Gurney wiped his sweating palms on the sheet.
She came back into the room again. He caught the flash of steel. “What’ve you got there?” he said, his voice just a croak. She showed him. The short blade of the knife flashed in the candlelight. He looked at her, his eyes popping. He started to say something, but stopped.
She sat down on the bed beside him. “Listen,” she said, “we’ll do it this way. When we’re set, I’m goin’ to start yellin’. I’m goin’ to bring the roof down. He’ll come in quick enough to see what’s wrong. I’ll give him the line that you attacked me, an’ you’ve gotta get tough. When he’s talkin’ to you, I’ll come up behind him an’ stick him with this. As soon as the knife’s in, you slam him one from the front. Watch his gun—he’ll bring that out all right. He might start shootin’ unless I kill him on his feet.”
Sweat ran down Gurney’s face. “By God!” he said. “I don’t like this.”
Myra jerked impatiently. “It’s goin’ to work—you see.”
“A knife ain’t goin’ to stop this bastard,” Gurney said; “don’t you think it will.”
Myra hesitated. She guessed maybe Gurney was right about that. Then she said, “We’ll give it him like he gave it to Butch.” She slipped into the outer room and came back almost immediately. She gave Gurney a small tin of pepper. Gurney looked at the tin and twisted his mouth into a grin.
“Yeah,” he said, and stood up.
“Wait for a break,” Myra warned him, “then toss the lot in his face. You make a mess of that, an’ you an’ me won’t last long.”
Gurney nodded his head. His hands were shaking, but he was cooling down.
Myra pulled off her dress. She ran her hands through her hair, mussing it Gurney pulled her to him. He could smell her, the acid odour of sweat and the woman of her. She pulled his head down to her mouth, forcing herself against him. They stood like that for several moments, straining to each other. Then Myra broke away from him, and stumbled over to the bed. Her face was dazed with the desire for him.
Gurney said between his teeth, “Start squawkin’.” He wanted to get this over.
Myra began to scream—high-pitched screams that jarred Gurney’s nerves. She stopped for a moment, then, when they heard the bolt slide back with a crash in Dillon’s room, she started again.
Gurney shouted, “Shut up!”
“Get out… get out!” she screamed at him.
Dillon said from the door, “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
Gurney jerked his head. “She’s gone nuts!”
Dillon advanced into the room. His face was cold and suspicious. Myra saw the gun in his hand. She sat up in the bed, her eyes wild. “Get him out of here,” she screamed to Dillon, “I won’t have him here.”
Dillon said with a little snarl, “Pipe down… what the hell do you think this is?” He turned his head and looked at Gurney. “You better get out of this. If you gotta lay this bitch, why the hell didn’t you knock her cold first? Suppose some car passed an’ came up to see what was wrong? You two screwy or somethin’?”
Myra got off the bed. She kept the knife behind her back. She said in a frightened voice, “You must help me. Please keep this devil out of my room. I know you ain’t got much use for me, but I guess you ain’t lettin’ him get away with this?”
Dillon turned his head to look at her, and Gurney tossed the pepper in his face. Myra threw herself flat. Dillon gave a strangled scream and the gun exploded at his side. Gurney made a dive for the door. He wanted to get the Thompson. He blundered into Dillon’s room. It was dark in there, lit only by a flickering candle. He couldn’t see the Thompson anywhere. He swore as he rushed round the room, feverishly turning things over, pulling out drawers, and groping in dark corners. Every moment he expected to feel the cold barrel of the gun, and his terror grew as his questing hands found nothing.
There was a fearful commotion of Dillon’s screams and the gun going off outside. Gurney, sobbing with panic, ran back to the door again. He almost ran into Dillon, who was stumbling across the outer room, one hand over his eyes, the other holding the gun waist-high. Gurney ducked back, hastily squeezing himself behind the door. Dillon fired once. The bullet sent a spurt of splinters from the wall. He came into the room and stood listening.
Gurney held his breath. He was scared all right. Dillon groped his way across to the bed. Gurney let him go past, then he leapt forward, driving his knees into Dillon’s back. The two went down with a crash. Gurney screamed for Myra to come.
The gun shot out of Dillon’s hand and slid under the bed. Gurney could feel the heat from Dillon’s body. They were both sweating with fear.
Arching his back, Dillon shot Gurney over his head, and then grabbed him round the body. He hit Gurney twice with his fists, as if he were driving a nail into wood. They both caught Gurney on the chest, driving the wind out of his body. Gurney lashed out with his feet, but in his terror he kicked wild. Dillon came at him again, his lips off his teeth, and a horrible sobbing noise coming deep down from his chest. Gurney took another punch that made him jerk convulsively, and then he slammed his right into Dillon’s face.
Myra came running in. She stood in the doorway, the knife held before her, waiting for a chance to get at Dillon. The two men rolled over, away from her, into a dark corner. She sprang forward and caught up the candle, holding it above her head.
“Kill him, Nick!” she shrilled. “Get after him… don’t let him get away!”
Gurney made a desperate effort to break away from Dillon, but Dillon was too strong for him. They crashed against the wall. One of Dillon’s hands groped for Gurney’s face, hooked fingers questing for his eyes. Gurney yelled and jerked his head back. Pinning Gurney with his knees, Dillon heaved up. Myra saw the broad shoulders suddenly coming up out of the shadow. She ran forward, holding the candle in her left hand, and drove the knife down hard.
The light warned Dillon. He let go of Gurney and threw himself backwards, crashing into Myra. The candle fell to the floor and went out. Myra went over heavily. The breath in her body rushed out of her throat as she hit the boards. She felt a hand close round her ankle. Screaming wildly, she kicked out furiously with her free foot. Twice she kicked Dillon’s head, but he kept on. He dragged her close and his hands gripped her thighs, his fingers like steel hooks, driving into the flesh and muscle. The agony of his grip made Myra scream again. She twisted forward, her fists beating him like flails. Still he kept that grip, digging his nails deeper and deeper into her.
“Nick… for God’s sake…!” Myra screamed.
Gurney heaved out of the darkness and smashed down on both of them. Myra got a hard knock from his arms as he came down. The paralysing grip on her legs loosened as, swearing in great gasping breaths, Dillon grabbed at Gurney again. Myra rolled clear. The cold blade of the knife touched her hand and she seized it by the handle.
Gurney yelled, “I got him… quick… Myra quick!”
She ran into the darkness towards the sound of the struggle. Her shins struck their bodies and she fell on top of them.
Gurney panted out of the darkness, “Get him… for Christ’s sake… I can’t… hold him.”
Myra kept her head. She lay flat on the two struggling bodies. Her hand groped in the dark and touched a face. The two men heaved up, nearly throwing her clear.
A muffled voice mumbled, “He’s underneath… get him.” And blindly she thrust down with the knife. She heard a sigh and the struggling suddenly ceased.
“Don’t leave him… Nick…” Myra gasped to Gurney. “Hold him.” Her hand still held the horn shaft of the knife; she pulled it out, and then, moving the point a little way up, she shoved down hard again on the handle.