Myra went over to the table and stood looking. She cautiously put her hand on the cold barrel of the Thompson.
Dillon watched her. His triumphant mood included her. “Pick it up,” he said. “It ain’t goin’ to bite.”
She held the Thompson, the butt tucked under her arm. The long barrel pointed to the stove. She let her hand run over the smooth drum.
Gurney watched her. His mouth was dry with excitement. Maybe this guy wasn’t such a bum after all, he thought. “You didn’t find that growin’ on a tree,” he said.
Dillon shook his head. “These guns don’t get picked up easy,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Know how I got it?” His thin lips grinned at them. Myra watched him, her face blank, but her eyes hated him. Dillon didn’t feel her. He was big-shotting himself to death.
“I went into the sheriff’s office an’ bought it off him,” he said.
“That’s a hell of a tale,” Gurney said. The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.
“Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country’s nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over ’cause he’s too old, or maybe he’s sick or somethin’. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What’s he to do then? Some guy blows in an’ makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he’d get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain’t legal sellin’ Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He’s out for good, so he should worry.”
Gurney said, “You got this from a sheriff?” His voice was incredulous.
Dillon nodded. “Sure I did.” He reached forward and picked up the .45. “I went into town today an’ got talkin’. Some guy said the sheriff in the next town was closin’ down, so I grabbed the car an’ went out to see him. That little lot set me back a good few bucks, but that ain’t goin’ to worry me. A Tommy talks any time.”
Myra recognized this much. Dillon knew the ropes. Gurney wasn’t in the same street with him for ideas. He knew where to-get things and how to get them. This guy could teach them something.
She said, making her voice soft, “I guess that’s smart.”
Dillon looked at her hard, but Myra’s eyes were wide with admiration. He grunted. “I guess I know my way around,” he said.
“Can you work this?” Gurney said, tapping the Thompson.
Dillon stood up. “Can I work it?” He picked it up and walked outside. “You watch me.”
Myra and Gurney followed him out. They did not look at each other, but Myra put her hand on Gurney’s arm, gripping his muscle. Gurney nodded his head, still keeping his eyes on Dillon’s back.
Dillon looked round thoughtfully, selecting a target. “You ain’t got to worry about aimin’ this gun, he said; “you spray it, see? You just gotta hold it steady an’ bring it round slow in a sweep… like this.”
He raised the gun, levelling it at the garage door, then he pressed the trigger. The shattering roar of the gun made Myra take an involuntary step backwards. Chips of white wood flew from the door. From where they stood they could see the holes spring up in the woodwork in an even line.
Dillon stopped firing and turned to look at them. “See?” he said. “That’s the way. This gun’s goin’ to stop anythin’ on two legs.”
Myra came over to him. “I bet I could do that,” she said.
Dillon looked down at her, hesitating. Then his good-humour overcame his caution. He gave the gun to her. “You gotta hold her.”
Myra pressed the butt into her side, her finger curling round the trigger, then she squeezed. The gun jumped about in her hand as if it were alive. The dry mud puffed up and the leaves from the trees overhanging the garage fell in a shower; she winged the door twice.
Dillon said, “Take it easy… you gotta hold that gun.”
Gurney was itching to try. He looked at Dillon, trying to catch his eye. Myra held the gun, looking at it thoughtfully, then she shoved it in Gurney’s hands.
Dillon scowled. “Hey,” he said, “those shells cost dough!”
Gurney was not to be put off. He raised the gun and fired off a round. The wood splinters again spurted. He could see he’d drawn a line of holes almost as well as Dillon.
Myra said, “You ain’t so good as this guy.”
That pleased Dillon. Anyway, that’s why she said it. He took the gun from Gurney and walked back to the cabin Gurney followed close behind him.
They both sat and watched Dillon clean the gun. Every now and then Myra would ask a question. She asked it in a way that touched Dillon’s vanity. He talked all right. They learnt a lot about that gun while he was cleaning it.
Gurney helped Dillon hide the case of shells, and they put the gun under Dillon’s bed. Then they came back to the sitting-room.
Dillon sat on the edge of the table and looked at Gurney. “There’s a small bank down there that might be worth workin’ over I’d do it if I’d someone to drive the car.”
Myra said quietly, “I’ll drive the car.”
Dillon jerked his head round. “What the hell do you know about a car?” he said shortly. “A getaway is the main thing in a bank stick-up. The guy who handles the wheel’s got to use his head. He’s got to drive like hell an’ keep on drivin’ like hell.”
Myra shrugged. “I guess nobody’s goin’ to drive like hell in that old jaloopy,” she said.
“Who said I was going in her?” Dillon demanded. “You don’t know a thing about this business. I’ll knock a car off when I’m ready. A real fast job, with enough steam under the hood to shake anythin’ on four wheels.”
“Get a bus like that,” Myra said, “an’ I’ll drive it.”
Dillon began to get angry. “Will you keep your goddam nose outta this?” he snarled. “This ain’t for you, so shut up.”
Myra got up and walked to the door. “Yeah?” she said. “Then watch this.”
She ran over to the old car outside, slipped under the wheel and started the engine. She had that old bus going forty before she was out of sight. She had changed up, one—two—three—almost in so many seconds. Back she came, swinging the wheel so that the wheels on the offside lifted and slammed back, nearly jerking her out of the car. She pushed the old bus right up to the cabin, making Dillon and Gurney jump to their feet before she nailed it dead. She got out of the car and walked into the cabin again.
Dillon looked at her. There was a look of astonishment in his eyes, but he kept his face blank.
“She can handle a car all right,” Gurney said to him. “I guess she wouldn’t lose her nerve.”
Dillon hesitated and then he nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I guess we’ll knock that bank tomorrow.”
Behind his back the two exchanged glances.
The big Cadillac settled down to business. Myra kept the pedal on the boards, holding the car to the crown of the road. Gurney was beside her, and Dillon sat at the back. He held the Thompson by his side, covered with a blanket.
It was just after three o’clock, and the afternoon sun was hot. It reflected on the white road and shimmered across the green fields.
They’d had the breaks all right. It was not just chance. Dillon had gone over everything with a thoroughness that surprised the other two. First he made a map on a piece of white card. The bank was plotted right in the centre. He had made arrangements for getting away in three different ways. “It’s like this,” he explained. “We come out with the dough. Maybe some guy puts up a squawk. Okay. The sheriff might’ve grabbed himself a car and come beating down here.” He traced a line on the map. “We gotta go this way. Maybe he’ll come from this direction. We ain’t got time to swing the bus round, so we beat it to the right. With this map we got three getaways.” He had pinned the map just above the windscreen, over Myra’s head. He’d taken Myra through that map until she was sick of it.