She stood looking at him and Dillon tried to smile at her, but his face only grimaced. The look in his eyes frightened her. She moved back a pace.
Dillon took the clip out of his pocket. He tried to sound casual. “Gimme the gun.”
She leant forward, holding the gun out to him but keeping away. There was a tense frightened look on her face which made Dillon think of some timid animal, not sure of itself. He took the gun, his hand touching hers. Again she took a step back.
Dillon slipped the clip in and jerked the lever, bringing a slug into the chamber. He said, “Sit down…. I wantta show you how it works.”
She didn’t move. Dillon had the impression she was about to run away. He quickly turned from her. “Look over there,” he said, pointing across the clearing to a broken branch of a tree. It hung like a withered arm.
“Watch me pot it.” When he brought the gun up his hand was shaking. The gun-sight nickered up and down, and he cursed softly. “Don’t you get scared with the row,” he mumbled. He knew if he didn’t start shooting and hold her interest she would go. He could feel the panic that was mounting in her.
The gun cracked. In the stillness of the wood the noise was startling. Chrissie sighed. Although the roar of the gun had made her flinch, she wanted to try.
Dillon said, “I guess I ain’t so hot…. I missed it.” He tried again, gripping the gun until his hand sweated. He drew his breath in hard, holding it, then he squeezed the trigger. Again the gun cracked. This time a shower of splinters flew from the branch.
Chrissie clapped her hands. “Oh, it’s good!” she said.
Dillon didn’t say anything. He fired once more. The branch dropped a little. “Now you have a go,” he said, getting slowly to his feet.
Chrissie came up to him, her eyes fixed on the gun. She had forgotten him. Her mind was only for the gun.
He said with difficulty, “You stand here.”
She was quite close to him, her face intent and excited. Dillon turned a little sideways, slipping the clip out. He wasn’t taking any chances. He put the gun in her hand, then he moved a little behind her.
She stood, her eyes fixed on the branch of the tree.
“You hold the gun like this.” He put his hand on her wrist, raising her arm and pointing the gun. Her firm flesh burnt in his hand. He felt a little shudder run through her, but she was so anxious to fire the gun that she let him hold her.
The blood pounding in his ears, he gripped her round her waist with his other hand. He said thickly, “Don’t get scared…. I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”
The gun slipped out of her hand. It was forgotten immediately. The terrifying, tightening pressure of his hands sent her into a blind panic. She stood trembling, her eyes going wild. She began to mumble.
Dillon snarled, “Stop that goddam row!”
He jerked her close to him. Her weak, idiotic face sickened him, but her womanness got him. He turned her slowly stiffening body and crushed her close to him.
Then suddenly, like a released spring, she was gone from him. Her strength completely staggered him. He had had her gripped tightly, then his arms were powerless against the sudden heaving twist of her body. She sprang away, without looking back; she ran mumbling into the woods.
Dillon made no attempt to follow her. He just stood watching her, a feeling of sick frustration creeping over him. When she had vanished and the last sound of her flight faded away, he moved a little uncertainly, as if to pursue her. Then he stopped. Roxy was standing in the clearing, his face white, and his eyes gleaming dangerously.
“I saw you,” Roxy said. “You rotten louse.”
All Dillon’s pent-up fury became centered on Roxy. Here was someone on whom he could wreak his rage. He began sliding across the grass, his eyes gleaming.
Roxy slipped off his coat. He let it fall at his feet. “I warned you once about that,” he said through his teeth. “Now I guess I gotta hammer it home.”
He came at Dillon with startling speed. Dillon didn’t bother to protect himself. He had too much confidence in his own strength. He swung a long raking left at Roxy’s head as he came in, but Roxy shifted a little, not stopping his rush, and Dillon’s fist sailed over his shoulder.
Roxy got in close and hit Dillon in the body with two heavy blows. Dillon went crazy and missed with his wild swings.
Roxy kept stepping in and out. Every time he stepped in his fist thudded into Dillon, and when he stepped out Dillon missed him with a swing.
Dillon tried to get in close and wrestle, but Roxy kept going away, letting him have it as he rushed in. Dillon was getting a fearful lacing, but he didn’t feel much; he was too mad to feel anything. Roxy hit him twice on the jaw as hard as he could. The blows sent Dillon’s head back, but it didn’t stop him.
That scared Roxy, and gave Dillon confidence. He began to get a grip on himself. He swung his usual wild left which Roxy was waiting for, and then he sent in a right which caught Roxy. The blow made Roxy sag at the knees. In went Dillon, taking Roxy’s feeble left in his face, but getting two sledge-hammer punches to Roxy’s ribs.
After that Dillon began to get it his way. He kept hitting and Roxy couldn’t back away fast enough. He caught his heel in a tuft of grass and went over backwards. Dillon dropped on him, his great weight pinning Roxy flat.
Neither of them said anything. Roxy reached up and caught Dillon by the neck. He couldn’t quite get under Dillon’s chin. Roxy began to lose his head. His legs kicked wildly as he tried to shift Dillon. He could see the cold merciless face close to him and his strength began to ebb.
Dillon raised his fist and smashed it down on Roxy’s upturned face. The heel of his hand caught Roxy across his nose. Roxy’s hands fell away limply. Dillon shifted a little and had Roxy by the throat. He flung his weight on his hands. Roxy kicked a little. His eyes opened very wide, and his hands plucked futilely at Dillon’s wrists.
Dillon panted, “You were always a smart guy.”
He stayed there until Roxy died.
The two of them remained so still in the clearing that a small bird dropped from a tree and hopped towards them. With bright, suspicious eyes it watched them, its small head a little oh one side. Then, as Dillon got slowly to his feet, the bird hastily took wing.
Dillon stood over Roxy, one of his hands touching his bruised face. Then he turned and stumbled back to the farmhouse. He cautiously approached, but no one seemed to be about.
Lying near the old barn was a pick and shovel. He carefully took them and turned back to the woods again.
The grave he dug for Roxy was a shallow affair, but it was away from the path and it would be difficult to find. He patted the soil flat and covered it with branches of trees. Then he stood up, beads of sweat on his face.
From behind a big clump of bushes Chrissie watched him with puzzled eyes, and when he had gone away she came out quietly and stood looking down at the grave. She knelt down and scratched at the loose soil with her hands.
When Dillon had put the shovel and pick back he wandered into the fields. He wanted to think what he had to do. Would it be safe to take the car and blow? Would Chrissie put up a squawk? He guessed maybe she wouldn’t. She might have forgotten what he had tried to do. She was crazy enough to forget anything.
He had got money and he had the car, but could he take the risk and go now, or would it be better to wait? He couldn’t make up his mind. He wandered on, untroubled at the death of Roxy. When guys got in his way, he just trampled on them. He had got to live, he told himself, and the others had got to look after themselves.
Farther down the fields he ran into Ma Chester. She was working on the land, a long hoe turning up the brown soil. She paused, pushing back a grey strand of hair that hung over her eyes.