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.
She stabbed four times before she was satisfied. Then she rolled away and got shakily to her feet. There was a heavy silence in the darkness She said uneasily. “You all right, “Nick?”
A burning, claw-like hand gripped her wrist, twisting it sharply, so that the knife fell with a little clatter on the boards. “You've killed him, you silly little cow,” Dillon said in her ear.
Myra screamed once. Then her body stiffened with terror. “Don't touch me... don't touch me!” she moaned, trying to free her wrist.
She heard Dillon's foot touch the knife and kick it away. Then he let go of her and struck a match. With red, streaming eyes he looked at her in the dim flicker of the light.
“Stay still,” he said through his teeth. “You make a move an' I'll smash you.”
She remained motionless, one shaking hand at her mouth, while he walked stiffly to the lamp and lit it. Her eyes left him and turned slowly to Gurney, lying in the shadow. A narrow ribbon of blood ran from Gurney towards her, twisting like a snake across the rough boards. Still she could not move. The blood ran close to her feet, and she followed its course with eyes wide with horror.
Dillon pushed the door closed and mopped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve. His chest still heaved a little, and his face was set in granite-like lines.
“You dumb little bitch,” he said, “what you thinks goin' to happen to you now?”
Myra jerked her eyes from Gurney. She looked at him, suddenly sensing her danger. “He made me do it...” she began; “he made me—”
Dillon sneered. “That hick wouldn't've started anythin' like that. He ain't got the guts. You put him up to it; ain't that the way it went? You said 'Kill him', an' the louse just went ahead. I got you lined up. You bashed Butch. You're a little hell-cat. Well, I guess you an' me are goin' to understand each other.”
He walked over to her slowly. She backed away, throwing out her hands and shaking her head at him in her terror.
“Don't kill me...” she implored. “Don't... do... it!...” Her voice went shrill.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist, jerking her close. His inflamed eyes made her shrink back. “I've changed my mind about you,” he said. “You've got what it takes, so I guess you can string along with me. I always could use a broad like you. When I pick a moll she's got to be tough, an' I reckon that goes for you. Now do you get it? You an' me are goin' to work together. You're doin' what I tell you. I'm the boss, an' you're yessing your goddam guts out.”
Myra said quickly, “I'll do anythin'.”
Dillon took her arm and led her out of the room. She went with him, keeping her eyes from the still body that had now ceased to bleed. Dillon took her into her room again. He said quietly, “Wait here.” He went out, leaving her standing shivering by the bed. There was something terrifying in his cold, ruthless face. She just stood, her hands hanging at her sides, and her eyes blank.
Dillon came back again. He brought with him the thin steel rod they used to clear the stove. Myra looked at it and then suddenly came to life. Her hands shot up to her face. “What are you doin' with that?” she gasped, pushing herself against the wall, as if trying to force her body through the plaster.
“You gotta learn some sense, ain't you?” Dillon said, moving softly towards her. “I guess a good bashin' with this will get your ideas workin' right.”
Myra screamed, “Don't!... Don't!... Don't!...”
Dillon shifted his feet a little, then swung his fist. He hit her in her mouth, banging her head back with a crash against the wall Her eyes rolled up, and she went down Dillon kicked her over on her face, then, putting his boot on her neck, pinning her to the floor, he slashed down at her with the rod.
Off Bunker Avenue, within smelling distance of the Kansas City Stockyards, Miss Benbow ran a dress shop. It was the kind of shop you'd go to if your last nickel was a phoney, and you were anxious to have some excuse to scratch yourself.
Miss Benbow was a big negress. She'd got a smile like a split pumpkin, and if you looked hard enough at her when she pulled that grin you'd see it never reached her eyes. She made a lot of money, but not from the shop. If you asked her when her last sale had been she couldn't've told you. Her memory wasn't that long.
At the back of the shop, up a flight of dirty narrow stairs, she ran a flop-house. At one time or another she had given guys like Karpis, or Barker or Frank Nash, a shake-down while the cops were looking for them. Miss Benbow was safe. The cops left her alone. Some said she'd got a hold on the Police Commissioner. Anyway, the police let her alone, and that was good enough.
The two, Myra and Dillon, came to Miss Benbow at sight. The rain fell lightly on the glistening pavements, and the soft mist from the river was for the moment washed away. They came out of the night, Dillon walking softly, looking over his shoulder suspiciously from time to time. He was conscious of his new clothes, and the weight of the Thompson lying at the bottom of his big grip. ;
Myra stepped down the wet flags, her wooden heels tapping their challenge. She held her head up, delighting in the soft caress of silk against her skin. Dillon had done things to her in a short time. For the first time in her life she knew what it meant to have a man around. She no longer had to urge or suggest. She was told what to do and she obeyed blindly.
She glanced at Dillon, seeing his powerful shoulders and his thick, muscular neck. A little flame flickered
