Bond rose quickly and moved toward her.
“My dear Miss Winston,” he said, “I
assure
you . . .”
Agatha Winston brushed away a tear which had, somehow, managed to force its way out of her eye duct. A sob rasped dryly in her lean throat.
“I came to you because there is nothing my sister and her daughter can do to defend their good name. But instead of—”
Another sob, dry and harsh.
Against his better judgment, the Reverend Omar Bond found himself standing before Agatha Winston, explaining, apologizing.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally said, growing desperate with her. “I’ll ride out personally to John Benton’s ranch and speak to him.”
“He’ll deny it,” Agatha Winston said, agitatedly. “Do you think he’ll—”
“Miss Winston, if the incident occurred as you said, John Benton will admit it,” the Reverend Bond said firmly. “That’s all I can say for now. I sympathize with your situation, I most certainly will speak out Sunday against the insidious cruelty of this gossiping.” He gestured weakly. “And . . . and I’ll go out to see John Benton in the morning.”
He was leading her to the door finally.
“Please don’t upset yourself, Miss Winston,” he told her, “I am confident we can work it out to the satisfaction of all.”
“Oh, if only there were a
man
in our family to speak for us,” Agatha Winston said, vengefully.
“I will speak for you,” said Bond. “Remember, my child, we are all one family under God.”
Frankly, Miss Winston did not accept that tenet of Christianity. Her mind pushed the concept aside angrily as she strode off into the night, unsatisfied.
The Reverend Omar Bond shut the door and turned back as Clara came out of the kitchen, drying her hands.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, concernedly.
“Offhand, I should say the qualifications for membership in the church,” said the Reverend Bond with a weary shake of his head.
Chapter Nine
T he hooves of the black roan thudded slowly down the long darkness of Armitas Street, headed for the square. Robby Coles sat slumped in the saddle, his rein-holding hands clasped loosely over the horn. He was staring ahead bleakly, between the bobbing ears of his mount, watching the dark street jog toward him, then disappear beneath the legs of the roan. His lips were pressed together; his entire face reflected the tense nervousness he felt.
When supper had ended, he’d grabbed his hat and gunbelt and started for the door, not wanting to listen to his father anymore.
“Where are you going?” Matthew Coles had asked.
“For a ride,” he’d answered.
“You’d better not,” his father said, “you might run into John Benton and then you’d have to come running home and hide in the closet.”
Robby didn’t say anything. He just jerked open the door and went out, seeing from the corners of his eyes his mother looking at him, one frail hand at her breast.
Then, halfway to the stable, Robby heard the back door open and shut quickly.
“
Son
,” his father called.
Robby didn’t want to stay. He felt like jumping on his horse and galloping out the alleyway before his fathercould say another word. But open defiance was not in him; he might flare up now and then under provocation but, inevitably, he obeyed his father. He was twenty-one and, supposedly, his own man; but those twenty-one years of rigid training still kept him bound.
He stood there silently, buckling on his gun belt as his father’s boots came crunching over the hard ground of the yard. He felt Matthew Coles’ hand close over his shoulder.
“Son, I didn’t mean to rile you,” Matthew Coles said, his voice no longer hard. “It’s been a hard day and I’m out of sorts. You can understand that, son.”
Robby could feel himself drawing back. Whenever his father called him
son
. . .
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I . . . understand.”
“I didn’t intend to blow up at the table like that,” Matthew Coles
“My dear Miss Winston,” he said, “I
assure
you . . .”
Agatha Winston brushed away a tear which had, somehow, managed to force its way out of her eye duct. A sob rasped dryly in her lean throat.
“I came to you because there is nothing my sister and her daughter can do to defend their good name. But instead of—”
Another sob, dry and harsh.
Against his better judgment, the Reverend Omar Bond found himself standing before Agatha Winston, explaining, apologizing.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally said, growing desperate with her. “I’ll ride out personally to John Benton’s ranch and speak to him.”
“He’ll deny it,” Agatha Winston said, agitatedly. “Do you think he’ll—”
“Miss Winston, if the incident occurred as you said, John Benton will admit it,” the Reverend Bond said firmly. “That’s all I can say for now. I sympathize with your situation, I most certainly will speak out Sunday against the insidious cruelty of this gossiping.” He gestured weakly. “And . . . and I’ll go out to see John Benton in the morning.”
He was leading her to the door finally.
“Please don’t upset yourself, Miss Winston,” he told her, “I am confident we can work it out to the satisfaction of all.”
“Oh, if only there were a
man
in our family to speak for us,” Agatha Winston said, vengefully.
“I will speak for you,” said Bond. “Remember, my child, we are all one family under God.”
Frankly, Miss Winston did not accept that tenet of Christianity. Her mind pushed the concept aside angrily as she strode off into the night, unsatisfied.
The Reverend Omar Bond shut the door and turned back as Clara came out of the kitchen, drying her hands.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, concernedly.
“Offhand, I should say the qualifications for membership in the church,” said the Reverend Bond with a weary shake of his head.
Chapter Nine
T he hooves of the black roan thudded slowly down the long darkness of Armitas Street, headed for the square. Robby Coles sat slumped in the saddle, his rein-holding hands clasped loosely over the horn. He was staring ahead bleakly, between the bobbing ears of his mount, watching the dark street jog toward him, then disappear beneath the legs of the roan. His lips were pressed together; his entire face reflected the tense nervousness he felt.
When supper had ended, he’d grabbed his hat and gunbelt and started for the door, not wanting to listen to his father anymore.
“Where are you going?” Matthew Coles had asked.
“For a ride,” he’d answered.
“You’d better not,” his father said, “you might run into John Benton and then you’d have to come running home and hide in the closet.”
Robby didn’t say anything. He just jerked open the door and went out, seeing from the corners of his eyes his mother looking at him, one frail hand at her breast.
Then, halfway to the stable, Robby heard the back door open and shut quickly.
“
Son
,” his father called.
Robby didn’t want to stay. He felt like jumping on his horse and galloping out the alleyway before his fathercould say another word. But open defiance was not in him; he might flare up now and then under provocation but, inevitably, he obeyed his father. He was twenty-one and, supposedly, his own man; but those twenty-one years of rigid training still kept him bound.
He stood there silently, buckling on his gun belt as his father’s boots came crunching over the hard ground of the yard. He felt Matthew Coles’ hand close over his shoulder.
“Son, I didn’t mean to rile you,” Matthew Coles said, his voice no longer hard. “It’s been a hard day and I’m out of sorts. You can understand that, son.”
Robby could feel himself drawing back. Whenever his father called him
son
. . .
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I . . . understand.”
“I didn’t intend to blow up at the table like that,” Matthew Coles
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