room. This made Gurney sore as hell, but Myra's waspish temper stood between them like a wall.
She got to her feet and put on the shoes, wriggling her toes inside them, feeling the rough boards through the soles. She splashed water into a tin bowl and began to wash. Slapping the water on her body, she rubbed herself briskly. All the time she was doing this her mind was busy. It was time to, shake these bums up a bit, she thought. Dillon would have to be handled carefully. Up to now he had ignored her. That irritated her. He just didn't know she was there. She thought he was a cold-blooded fish. She walked over to the stool where she had dropped her clothes. She turned them over, her nose wrinkling with disgust. Every damn garment was in holes. Even her dress was patched heavily under the arms.
Pulling the dress over her head, she smoothed the creases with her hands. Then she walked into the living- room.
Gurney was standing in the open doorway, fixing his belt. He nodded to her sourly. He thought he was having a swell break bringing her along, and then to have her lock herself in every night. His chin was covered with a stubbly beard, and his eyes, still puffy with sleep, peered at her hungrily.
Across the way was another little room, where Dillon slept. The door was shut. They didn't expect to see him for some time.
Myra said, “Suppose you get the fire goin'.” She spoke shortly.
Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.
Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn't take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.
He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.
Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There's work to do.”
Gurney forced her round. “I'm sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain't goin' to stand it.”
He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.
She said, “You're gettin' wrong ideas, Nick.”
“Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That's what you think. You're enough to drive a guy nuts.... What's the idea? You're hot enough when Butch might've killed you... but now...”
She kept her face cold. “The kettle's boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”
Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can't treat me like this.”
A furious wave of rage shot through her like a flame. “And what d'you think this is?” she screamed at him. “Look at me! How d'you think I like this? There's not a rag to my back. All you think is gettin' into bed. Well, you got another think coming. That lousy punk out there's got a roll of dough, and he just sits on it. How long d'you think we're goin' to stay in this sty? Who the hell are you to get sore?”
Gurney backed away uneasily. “Pipe down,” he said surlily, “I can't help it, can I?”
“You can't help it!” She beat her hands together. “I'll show you something.”
She pushed past him and burst in on Dillon. Dillon was sitting up in bed. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, a splinter of wood between his teeth. He looked at her suspiciously. “What the hell do you want, bustin' in like this?” he snarled.
“I'll tell you what I want,” she stormed at him. “I want to get out of here. I want some dough to buy things with.... I'm sick of messing around working for a couple of ragged-arse bums like you for nothin'. Look at me... look at this dress...”
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
