firm voice, “the damage has been done. This is not a situation which can be settled by talk. John Benton attempted to arrange an immoral meeting with your intended bride. Son, the facts are clear.”
“But, Louisa didn’t say—”
“Sir?”
Robby felt his throat muscles tighten at the slight but very certain stiffening in his father’s voice. But he knew he had to go on or he’d be cornered and defenseless.
“Sir, Louisa didn’t say that Benson tried to arrange an . . .” he swallowed, “an
immoral
meeting.”
“Son,” his father said, almost sadly it seemed, “you are a grown man, not a child. For what purpose do you suppose John Benton requested a meeting?”
Robby drew in a ragged breath; answerless.
“There is only one question involved here,” Matthew Coles completed his case, “and that is—do you mean to defend the honor of your intended bride or do you mean to let yourself be judged a coward—for, believe me, sir, you
will
be judged a coward and the meanest sort of coward—a man who will not stand up for his woman.”
Robby’s head sank forward, his heart beating heavily, his hands pressed tightly together in his lap.
“I want to do what’s . . . what’s right, sir,” he said huskily. “But—”
“Of course you do,” his father said, arm tightening around Robby’s shoulder. “Of course you do, sir.”
Abruptly, his father was up on his feet, looking down at Robby.
“I will leave the working out of this to you,” he said. “You are a man and a man must do things his own way.”
Robby tried to say something but he couldn’t.
“I would suggest, however,” said his father, “that, for tonight anyway, you leave your gun at home. For if you should run into John Benton and he be armed . . .”
Robby shivered in the darkness, his body slumped on the hard wooden bench. His stomach hurt again.
“You’re not in good physical form tonight,” his father continued. “I think you should wait until—”
“Sir, I’ll do what I think is right but . . .” Robby swallowed convulsively. “Let me . . . m-make my own plans.” His voice was thin and shaking in the darkness.
His father pretended not to hear the nervous fear in his son’s voice.
“The problem is yours, sir,” he said in a satisfied voice. He patted Robby briskly on the shoulder. “I will say no more—to anyone.” Pause. “You know exactly what has to be done.”
Then his father had turned and Robby was watching the dark shadow of him moving for the yard.
At the door, his father looked back.
“Don’t be too late,” he said. “Remember, there’s a good deal of work to be done at the shop tomorrow.”
Matthew Coles turned away and Robby listened to the crunching of his boots on the ground, then the measured clumping up the porch steps, the opening and closing of the back door.
In the silence, a shaking breath caught in Robby’s throat. He sat there for a long time, staring into the blackness with hopeless eyes.
Then, after a while, he stood, unbuckled his gun belt and left it hanging on a nail.
Now he was riding slowly down Armitas Street, staring ahead, his hands clenched around the horn. He didn’t want to go into town; he was afraid of seeing anyone. But, even less, did he want to go into the house and see his father. Because, in spite of what had been said, Robby wasn’t sure whether he was going to put on a gun
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