The Gun Fight by Richard Matheson Page B

Louisa stumbled away, cutting off a choking sob, Miss Winston moved in firm strides down the counter.
    “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cartwright,” she said in a politely brittle voice. “Now what were we looking at?”
    Mrs. Cartwright glanced back toward where Louisa was entering the back room.
    “What did I say?” she asked. “My dear Miss Winston, I had no intention of—”
    “It’s nothing, nothing,” Miss Winston assured hastily, plucking up the shirtwaist. “She’s just a little upset. Is this what we’re interested in today? Now this material is woven by the finest New England lo—”
    She stopped talking and glared at Mrs. Cartwright who was looking toward the back of the shop again and acting upset.
    “Mrs. Cartwright?” she asked.
    The large woman looked at her, head shaking sadly. “Oh, my dear Miss Winston,” she proclaimed, “my heart goes out to that poor girl.”
    Miss Winston stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
    Again, Mrs. Cartwright glanced toward the back room. Then she leaned over the counter.
    “Do you really think she should . . . wait counter when . . .” She gestured futilely. “Well . . .”
    “Mrs. Cartwright, I’m afraid I do not know what you are talking about,” Miss Winston enunciated slowly, torn between rising anger and the unquestioning demeanor she believed all customers merited.
    Mrs. Cartwright looked unhappy. “Oh, my dear,” she said in a sort of joyous agony at being involved in this moment. “We’re all lambs in the Lord’s flock. When one of us is led astray . . .”
    She didn’t finish.
Lambs
?—Miss Winston thought—led
astray
? Her eyes grew harder still behind her forgotten spectacles.
    “Mrs. Cartwright, I’ll thank you for an—”
    “Oh, my dear Miss Winston. I feel nothing but sympathy for your poor dear niece. I would not for the world—”
    “Mrs. Cartwright, what are you talking about?” Miss Winston demanded, putting aside, for the moment, the role of courteous vendor.
    Mrs. Cartwright put her ample hand on the unresponsive fingers of Miss Winston.
    “I know all about it,” she whispered. “And it has made my heart go out to that poor, dear girl.”
    “What, exactly, do you know?” Miss Winston asked, face beginning to go slack now with the rising fear that she did not know everything.
    Mrs. Cartwright looked around, looked back.
    “About the baby,” she whispered. “The—”
    “What!” Miss Winston’s virginal body lurched in shock, her fingers jerking out from beneath the moist warmth of Mrs. Cartwright’s hand. “What are you talking about! Are you intimating that Louisa is—”
    Her hands jerked into bone-jutting fists. “Oh!” she said, absolutely dumbfounded.
    Mrs. Cartwright drew back in alarm. “What have I—?”
    “I don’t know where you heard this vicious gossip, Mrs. Cartwright!” Agatha Winston said, eyes burning with vengeful light, “but, let me end it now—right this very moment! It is not true, Mrs. Cartwright, it is not true at all! I’m shocked that you should believe such a terrible thing of my niece! Shocked, Mrs. Cartwright,
shocked
!”
    “Oh, my dear Miss—”
    “No. No. I don’t want to hear anymore!” Miss Winston blinked as a wave of dizziness rushed over her. Her hands clutched at the counter edge. “Please leave,” she muttered. “Please, leave my shop.”
    “
Oh
. . .” Miss Cartwright moaned, face a wrinkle of dismay.
    Miss Winston turned away. “Please,” she begged. “
Please.
”
    When a shaken Miss Cartwright had retreated from the shop, an equally shaken Miss Agatha Winston found her unsteady way to the rear of the shop, throat constricted, eyes stark with premonition.
    Louisa drew back in fright when she saw her aunt’s face.
    “Aunt Agatha,” she whispered.
    She gasped aloud as the clawing hand of her aunt clamped over her wrist.
    “Tell me!” commanded Agatha Winston, her face terrible. “Is it true?”
    Louisa shrank back. “What?” she