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“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.

“Y’re goin’ to win in this round. If you don’t go out and tear that bastard to bits I’ll give you the heat.”

Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left’s like lead,” he whined.

“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He’ll go down.”

The gong went for the fifth.

The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn’t. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn’t even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He’d have been blind if he hadn’t seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.

Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.

Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn’t even look pleased.

Franks didn’t move, he just lay there.

Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands. “Get up and fight!” she screamed. “Don’t let ’em get away with it! Harry… get up and fight!…”

Franks took his time, but he got up at nine. The crowd, backing Sankey now, screamed to him to go in and finish Franks. Sankey tottered out of his corner, swearing. Franks stood waiting for him, his lips in a thin line, looking like a killer. There was nothing the matter with him. He was as strong as when he started. As Sankey came on he called Franks every obscene name he could lay his tongue to.

Franks brushed aside his feeble guard and belted him in the ribs. It was an awful punch, landing solid in the church roof of Sankey’s chest. Sankey’s eyes rolled back. His mouth formed a large “O", then, as he fell forward, Franks whipped up a punch that came from his ankles to Sankey’s jaw.

It was a waste of the referee’s time to count. The crowd went mad. They yelled and hooted as the little guy’s arm ticked off the ten. Then, when he threw his arms wide and ran over to raise Franks’ glove, they stood on their seats and rattled the roof.

Dillon turned his head and looked at Gurney. His eyes smouldered. “The dirty, double-crossin’ sonofabitch,” he said through his teeth.

They all crowded into Butch’s shack. There was Gurney, Hank and Morgan. Sankey had gone home, too sullen and furious to come. Dillon shuffled along behind the others, savage and silent.

Butch was sitting in a dirty dressing-gown. His head was wrapped in a bandage. He sensed at once that Sankey had flopped when they came in.

Overhead, Myra could hear the uproar that was going on, and she came down the ladder to listen.

Dillon sat on the table, picking his teeth, while the others shouted and cursed. Butch was so mad, Gurney thought he’d have a stroke. He beat the arms of his chair again and again. “I put all I had on that punk,” he bawled; “now where am I?”

Dillon suddenly came to life. “Shut up, you rats!” he snarled. “Franks’s got more guts than the bunch of you rolled into one. What does it matter if you lost a little dough?”

There was a terrible silence, each man glaring at Dillon murderously. Butch said in a strangled voice, “You fixed that fight, huh? You ain’t losing any dough… an’ you talk like that?”

Dillon looked him over contemptuously. His eyes went round the others. They began to edge a little towards him, except Gurney. Gurney knew about the gun.

Butch climbed out of his chair. “Bring him to me,” he said savagely, flexing his fingers. “I’ll teach the bum somethin’.”

Dillon’s thin lips smiled. His eyes were stony with contempt. “Forget it,” he said. “You little punks don’t know where you get off.”

Butch said, “Leave him to me.”

He began to weave forward, his great hands questing. Dillon,’ sitting on the table, watching, just hunched his shoulders in his coat. Then, when Butch was within a foot of him, the Colt leapt into his hand.

Hank screamed, “Get back, Hogan, he’s got a gun!”

Dillon shot Butch low down. The crash of the gun made Myra scream out. She stood outside the door, her hands to her mouth, shuddering.

Butch’s blind eyes closed, blotting out the two yellow clots from Dillon’s sight. He put his hands over his belly and squeezed. The blood ran through his fingers. Dillon watched him, his smile a little fixed.

Butch went down on his knees with a thud.

Hank and Morgan fought each other to get out of the room. Dillon let them go. He didn’t even turn his head. They went out through the verandah, and Gurney heard them running down the road.

The door opened and Myra came in. She stood in the open doorway, her face bony, holding herself upright against the woodwork. She made no move to go across to Butch. She just stood and watched.

Butch died like that, on his knees. He gradually slumped over like a limp sack of wheat.

Dillon eyed Gurney, then put the gun away inside his coat. “He was crazy to start on me,” he said.

Gurney said hoarsely, “You’d better get outta here.”

Dillon showed his teeth. “You’re comin’ with me, pal,” he said. “Don’t make a mistake about that.”

Gurney gulped and said hastily, “Sure… I didn’t blow like those other paloks.”

The two of them looked at Myra. She was suddenly conscious of them, aware that she was now alone, that Butch was finished, and she had to look after herself.

Gurney went over to her. “Shove some things together,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me.”

She didn’t say anything, but turned and went out of the room with trembling knees.

Dillon said, “Yeah, she’ll be useful.”

Gurney nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I guess she’ll be that.”

There was a long pause, both men remaining still, their eyes away from Butch. Then Gurney said, “Where we goin’?”

“Over the State line quick,” Dillon said. “We’ll see when we get there after that.”

Myra came in, holding a small leather case.

Gurney said, “Go out an’ get into the car.”

She turned on her heel and went out.

Dillon went over to Gurney. “We gotta have a little dough before we start,” he said. “Maybe you know Abe’s got a wad salted away. We’re goin’ to lift that. I know where it is.”

Gurney licked his lips. “It ain’t safe,” he said nervously. “The sheriff’ll be along pretty soon.”

Dillon said, “I’m tellin’ you… not askin’ you.”

They went out into the darkness, climbing into the old car. Myra was sitting at the back. She was holding on to her nerves, but she couldn’t stop herself shivering. The car lurched on to the main road, and the gears grated as Gurney changed up.

It didn’t take them long to get to Abe’s store. The place was in darkness. Dillon climbed out of the car. He leant forward and took the ignition key. Gurney watched him, feeling trapped. Then Dillon said, “You stay here. I ain’t goin’ to be long.”

He walked round to the back, opening the door with a Silently he moved down the dark corridor, until he came to the shop.

Abe was adding figures in a ledger, a skull-cap on Ins head, and his face alive with intent satisfaction. He glanced up when Dillon came in. “Was it a good fight?” he asked, keeping one bony finger on the ledger page, nailing down a figure, as if he were frightened that it would escape him.