Dillon’s thin lips smiled. His eyes were stony with contempt. “Forget it,” he said. “You little punks don’t know where you get off.”
Butch said, “Leave him to me.”
He began to weave forward, his great hands questing. Dillon,’ sitting on the table, watching, just hunched his shoulders in his coat. Then, when Butch was within a foot of him, the Colt leapt into his hand.
Hank screamed, “Get back, Hogan, he’s got a gun!”
Dillon shot Butch low down. The crash of the gun made Myra scream out. She stood outside the door, her hands to her mouth, shuddering.
Butch’s blind eyes closed, blotting out the two yellow clots from Dillon’s sight. He put his hands over his belly and squeezed. The blood ran through his fingers. Dillon watched him, his smile a little fixed.
Butch went down on his knees with a thud.
Hank and Morgan fought each other to get out of the room. Dillon let them go. He didn’t even turn his head. They went out through the verandah, and Gurney heard them running down the road.
The door opened and Myra came in. She stood in the open doorway, her face bony, holding herself upright against the woodwork. She made no move to go across to Butch. She just stood and watched.
Butch died like that, on his knees. He gradually slumped over like a limp sack of wheat.
Dillon eyed Gurney, then put the gun away inside his coat. “He was crazy to start on me,” he said.
Gurney said hoarsely, “You’d better get outta here.”
Dillon showed his teeth. “You’re comin’ with me, pal,” he said. “Don’t make a mistake about that.”
Gurney gulped and said hastily, “Sure… I didn’t blow like those other paloks.”
The two of them looked at Myra. She was suddenly conscious of them, aware that she was now alone, that Butch was finished, and she had to look after herself.
Gurney went over to her. “Shove some things together,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me.”
She didn’t say anything, but turned and went out of the room with trembling knees.
Dillon said, “Yeah, she’ll be useful.”
Gurney nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I guess she’ll be that.”
There was a long pause, both men remaining still, their eyes away from Butch. Then Gurney said, “Where we goin’?”
“Over the State line quick,” Dillon said. “We’ll see when we get there after that.”
Myra came in, holding a small leather case.
Gurney said, “Go out an’ get into the car.”
She turned on her heel and went out.
Dillon went over to Gurney. “We gotta have a little dough before we start,” he said. “Maybe you know Abe’s got a wad salted away. We’re goin’ to lift that. I know where it is.”
Gurney licked his lips. “It ain’t safe,” he said nervously. “The sheriff’ll be along pretty soon.”
Dillon said, “I’m tellin’ you… not askin’ you.”
They went out into the darkness, climbing into the old car. Myra was sitting at the back. She was holding on to her nerves, but she couldn’t stop herself shivering. The car lurched on to the main road, and the gears grated as Gurney changed up.
It didn’t take them long to get to Abe’s store. The place was in darkness. Dillon climbed out of the car. He leant forward and took the ignition key. Gurney watched him, feeling trapped. Then Dillon said, “You stay here. I ain’t goin’ to be long.”
He walked round to the back, opening the door with a Silently he moved down the dark corridor, until he came to the shop.
Abe was adding figures in a ledger, a skull-cap on Ins head, and his face alive with intent satisfaction. He glanced up when Dillon came in. “Was it a good fight?” he asked, keeping one bony finger on the ledger page, nailing down a figure, as if he were frightened that it would escape him.
Dillon said, “Stay where you are. Don’t start a squawk.” He held the Colt so that Abe could see it.
Abe laid down his pen… His old fingers trembled a little. “My Rose was wrong,” he said sadly.
Dillon walked to where Abe hid the day’s takings. They were in a coffee-tin, up on a shelf. He reached up and took it down. Abe sat with his hands in his lap, quite crushed.
“I guess I want this more’n you,” Dillon said, emptying the tin on the counter. There were just over a hundred dollars in small bills in the tin. Dillon scooped them into his pocket. He said, “I guess I’ll take your wad too… maybe you’ll use a bank after this.”
Abe gave a groan. “You ain’t givin’ me a break,” he said. “That money took some earning.”
Dillon opened the till, pulled the drawer right out, and put his hand in the gap. He felt round the wood carefully, found the wad of notes in the false drawer, took them out and put them in his pocket. “Two grand, ain’t it, Goldberg?” he said. “I’ve watched you count it enough times.”
Abe said, “I guess this is the last time I’ll help any bum.”
Dillon sneered. “Aw, can that,” he said. “Suckers like you go on givin’ a hand till they’re buried.”
While he was speaking Dillon moved round the store putting some tinned food together. He shoved them roughly into a large paper carrier. “We’re makin’ a trip,” he said. “I’d hate to steal this stuff from you… see, I’ll pay you for it.” He tossed three dollars on to the counter.
Abe said nothing. He just wanted Dillon to go away. He kept thinking how he was to tell Rosey. She’d never forgive herself.
Dillon picked up the carrier and walked over to the door. “Maybe, when I get the breaks, I’ll remember you, Goldberg… then maybe I won’t… you see.”
He walked out into the night, tossed the carrier into the car and climbed in. He gave the key to Gurney. “State line, fast,” he said.
Gurney started the engine and engaged the gears. They pulled out of Plattsville as the street clock struck two, and headed for the border.
PART TWO
Myra swung her legs off the bed and sat up. The sun came through the open window, burning her feet. The cheap clock on the mantleboard indicated 8.10. She sat there, sniffing the crisp air, her firm white body naked. She fished about with her feet, hunting for her shoes. Finally, with a little gasp of annoyance, she went on hands and knees and dug them out from under the bed.
She knelt there staring at the shoes. “By heck,” she said, “I’m getting a regular bum.” The shoes were just about handing in their checks. Two large cracks gaped like little mouths at her from the top, and the soles were as good as a sieve.
She sat back on her heels, scratching her thigh, thinking. It wasn’t from choice she was naked in bed. She just hadn’t anything to wear.
Three long weary weeks had crawled by since Butch had been knocked off. The cabin, hidden in the hills, was just held together by its paint. Dillon had been glad to move into it, and now he was in he just stuck.
The last owner had been an Okie, who had taken his family with him on the futile search for work in the Californian invasion. He had left the cabin pretty well as it stood. Even the bedding had been left. That Okie had certainly been in a hurry to get away.
Taking the car to the nearest small town, Dillon had got in enough stores to last for some time, and the three of them had dug themselves in. The cabin was lonely, off the beaten track, and they didn’t see anyone from dawn to dusk.
Dillon spent most of his time lying in bed, brooding. He got up around midday, had some food, and sat on the step of the cabin in the sun. He got on the other two’s nerves. The work was shoved on to Myra. Gurney cut the wood and got the water, but he didn’t do much else. He hung around the house, treading on Myra’s heels, keeping his hands off her with an effort, and generally eating his head off with boredom.
Myra was getting sick of it. She wasn’t taking any chances in getting laid up, so she kept Gurney out of her room. This made Gurney sore as hell, but Myra’s waspish temper stood between them like a wall.
