Dillon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. Gurney stood in the open doorway. He was scared. Dillon hunched his shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “You just get out quick or I’ll toss you out. I’m the boss of this outfit, see?”
Myra sneered at him. She stood with her legs planted wide and her hands on her hips. “You couldn’t be a boss of any outfit, you small-time gunman,” she said. “Get that into your thick dome Now come on, let’s have some dough.”
Dillon swung his fist and hit her on the side of her head. It was a solid punch. She hurtled across the room, banging her shoulder against the rough wood, and falling in a heap.
Gurney said feebly from the door, “Hey! You can’t knock her around like that.”
Dillon looked at him. His cold eyes were glittering. “Keep out of this,” he said; “she had it comin’ to her. She ain’t goin’ to get anywhere with that line of talk.”
Myra scrambled to her feet. She held her hand to her head. The ground rose a little under her feet. She focused Dillon with difficulty. “You devil!” she said.
Dillon hitched his trousers up and walked over to her. “Get out an’ put some food together. You’re here to work, see? I ain’t havin’ any hot air from you.”
She looked over his shoulder at Gurney. “Think you’re going to crawl in my bed after this, you yellow rat… you’ve got some chance.”
Dillon said, “You shut up!”
Gurney turned and went into the front room. He guessed Myra would give him hell for this. Dillon didn’t take his eyes off Myra. He remembered the way she bounced Butch around. This dame was dangerous. Myra looked at him, her eyes hating him. “You ain’t going to get away with this,” she said through her teeth. “I’ll fix you, you dirty heel!”
Dillon said, “Aw, can it!” He moved away, still keeping his eyes open.
Myra hesitated, then walked into the front room. Gurney gave her a scared look, but she took no notice of him. She began to prepare the meal. She cut the ham into thick hunks, savagely sawing at the salty meat, and slapping the slices into the pan.
Gurney expected her to cry. He guessed most dames would have folded up from a smack like that. Myra’s face was white and set. A livid mark, where Dillon had hit her, burnt on her temple, and her eyes were stormy.
Gurney said uneasily, “You ain’t goin’ to get nowhere, startin’ to fight that guy.”
Myra said nothing. She served the food, banging the plates on the table. Then, pouring herself out a cup of strong coffee, she went out into the sunshine and sat away from the cabin.
Dillon came in, looked at the food and grunted. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Gurney sat down.
“You gettin’ sick of things?” Dillon said. There was a tense threat in his voice.
Gurney slopped his coffee. “Me?… I ain’t squealin’,” he said hurriedly.
Dillon jerked his head to where Myra was sitting. “I figgered maybe you put her up to that.”
Gurney was round-eyed with innocence. “You got me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “You ain’t got to worry about her. She’s just mad at havin’ nothin’ to wear.”
Dillon cut the ham up in small squares. “You have a talk with her… she’d better watch her step. I ain’t standin’ any buck from her—get it?”
Gurney pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The food stuck in his throat. “Sure,” he said, “she’s just a kid… you know, she don’t mean a thing.”
Dillon said evenly: “You tell her… unless you want me to give her a rub-down. You want to handle that broad… what you scared about? Why the hell don’t you throw her on the bed?”
Pushing back his chair, Gurney got to his feet. He mumbled something and went over to fix the stove.
“I’m goin’ to take the car out,” Dillon said, finishing his food and getting up. “I’ve a little job I wantta case Maybe you can do somethin’ with it later.”
Gurney looked at him uneasily, but said nothing.
Myra watched the two men come out of the cabin and walk over to the shed where the car was garaged. She got up and went in, clearing the table and stacking the plates. She was still trembling with suppressed rage. She heard the car drive off, and she ran to the window. Dillon was sitting at the wheel.
Gurney came in. “He’s gone downtown,” he said.
Myra sat down on the wooden bench under the window. “I want to talk to you,” she said, her words coming tense and harsh. “It’s time you got wise to this guy.”
Gurney scratched the back of his head. “I don’t get this,” he said.
“You ain’t goin’ to get anything from him. Don’t you think it. He’s got that scratch from Abe Goldberg… has he given you any? Not a chance! You’re running around with him, an’ he’s tied an accessory rap on you. He’s the boss, an’ you jumpin’ in circles. You’re just a goddam sucker, scared by a bum like that.”
Gurney shifted. “That guy totes a—rod,” he said. “What can I do?”
Myra’s eyes glittered. “I’m goin’ to tell you what you’re goin’ to do. You’re goin’ to ‘yes’ that guy until you get the run of his game, then you’re goin’ to turn him in. You’re goin’ to have a gun, an’ you’re goin to shoot better than he shoots. You’re goin’ to do everything better than he does. Then he goes ”
Gurney stood looking at her. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Sure,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s an idea.”
The sun was tailing behind the hills when Dillon got back.
Gurney heard the old engine faintly in the distance, and he went out, standing by the well, looking down the rough road. He wondered where the hell Myra had got to. She had slipped off after the midday meal, and he hadn’t seen her since. Restless and bored with his own company, the sound of the car chugging up the hill came as a relief.
He had spent most of the afternoon wandering round the cabin, brooding. He felt that Myra had a good idea, ditching Dillon. He was scared of the guy. He couldn’t bring himself to think how Dillon was to be ditched. Unconsciously, he left that for Myra to fix. Sitting on the step in the sunshine, he had gone over everything Myra had said. That dame had a head all right. She’d got Dillon pinned down. Yeah, she was right. Dillon was a mean guy. He’d run them for a while, then leave them flat. Gurney’s hands ached for the feel of a gun. Just give him a gun and he’d fix Dillon okay.
Dillon drew up outside the cabin. He waved his hand to Gurney. His sullen face seemed more animated. Gurney came over.
“You been away some time,” he said You get the breaks?”
Dillon climbed out of the car and went round the back. He reached in and dragged out a bulky object covered with a blanket. “Come inside,” he said, “I got somethin’ to show you.”
Gurney followed him in. Dillon dumped the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
Gurney stood quite still, his heart beating hard. “Well by God!” he said.
Lying on the table was a Thompson riot gun, a heavy 45 Smith & Wesson, and a large case of shells.
Dillon patted the Thompson, his thin lips curving a little. “A guy who’s got a thing like that can get most places,” he said.
A shadow fell across the table. They looked up sharply. Myra stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the gun. The two men took their eyes away from her, and forgot her in the gun.
“How the hell did you get that?” Gurney asked. He picked up the .45 and caressed the cold butt. It felt good.
Dillon was in an expansive mood. He wandered over to the bench under the window and sat down. “Once you know the tricks,” he said, “it’s easy.”