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.”
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.
