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.
“You gotta keep your nut,” he had told her. “I'll be right with you, but you gotta go where I say, an' go quick. You ain't gotta argue... you gotta drive.”
When Dillon was through with her, he started on Gurney. He showed Gurney how to pull the gun, and how to shoot. Dillon said to him, “You ain't to pop that heater. You leave that to me. There's only two punks in that bank, an' those guys ain't goin' to cause trouble. They got a wife, an' maybe they got kids. All you gotta do is to collect the dough and get out quick.”
Gurney had the .45 under his coat. It made him feel good. He was excited, and he wasn't scared any more.
The jaloopy had been hidden in a wood some twenty miles from the bank. Dillon hadn't any trouble knocking off the Cadillac. It just stood in the main street asking to be knocked off. Even the engine was running, while some guy did his week-end store buying. That bus certainly could move.
They began to run into the town. Dillon edged himself forward, so that his head came between the two in the front. “Take it easy,” he said. “Just run up and stop without any fuss.”
Myra said, between her teeth, “What the hell you think I'd do? Turn the goddam thing over, and push it down the street on its roof?” Her heart was banging against her ribs.
Dillon sat back. “You keep your nut,” was all he said. Taking the blanket off the Thompson, he pulled the gun across his knees, his left hand on the car door.
Gurney pulled the .45 from inside his coat. He held it in his lap. His mouth was very dry.
They pulled up outside the bank.
Myra shoved out the clutch, put the gear in bottom, and revved the engine hard. She said, “Don't take all day.”
Dillon put his Colt automatic beside her. “Maybe you better have that.”
Myra slipped the gun under her, and sat on it. The butt was just under her hand.
Swinging the door open, Dillon ran across the pavement and entered the bank. The Thompson was under his coat. Gurney came in at his heels. There was a fat woman wedged against the grille, arguing with the teller. Gurney could hear her voice putting up a squawk. His brain was stiff. He couldn't get what she was saying.
A thin, lanky man got off a stool at the far end of the bank and wandered down when he saw Dillon.
“Stand by the door,” Dillon said to Gurney.
The lanky guy said, “We're closin' down right now,” he sounded as if he were bored to hell with the bank.
“Grab some air,” Dillon yelled, pitching his voice high, “this is a stick-up.” The Thompson showed its black barrel.
The two guys behind the counter stiffened into waxworks.
The fat woman turned her head. Dillon was right behind her. She took one look at him and her big mouth opened. Gurney nearly dropped his gun. “That dame's going to yell the roof off,” he thought.
Dillon shifted the gun a little and swung his fist. He hit the woman across her mouth with his knuckles. There was a lot of steam in that punch. She was right up against the counter, so she couldn't ride the punch. It made a real mess of her face. She flopped down on her knees and then spread out. A whistling sound dribbled from her throat. Without taking his eyes from the other two, Dillon kicked at her head. He kicked her just once. The woman's head bounced away from his boot. She stopped making any noise.
The lanky guy suddenly went green, and vomited on the floor in front of him. He didn't lower his hands, but just bent his head forward.
Dillon said to Gurney, “Hey! This bastard's been eatin' ice cream.”
Gurney wasn't feeling so good himself. He scrambled over the grille The two watched him with wide eyes. They were scared to death.
Gurney went through the drawers, piling the notes on the counter. Dillon stood watchful, holding the Thompson ready. He said, “Get the safe open.” He looked hard at the teller.
Gurney grabbed the teller's arm. “Get it open!” he snarled, pushing the .45 into his ribs. “Get goin', you sonofabitch.”
The teller staggered across to the vault, his knees buckling. Gurney could see the sweat running down behind his ears into his collar. The teller pulled open the door. It wasn't even locked. He tried to say something, but he was
