guess.”
“You've got a week to fix things,” Butch said slowly. “Use your head.”
Myra came out on the verandah. Her eyes were fixed on Gurney. Butch jerked his head round. “Where've you been?” he demanded.
“Your supper's ready,” she said.
Gurney got to his feet. “Okay, Butch, I'll see what I can do.”
Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch's nose. Myra didn't dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.
“What you doin'?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.
“I'm on my way,” Gurney grinned. “'Bye, Myra; take care of your Pa.”
He went away, grinning.
Myra slipped into the kitchen. Her heart was thumping hard against her ribs. The crazy loon, she thought, to do a thing like that. She stood quite still, in the middle of the untidy kitchen, holding her breasts tightly, her eyes half closed, thinking of him.
The town took an interest in Dillon. Abe noticed that trade picked up when Dillon was in the store. The women came in to look at him. They had heard about Walcott. A guy who could hit like that must have plenty of steam. Any guy with steam made the women in Plattsville a little light-headed.
They got a shock when they saw Dillon, but they wouldn't admit they were disappointed. They had hoped to see a Clark Gable, and Dillon's clay-like face and cold expressionless eyes startled them. They told one another that he was a bad man, and they kept on coming in to have another look at him.
The men in Plattsville got sour about it. They said anyone could have smacked Walcott down; he was a cheap punk and didn't amount to anything.
They were talking about Dillon in the saloon when Gurney came in. They broke off. Gurney stopped most talk wherever he went. They wanted to know how Sankey was shaping.
Freedman pushed his way forward. “H'yah, Nick,” he said, “what you havin'?”
Gurney was used to this sort of thing. He couldn't place Freedman, but that didn't worry him. He said, “Rye, straight.”
George lumbered along the counter with the bottle and glass. He left it at Gurney's elbow.
Freedman said, “Your boy okay?”
Gurney poured himself out a shot and tossed it down his throat. He said, “Sure, he's all right.”
“I got my money on him,” Freedman said. “I'd like to see him win.”
“He's goin' to win, you see.”
Wilson lounged to the bar. “Franks ain't so bad,” he said; “I guess I fancy Franks.”
Gurney looked him over. Just a small-town wise-guy he thought, maybe not so small-town. He said, “Hell, someone's got to back him.”
The others laughed.
Wilson's face reddened angrily. “Yeah?” he said. “Sankey's gettin' nerves. That guy's goin' to be stiff before he gets in there. Franks'll beat hell out of him.”
Gurney turned to fill his glass. He thought this line of talk wouldn't get him anywhere. He tapped Wilson on his coat-front. “Get wise, sucker,” he said. “Ain't you heard of a front? Sankey's full of tricks. This is one of 'em. Listen, Sankey could whip Franks blindfolded. He's springing a surprise for that palooka. Get your dough on the right man.”
Wilson began to lose confidence. “That straight?” he asked; “that on the level?”
Gurney winked at Freedman. “He asks me it it's straight? Me! Take him away someone an' bury him.”
Freedman said, “I'd like your boy to push this Dillon around. That's what that bastard wants.”
Gurney raised his eyebrows. “Dillon? Who's he?”
They jostled one another to tell him. Gurney stood, his shoulders against the wall, a glass in his hand, and listened. He said at last, “Abe ain't no fool This guy can't be so bad.”
Freedman said, “He's got Goldberg tooled.”
Gurney was getting sick of Freedman. He straightened his coat, leant forward over the counter, and adjusted his hat in the wall mirror. “I gotta see Abe; I'll look this guy over.”
Freedman made as if to go with him. Gurney checked him with a look. “This is a little matter of business,” he said.
Freedman said, “Sure, you go ahead.” He said it hastily. He didn't want to get in bad with Gurney.
Crossing the street, Gurney entered the store. It was the slack part of the day, and the place was empty. Dillon came out from the back, and stood with his hands resting on the counter, framed by two towers of tinned foods. He was wearing one of Abe's store suits that fitted him in places, and his face was close-shaven. He didn't look the hobo that had come into Plattsville a few days back. He looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. A cold, suspicious stare. Gurney thought he might be a mean sort of a guy.
“Abe about?” he asked.
Dillon shook his head. “He's out,” he said briefly.
“Too bad. I wanted to see Abe.” Gurney fidgeted a little. Dillon made him a little uneasy.
“Will he be long?” he said after a pause.
“Maybe.” Dillon began to edge away into the darkness of the store.
Gurney thought he'd try a little probing. He said: “You're new around here.”
Dillon rubbed his forearm. He still looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. “You're the guy who's runnin' Sankey, ain't you?” he said.
Gurney swelled a little. “That's me,” he said.
“What's the matter with him?”
“Matter? Nothin'. What d'you mean?”
“You know. That guy's gone yellow. What's eatin' him?”
Gurney paused, uncertain. Then he said, “Listen, I don't like that line of talk.”
Dillon wandered out from behind the counter, he still rubbed his forearm. “Don't 'big shot' me,” he said. “I said what's the matter with him?”
Again Gurney felt uneasy. The dangerous, savage power in Dillon conveyed itself to him.
“Franks got him jittery,” he said reluctantly.
Dillon nodded. “He goin' to win?”
“Sankey? I guess not.” Gurney frowned. “I gotta lotta dough on that boy.”
“I guess I could fix it,” Dillon said, watching him closely.
“You?” Gurney looked incredulous.
“Sure, why not?” Dillon lounged to the door and looked into the street, then he came back again.
“What d'you know about fixin' fights?” Gurney asked suspiciously.
“Plenty,” Dillon told him, then, after a pause, he added: “I'm lookin' for a chance to break into the dough again.”
Gurney was getting more than interested. “Suppose you come on out an' see Butch tonight? I'd like you to meet Butch Hogan.”
“Hogan?” Dillon thought a moment. “That the old ex-champ?”
“That's the guy. He lives just outside the town now. Blind he is—a tough break for a guy like that.”
“Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head, “a tough break.”
