Dead Stay Dumb

PART ONE

There were three of them. The bigness of the room hid them from the sun, burning up the road outside. They sat round a table, close to the bar, drinking corn whisky.

George, behind the bar, held a swab in his thick fingers, and listened to them talk. Every now and then he nodded his square head and said, “You're dead right, mister.” He just “yessed” them along—that was all.

Walcott uneasily fingered a coin in his vest pocket. It was all the money he had, and it was worrying him. Freedman and Wilson had stood him a round, and now it was coming to his turn. He couldn't rise to it. His weak, freckled face began to glisten. He touched his scrubby moustache with a dirty thumb and moved restlessly.

Wilson said, “Cain't go no place these days but there's some lousy bum lookin' for a free flop an' a bite of somethin' to eat. This town's lousy with bums.”

Walcott said quickly, “Ain't it gettin' hot in here? Seems like it's too hot to drink even.”

Freedman and Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Then Freedman drained his glass and set it on the table with a little bang. “Ain't never too hot for me to drink,” he said.

George leant over the bar. “Shall I fill 'em up, mister?” he said to Walcott.

Walcott hesitated, looked at the two blank, coldly suspicious faces of the other two, and nodded. He put the coin on the counter. He did it reluctantly, as if the parting with it was a physical hurt. He said, “Not for me... jest two.”

There was a heavy silence, while George poured the liquor. The other two knew it was Walcott's last coin, but they wouldn't let him off. They were determined to have everything they could from him.

George picked up the coin, looked at it, spun it in his thick fingers, and flipped it into the till. Walcott followed every movement with painful intensity. He screwed round a little in his chair, so that he couldn't see the others drinking. He put his hands over his eyes.

Freedman turned his red fat face and winked at Wilson. He said, “It's only the Kikes that have the dough.”

George said ponderously, “Yeah, you're right, mister.”

“Sure I'm right,” Freedman said, sipping his corn whisky. “Take a look at Abe Goldberg, ain't he got most of the dough in the town?”

Walcott turned his head. His pale eyes lit up. “That guy's stinking with it,” he said. “Hell of a lot of good it does him, too.”

Wilson shrugged. “His fat cow sews up his pockets,” he said. “He don't drink, he don't smoke, he don't do nothin'.”

Freedman winked again. “You're wrong there,” he said. “But what he does do don't cost him anything.” They laughed.

The three-quarter swing doors of the saloon pushed open, and a girl came in. She stood hesitating in the patch of sunlight at the door, trying to see in the dimness of the room. Then she came over to the bar.

George said, “'Morning, Miss Hogan, how's your Pa?”

The girl said, “Gimme a pint of Scotch.”

George reached under the counter and slapped down a bottle in front of her. She gave him a bill, and while he was getting change she looked round the room. She saw the three, sitting watching her. They sat like waxworks, suspended in everything but her. She looked slowly from one to the other, then she tossed her head and turned back to the bar.

“I ain't got all day,” she said. “Stir your stumps, can't you?”

George put the money on the counter. Aw, Miss Hogan—” he began.

She picked up the money and the bottle quickly. “Forget it,” she said, and walked out.

The three turned in their chairs as she went, their eyes fixed in a bright, unblinking stare. They watched her push the swing doors and disappear into the hot, sunlit road.

There was a lengthy silence.

Then Freedman said, “She ain't got a thing under that dress, did you see?”

Walcott still stared at the door, as if hoping she'd return. He nervously wiped his hands on a cap he held on his knee.

Wilson said, “If I were Butch I'd take the hide off her back... the little whore.”

George said, “Ain't she a looker? There ain't another skirt in this dump like her, ain't that right?”

Walcott dragged his eyes away from the door. “Yeah,” he said: “See the way she came in? Standin' in the sunlight like that, showing all she got. That girl's a tease. She's going to get into trouble one of these days, you see.”

Freedman leered. “You don't know nothin',” he said. “You can't teach that babe a thing. I'm tellin' you, she's hot. I've seen her at night with one of those engineer fellows in the fields.”

The other two jerked their chairs forward. They leant over the table. George looked at them. They had suddenly lowered their voices. He couldn't hear what they were saying. He hesitated, then, feeling himself excluded, he moved further down the bar, and began to polish glasses. Anyway, he told himself, it wasn't too healthy talking about old Butch Hogan's daughter Old Butch was still dangerous.

A long, starved shadow of a man tell across the floor of the saloon, making George look up sharply.

The man stood in the doorway holding the swing doors apart with his hands. A battered, greasy hat pulled over his face hid his eyes. George looked at him, saw the frayed, stained coat, the threadbare trousers and the broken shoes. He automatically reached forward and put the cover on the free-lunch bowl.

“Another goddam bum,” he thought.

The man came in with a limping shuffle. He looked at the three at the table, but they didn't see him. They were still wrangling about the girl. George leant forward a little over the bar and spat in the brass spittoon. Then having expressed his attitude, he straightened up and went on polishing a glass.

“The name's Dillon,” the man said slowly.

George said, “Yeah? Ain't nothin' to me What's yours?”

“Gimme a glass of water.” Dillon's voice was deep and gritty.

George said, his face hostile, “We don't serve water here.”

“But you'll serve me an' like it,” Dillon said. “D'you hear me, punk?—I said water.”

George reached under the counter for his club, but Dillon suddenly pushed up his hat and leant forward.

“You ain't startin' anythin',” he said.

The cold black eyes that looked at George made the barman suddenly shiver. He took his hand away with a jerk. Dillon continued to stare at him.

There were no guts in George. He was big, and every now and then he had to smack someone down with his club. He did it without thinking. This bum was different. George knew he'd get nowhere being tough with a guy like this.

“Here, take the water, an' get the hell outta here.” He pushed a bottle of water across the wood in Dillon's direction.

The three at the table stopped talking about Hogan's daughter and turned in their chairs. Freedman said, “Well, by God! Here's another bum blown in.”

George began to sweat. He walked down the counter to Freedman, shaking his head warningly.

Dillon took a long pull from the water-bottle.

Sure of himself, because of his two companions, Freedman said, “This punk stinks. Get him outta here, George.”

Dillon put the bottle down on the counter and turned his head. His white, clay-like face startled Freedman. Dillon said, “You're the kind of heel that gets slugged some dark night.”

Freedman lost some of his nerve. He turned his back and began talking to Walcott.

Just then Abe Goldberg came in. He was a little fat Jew, maybe about sixty, with a great hooked beak and two sharp little eyes. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving him a kindly look. He nodded at George and ordered a ginger ale. Dillon looked at him closely. Abe was shabby, but he wore a thick rope of gold across his chest. Dillon eyed that with interest. Abe met his eye. He said, “You a stranger around here?”

Dillon began to shuffle to the door. “Don't you worry about me,” he said.

Abe looked him over, sighed, and put his glass on the wood. He walked over to Dillon, looking up at him. “If you could use a meal,” he said, “go over to the store across the way. My wife'll fix you something.”

Dillon stood looking at Abe, his cold eyes searching the little Jew's face. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess I'll do that.”

The three at the table, and George, watched him shuffle out of the saloon. Freedman said, “That's a bad guy all right. There's somethin' about that guy.”

George mopped his face with the swab. He was mighty glad to see Dillon go. “You gotta be careful with those bums, Mr. Goldberg,” he said. “You don't know how tough hoboes are.”

Abe drained his glass, then shook his head. “That guy's all right. He's hungry,” was all he said. He crossed the street and went into the store.

Abe Goldberg was proud of that store. It was all right. It was a good store. You could get most things from Goldberg's Stores. Maybe you did have to pay a little more, but it was convenient. All under one root. It saved a walk in the heat, so you expected to pay a little more. Anyway, Abe made a good thing out of it. He didn't toss his money about, nor did he yell-about it. He just socked it away in the bank, and said nothing. Most people liked Abe. He was a little sharp, but then you expected that too, so you haggled with him. Sometimes, if you haggled long enough, you got what you wanted cheaper. Abe's joint was the only one in town that you could haggle in. And sometimes people like to haggle.

Abe walked into his shady cool store, sniffed at the various smells, and smiled to himself. His wife, who came a little older than he, shook her black curls at him. She was fat, and she had big half-circles of damp under her arms, but Abe loved her a lot.

“Goldberg,” she said, “what's the big idea, sending bums into my kitchen?”

Abe lifted his narrow shoulders and spread out his hands. “That guy was hungry,” he said. “What could I do?”

He lifted the trap on the counter and passed through. His small hand patted his wife's great arm. “You know how it is,” he said softly; “we've been hungry Give him a break, Rosey, won't you?”

She nodded her head. “It's always the same. Bum after bum comes into this town and they all make tracks for you. I tell you, Goldberg, you're a sucker.” Her big, fleshy smile delighted him.

“You're a hard woman, Rosey,” he said, patting her arm again.

Dillon was eating in the kitchen, intent and morose, when Abe went in. He glanced up, keeping his head lowered over his plate, then he looked down again.

Abe stood there, shifting his feet a little in embarrassment. He said at last, “You go ahead an' eat.”

With his mouth full, Dillon said, “Sure.”

Sitting there, his hat still wedged on his head, the knife and fork dwarfed in his big hairy hands, Dillon impressed Abe. There was an intense, savage power coming from him; Abe could feel it. It scared him a little.

For something to say, Abe remarked, “You come far?”

Again Dillon raised his cold eyes and looked. “Far enough,” he said.

Abe pulled up a chair and carefully lowered his small body down. He put his hands on the table—clean, soft hands of a child. He said, “Where you headin' for?”

Dillon tore a piece of bread from the loaf and swabbed his plate round, then he put the bread in his mouth and clamped on it slowly. He pushed his plate away from him and sat back, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He still kept his head slightly lowered, so Abe couldn't see him very well. “As far as I can git,” he said.

“Maybe a drop of beer'd come nice?” Abe said.

Dillon shook his head. “I can't use the stuff.”

In spite of himself, Abe's face brightened. The guy could have a drink on him with pleasure, but, maybe, he was getting a little generous. He said, “A smoke?”

Again Dillon shook his head. “Can't use that either.”

Outside, in the store, Rosey gave a sudden squeal. Abe sat up listening. “What's up with my Rose?” he said.

Dillon explored his teeth with a match-end. He said nothing. Abe got to his feet and walked into the store.

Walcott was leaning over the counter, glaring at Rosey. His thin, boney face was red.

Abe said nervously, “What is it?”

Walcott shouted, “What's up? I'll tell you what's up, you goddam Kike. She ain't givin' me no more tick, that's what's up.”

Abe nodded his head. “That's right, Mister Walcott,” he said, going a little white. “You owe me too much.”

Walcott saw he was scared. He said, “You gimme what I want, or I'll bust you.” He closed his hand into a fist and leant over the counter, swinging at Abe. Abe stepped back hastily and banged his head hard against a shelf. Rosey squealed again.

Dillon shuffled slowly out of the kitchen into the store. He looked at Walcott, then he said, “Lay off.”

Walcott was drunk. The corn whisky still burnt in a fiery ball deep inside him. He turned slowly. “Keep out of this, you bum,” he said.

Dillon reached forward and hit Walcott in the middle of his face. The blow came up from his ankles. A spongy mass of blood suddenly appeared where Walcott's nose had been. Walcott reeled away, holding on to his face with both hands.

Dillon stood watching him. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He said, “Scram... get the hell outta here!”

Walcott went, his knees buckling as he walked.

Abe and Rosey stood motionless. The little Jew's hands Muttered up and down his coat. He finally said, “You shouldn't've hit him that hand.”

Dillon said nothing. He began to move to the door.

Abe said, “Wait. Don't go. I guess we gotta thank you for that.”

Dillon turned his head. “Save it,” he said, “I got to get goin'.”

Rosey plucked at Abe's sleeve. “Give that boy a job, Goldberg,” she said.

Abe looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Rosey...” he began.

Dillon looked at them suspiciously. Standing there in the dim store, his great shoulders hunched, he frightened Abe.

Rosey said, “Go on, Goldberg, give him a break You gotta get a hand some time, so make it now.”

Abe looked timidly at Dillon. “Sure,” he said uneasily. “That's dead right. I was goin' to hire me a hand. That's right. Suppose we talk it over?”

Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.

“Sure, go ahead an' talk about it.”

Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.

She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.

The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.

At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.

With an uneasy smile on her full red lips she came on. But the women, as she came nearer, shifted like a brood of vultures, turning their drooping shoulders against her, their eyes sightless, not seeing her. Again the wooden heels began to click Her face flushed, her head held high, she went past.

A buzz of talk broke out behind her. One of the women said loudly: “I'd give her something—the dirty little whore.”

Myra kept on. “The sluts!” she thought, furious with them. “I've got everything, and they hate me.”

The bank stood at the end of the main street. Clem Gibson was standing in the doorway. He saw Myra coming, and he nervously fingered his tie.

Clem Gibson was someone in the town. He ran the bank, he owned a car, and he changed his shirt twice a week.

Myra slowed down a little and flashed him a smile.

“Why, Miss Hogan, you are lookin' swell,” Gibson said.

This line of talk pleased Myra. She said, “Aw, you're kiddin'.”

Gibson beamed behind his horn glasses. “I wouldn't kid you, Miss Hogan, honest.”

Myra made to move on. “Well, it's nice of you to say so,” she said. “I've just got to get goin'. My Pa's waitin' for me.”

Gibson came down the two steps. “I was going to suggest—that is—I wanted to ask you... He paused, embarrassed.

Myra looked up at him, her long black lashes curling above her eyes. “Yes?”

“Look, Miss Hogan, suppose you an' me go places sometime.”

Myra shook her head. She thought he'd got a hell of a nerve. Go out with him and have his horse-faced wife starting a beef. He was crazy. Myra had enough sense to leave the married men alone. They were only after one thing, and she wasn't giving anything away. “Pa just wouldn't stand for it,” she said. “He don't like married men takin' me out. Ain't he soft?”

Gibson stepped back. His face glistened with embarrassment. “Sure,” he said, “your Pa's right. You better not tell him about this. I wasn't thinking.” He was scared of Butch Hogan.

Myra moved on. “I won't tell him,” she said.

He watched her hungrily as she went, her buttocks jerking under the tight dress.

It was quite a walk to her home, and she was glad when she pushed open the low wooden gate that led to the tumbledown shack.

She stood at the gate and looked at the place. She thought, “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!”

The garden was a patch of baked, cracked mud. The house was a one-storeyed affair, made throughout with wood that wind and rain had warped and sun had bleached. It stood there—an ugly depressing symbol of poverty.

She walked up the path and climbed the two high steps leading to the verandah. In the shadow, away from the sun, Butch Hogan sat, his great hands resting on the top of a heavy stick.

He said, “I've been waiting for you.”

She stood there and looked at him. His broken, tortured face, those two horrible eyes, sightless, with a yellow blob in each pupil, looking like two clots of phlegm, the great square head, the overhanging brows, and the ferocious mouth made her shiver. He startled her by suddenly regurgitating violently into the mud patch a sodden wad of chewing-tobacco.

He said, “Say somethin', can't you? Where in hell've you been?”

She put the bottle of whisky on the table beside him. “There it is,” she said and she put beside it the rest of the money.

With fumbling fingers he checked the money, before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood up and stretched. Although he was tall, his great shoulders gave him a squat look. He turned his face in her direction. “Go on in I wantta talk with you.”

She went into the living-room, leading off the verandah. It was a large room, untidy and full of aged and decaying furniture. Hogan followed her in. He moved with quick, cat-like steps, avoiding in some extraordinary way any obstacles that lay in his path. Blindness had not anchored him. He had been like that for ten years. At first the darkness had suffocated him, but he had fought it, and, like all his other fights, he had beaten it. Now it was of little hindrance to him. He could do most things he wanted to. His hearing had intensified and served him for his eyes.

Myra stood sulkily by the table. She made patterns with her flimsy shoes on the dusty floor.

Hogan went to a cupboard, found a glass, and poured himself out a stiff shot of whisky. Then he went over to the one overstuffed chair and folded himself down in it. He took a long pull from the glass.

“What's your age now?” he asked abruptly. The two yellow clots fixed on her.

“Seventeen.”

“Come here,” Hogan said, reaching out a great thick arm. She didn't move.

“If I come an' get you, you're goin' to have grief.”

She moved over to him reluctantly, and stood just by his knees. “What is it?” she asked, her face a little scared.

His hand closed on her arm, the big thick fingers pinching her muscle, making her squirm.

“Stand still,” he said. With his free hand he began exploring her body. Letting his hand run over her, like some farmer poking and examining a plump bird. Then he let her go, and sat back with a grunt. “You're growing up,” he said.

Myra stepped back, a little flush of anger on her face. “You keep your paws off me,” she said.

Butch pulled at the coarse hairs growing out of his ears. “Siddown,” he said, “I'm goin' to talk to you.”

“Supper ain't ready,” she said; “I ain't got time to listen to you.”

He left his chair with incredible speed, and before she could dart away from him he struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand. He was aiming at her head, but he misjudged. She went over on hands and knees and stayed there, dazed. He knelt down beside her. “You're getting big ideas, ain't you?” he snarled at her. “You think I can't hold you, but I can. Do you get that? Maybe I've lost my peepers, but that ain't goin' to mean a thing to you. So get wise to yourself, will you?”

She sat up slowly, nervously feeling her shoulder. A smack from Butch meant something.

“I gotta hunch you're goin' to take after your Ma. I've had my eye on you for some time. I hear what's been said. You're after the punks already. Like your Ma. That dirty little whore had the ants okay. You're showing yourself off, an' you're working up a hot spot for yourself. Well, I'm watchin' you, see? I'm goin' to crack down on you, once I catch you at it. You leave punks alone, and make 'em leave you alone.”

She said uneasily, “You're nuts! I don't go around with fellas.”

Butch sneered. “I'm tellin' you before you start. You're ripe. You're ready to go ahead. Well, start somethin' an' see what you get.”

She climbed to her feet. “You gotta catch me at it,” she thought.

“Okay, go an' get somethin' to eat. You get the idea now, huh?”

She turned to the door, but he reached out and jerked her back. “You get it?” “Oh, sure!” she said impatiently.

Butch tapped the broad belt round his waist. “If ever I catch you in a tumble, I'm goin' to lift the hide off your back.”

She snatched her arm away and walked out of the room, her knees trembling a little.

Outside, a ramshackle car drew up, and three men got out. Myra sped to the door, looked out, then ran to her bedroom. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and a little smile flickered on her lips. Gurney was coming in, with his ham boxer. Gurney made Myra's heart flutter. He was some guy, this Gurney.

Sankey the boxer walked up the broken path, his head on his chest, his big hands hanging loosely by his side. Hank, his trainer, watched him anxiously. He caught Gurney's eye, and jerked his head. He looked worried. Gurney was looking for Myra. Sankey gave him a pain.

The three of them paused on the verandah. Butch came out of the room. He said, “You ain't been around here for some time. How're you makin' out?”

Gurney made signs to the other two Sankey took no notice, but Hank nodded briefly.

Butch was glad to have them. He said, “Sit down, for Pete's sake. How's your boy shapin'?”

Under cover of the noise made by the other two dragging their chairs up, Gurney slipped into the house. He knew Myra's room. He opened the door and put his head round. Myra was painting her lips. She had put on a pair of white step-ins. She jerked round, seeing his face in the fly-blown mirror.

“You get out!” she said.

Gurney found his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped in and shut the door, putting his back against the panels. Gurney was big. He had a bent nose and a big slit of a mouth. His eyes were always a little shifty. He dressed in a loud, flashy way, wearing black suits with a yellow or pink stripe. His shirts were mostly red or yellow cotton. He thought he was a swell dresser.

Myra, suddenly anxious, said, “Nick.... blow the old man won't stand for it... please.”

Gurney came round the bed and reached out for her. She skipped away, her eyes suddenly large and scared. “If you don't get out, I'll yell,” she said.

“Aw, honey, that ain't the way to talk.... Gurney was crowding her the whole time. “You're lookin' swell. I ain't goin' to start anythin', honest.” His hand touched her arm, and she suddenly felt weak. She said feebly, “Don't, Nick, the old man'll kill me—”

Gurney said, “Don't worry about him.” He pulled her into his arms, his hands burning on her cool flesh.

White-hot desire for him stabbed her, gripping her inside with iron fingers. She searched for his mouth with hers, gripping him round the neck, half strangling him. Gurney grinned to himself. He said to her, “I'm comin' out to see you one night soon. You're goin' to like that, ain't that right?”

Outside on the verandah, Butch punched and pummeled Sankey. Sankey stood there, with his head on his chest, like a horse on the way to the knacker's.

Butch said, “He's all right, ain't he?” He said it anxiously, looking in Hank's direction.

Hank said, “Sure.” But it wasn't impressive.

“I'm goin' to need a lot of luck with Franks,” Sankey mumbled.

Butch stiffened. “For God's sake, that guy ain't no use. He can't hit you.”

Sankey shifted. “I wish to hell you're right.”

“That punk couldn't hit you with a handful of gravel.”

“He ain't got to hit me with gravel, has he?” Sankey turned to the rail and sat on it. He still kept his head down.

Butch rubbed both his hands over his bald head. “Listen, this is crazy talk. When you get in there, you're goin' to give this punk the works, see? You're going to left-hand him till you've pushed his nut off his neck. Then over with your right, an' lay him among the sweet peas.”

Sankey didn't say anything.

Butch was getting the jitters. “Where's Gurney? Ain't he here?” he asked suddenly.

“Sure,” Hank said quickly. “He's fixin' the auto. She ain't so good as she was. He'll be along.”

Butch said, “I want him now.”

Hank went to the edge of the step and yelled, “Hi, Gurney! Butch wants you.” He put a lot of beef in his voice.

Butch said suspiciously, “Why d'you yell like that?— he ain't deaf.”

Hank began to sweat. He shouted again.

Gurney came round the side of the shack at a run. He'd got a lot of red smears on his face from Myra's paint. That didn't matter. Butch couldn't see them. He was quite cool when he came up the steps.

Butch said, “What the hell've you been doin'?”

Hank put in quickly, “I told you, he's been fixin' the bus.”

Gurney grinned a little. “Yeah that's right. That auto's sure goin' home.”

Butch said. “Where's Myra?”

Gurney was elaborately calm. The old sonofabitch was sharp, he thought. “Just what I was goin' to ask you. I gotta soft spot for that kid.”

Butch chewed his underlip. He sat down in the chair, his great fists clenched. “You leave her alone,” he growled.

Gurney grinned again but he made his voice smooth. “What's biting you, Butch? You know kids ain't my racket. When I have a woman, she's gotta be a tramp ”

Butch said, “Okay, but leave Myra alone.”

There was a little pause, then Hank said: “Will you be there, Butch?”

His mind brought back to Sankey, Butch began to look worried again. “Your boy ain't got no confidence,” he said to Gurney.

Gurney lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the mud patch. “He's okay. He's just nervous. It don't amount to anythin'.”

“Yeah?” Butch levered himself forward. “You crazy? That guy's carrying my dough. That guy's gotta win.”

Sankey shifted. “Forget it,” he said. “Can't you gab about somethin' else?”

Butch turned his head. “Take him away,” he said to Hank. “Lead him round the place. I wantta talk to Gurney.”

Hank got up and jerked his head. “Come on,” he said to Sankey. They went down the path and sat in the car.

Butch leant forward. “What the hell's this?” he snarled. “That palooka's out on his feet already.”

Gurney scratched his chin. “What the hell can I do about it? Franks has scared him, got him jittery. They ran into each other at the boozer the other night. You know Franks, he got on Sankey's nerves.”

Butch got to his feet. He raised his clenched fists above his head. “The yellow punk,” he said, his voice suppressed and strangled. “You gotta do somethin', Gurney. I've got too much dough on that bum to risk. I tell you, you gotta do somethin'.”

“I've got a hundred bucks on him myself,” Gurney said uneasily. “He's a trifle over-trained, I 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.”

“Will you be along?”

“I guess so. Any other guys interested in Sankey?”

“There's Hank, he trains him, an' there's Al Morgan, who manages for him.”

“Tell 'em both to come. Not Sankey; he'd better keep out of it.”

Gurney said, “I'll take you along tonight.”

Dillon shook his head. “I'll be there,” he said; “you don't got to worry about me.”

He walked back behind the counter, leaving Gurney standing uncertain in the middle of the store. Then Gurney walked out into the bright sunlight. This guy Dillon got him beat. There was somethin' phoney about him. He was no hobo, he could tell that. This guy was used to handling men. He said a thing and expected the thing done. He scared Gurney a little.

He was so busy thinking about Dillon that he didn't see Myra walking down the street. Myra hastened her steps, but Gurney was already climbing into the car, and before she could call to him he had driven away.

Myra was quite pleased he hadn't seen her. She had taken some trouble in dressing. Her flowered dress had been washed and ironed. Maybe it had shrunk a shade, but that didn't worry her. She knew it showed off her figure. Her thick black hair glistened in the sunlight, and was dressed low in her neck. The seams of her imitation silk stockings were straight, and her shoes shone. She was going to have a look at Dillon.

She'd heard about Dillon the day he had moved in, but she had purposely waited until he had seen all the women in Plattsville. She thought it was time now to give him an eyeful. Walking down the street, she knew she was good. She knew the men turned their heads, and she guessed that she was going over big with this Dillon.

She walked into the empty store, clicking her heels sharply on the wooden floor. Purposely, she stood in the patch of sunlight flooding the doorway. She'd seen that trick worked before, and with her thin dress she knew she was showing plenty.

Dillon looked up. “I've seen it before,” he said, “it ain't anythin' new. Come out of the light.”

If he had struck her she couldn't have been more furious. Automatically she moved a few paces into the shadow, then she said, “What kind of a cheap crack do you think that is?”

Dillon shitted a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you want?” he said.

“A real live salesman, ain't you?” she said, gripping her purse hard. “If you want to keep your job you gotta do better than that.”

Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain't listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”

Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon's face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain't in the movies.”

She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I'll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.

He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.

She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”

Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What's going on?” he asked.

Myra spun round. “You're crazy to have that bum in here. He's been insulting me—”

Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn't stop— she ran.

Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he squeaked. “That's Butch Hogan's daughter. The old man'll raise the dead about this.”

Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I'm about sick of these goddam bitches starin' at me. Maybe they'll leave me alone for a while.”

Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An' what about my business? What are people goin' to say? They ain't comin' here to be roughed around. This is goin' to ruin me.”

Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.

“Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain't goin' to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain't goin' to get round the town. A kid like that ain't goin' to let on she's just had her fanny smacked.... Forget it.”

They all sat on Butch's verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.

Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.

Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell's this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.

“I don't know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin'.”

Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey's in a terrible state. He don't say anything, but just sits around an' broods. Franks's got him tied up.”

Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn't heard him or seen him.

The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”

Butch got to his feet. He moved round the small table, on which stood a bottle and glasses. He held out his hand. “So you're Dillon, the fight-fixer?” There was a faint sneer in his voice.

Dillon looked him over, looked at his hand and ignored it.

Butch moved his great paw impatiently. “Gimme your hand,” he said. “I wantta see what kind of a guy you are.”

A gleam came into Dillon's eyes. He put his hand in Butch's. Then Butch squeezed. The tremendous muscles of his forearm swelled as he put all his strength into a crushing grip. The sweat suddenly jumped out of Dillon's face. He shifted his feet, then swung a punch at Butch with his left, coming up and hitting. Butch in his thick throat. It thumped into Butch like a cleaver into beef. Butch reeled back, making a croaking sound. Gurney sprang to his feet and saved him from going over.

Dillon stood flexing his ringers. “That's the kind of a guy I am,” he said evenly.

Butch put his fingers to his throat. He sat down a little heavily. No one had hit him so hard since he left the resin. He said, when he got his breath, “This guy's okay, he can punch.”

Dillon came a little nearer. “Suppose we get inside where I can see you.”

They went inside without a word. Dillon stood by the window. He said, “Sit down.”

Gurney said, “There's some booze outside, want any?”

Dillon looked at him. “I don't use it. Forget it! This is important. Franks has got your boy on the run. You're all backing Sankey for a win. Sankey ain't goin' to win unless Franks is so goddam bad that a child could push him around. That right?”

Gurney nodded. “I guess that's about it.”

“Any of you guys got any dough?”

They looked at Morgan, a thin, cruel-faced little man who looked like a jock. He said, “Maybe I could find some.”

“I'll fix this fight for five hundred bucks,” Dillon said. A little sigh went round the room. Gurney shook his head. “That's too much,” he said.

Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. “You mugs dumb?” he said. “I said I'd fix this fight, and I mean fix it. Your man'll win You can back him for any money You can't lose.”

Morgan leant forward. “I guess I'd like to know just who you are, mister,” he said.

Dillon looked at him under his eyelids. “Maybe you'd like to know a lot of things... you ain't got to worry about me. I've done this sorta thing before What's it to be?”

Morgan looked at the other three. Butch nodded. “We'll come on in with you,” he said.

Morgan shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I'll pay the money when Sankey's won.”

Dillon showed his teeth. “You'll bet that five hundred bucks on Sankey for me. An' you'll lay the dough when I tell you.”

Morgan thought a moment, then said, “Fair enough.” The four men began to catch some of Dillon's confidence.

“Dig down,” Dillon said, spreading a fin on the table. “I want some working expenses. This is all I got. Dig down.”

Each contributed. Between the five of them they put up a hundred dollars. Dillon put the bills in his pocket. Gurney went out on to the verandah and fetched in the drinks. They all had a shot except Dillon.

Butch said, “How you goin' to handle this?”

Dillon tapped on the table with his fingernails. “I'm goin' to tell Franks to take a dive.”

Butch said, “For God's sake, he'll knock your guts out.”

Dillon shook his head. “He won't.” He pushed back his chair. “I guess that's all.” The others, except Butch, got to their feet. Dillon said, “Suppose you boys blow, I wantta talk to Butch.”

Gurney moved to the verandah. “Maybe we'll get together some other time,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head; “you might look round tomorrow.”

Butch sat waiting until the others disappeared into the night. Dillon came back from the verandah. He stood looking at Butch thoughtfully. Then he closed the door and came over.

Butch said, “Who taught you to punch like that?”

Dillon shrugged. “Never mind that. I've got things to talk to you about. Anyone else in this dump?”

Hogan shook his head. “My gal's upstairs in bed. That's all.”

“I'm goin' to make some dough out of the town,” Dillon said. “You can come in on the ground floor if you want to.”

Butch stroked his nose. “Suppose you put the cards down an' let me look at 'em,” he said at last.

Dillon lowered his voice. “I carried a gun for Nelson,” he said.

Crouched outside the door, Myra shivered a little.

Butch looked a little uneasy. “He was a hard guy,” he said.

“He was a mug,” Dillon said bitterly. “I've been under cover now some time. The heat's off. Okay, I guess it's time to move into the money again. How's it feel?”

Butch said, “You ain't tellin' me this unless you knew right off I'd agree.”

Dillon nodded his head. “I thought you were a bright guy. Maybe you have lost your peepers, but you still got some brain.”

Butch said again, “You want the house, huh? Near the State line. Me as a cover?”

“You got it.” Dillon relaxed a little. “I ain't working anythin' this side of the border. Just quick raids. Nothin' very big; that'll come later. Then back under cover here. How do you like that?”

Butch brooded. “What's it worth?” he asked at last.

“Twenty-five per cent cut on everything.”

Butch nodded. “Okay.”

Dillon asked abruptly: “This guy Gurney—is he all right?”

Butch nodded. “He'd come in, I guess,” he said. “Gurney's after the big dough. He ain't particular how he makes it.”

“I'll have a word with him later. Now this guy Franks. There's only one way to deal with him. He's gotta have a scare thrown in him, see? He's got to be tipped off that he gets it if he doesn't take a dive. The first thing is to square the Town Marshal How'd you stand with him?”

“He's an old bird Sell his soul for a buck. He can be squared.”

“Then see him an' fix it. I gotta keep out of this. Tip him off to put his money on Sankey an' tell him the fight's rigged. If Franks puts up a squawk for protection, he won't get it, see?”

Butch nodded.

Dillon took out the hundred dollars and counted out fifty of them.” “Give him that to bet with.”

Butch fumbled with the money and put it in his pocket. “I guess you're goin' to fix this fight all right,” he said. “I'm putting everything I've got on this.”

Dillon said, “It's goin' to be okay, you see.”

He moved over to the door. Outside, Myra crept away, not making a sound. She climbed the ladder leading to the loft which served for her bedroom; and safe in the darkness of familiar surroundings she slipped out of her dress before going to the window. Dillon was standing in the road, looking cautiously up and down, then with a quick shuffling step he disappeared into the darkness.

Myra stood by the window some time, thinking, her face, lit by the moonlight, the hot air of the night touching her skin. Even when she got into bed she could not sleep. The clay-like face of Dillon hung before her like the dead face of the moon. His voice still rang in her ears, scorning her. The blow that he had struck her still burnt her body, making her squirm on the sagging mattress. Sleep would not come to her, to blot out mercilessly the pain of her bruised pride. She suddenly began to cry the hot tears running down her face unchecked. Her two fists, clenched, beat on the bed. “I hate you! I hate you!” she sobbed. “You lousy, goddam bastard!”

* * * *

Gurney drove carefully. He had to nurse the car over the rough road. One good pot-hole would sure bust the axle. Dillon sat beside him, his hat over his eyes. Every now and then Gurney shot him a quick look. Dillon had him guessing. He couldn't place him. Something told him that Dillon would get him somewhere, that he would lead him to the money class, but, fascinated by the thought, he still hung back a little, not trusting him.

It was the evening following the meeting of Dillon and Butch. Dillon had picked Gurney up after the store had closed for the night. They were on their way across the border to the hick town where Franks lived. They were going to call on Franks.

Dillon said suddenly: “You gotta tackle this guy; I'll just be around You know what to say. Don't let him start anythin'. Talk tough. He won't take a sock at you. I'll be right with you.”

Gurney brooded, staring at the road, white and dusty in the headlights. “This guy can hit,” he said uneasily. “He'll get mad if I shoot off too much.”

Dillon shifted. “You do what I say,” he said, “I can handle any mad guy.” He pulled a heavy Colt automatic from the inside of his coat, turned it in his hand, so that Gurney could see it, then he put it back.

“For God's sake”—Gurney was startled—“where the hell did you get that?”

Dillon looked at him, peering at him from under his hat. “You ain't scared of a rod?” he asked.

This was too tough for Gurney, but he didn't say so. He licked his lips uneasily and drove on. After a while he said, “You ain't goin' to pop this guy?”

“Sure I'm goin' to, if he gets mad.” Dillon said. “This ain't the first guy I've popped.”

The old car swerved a little. Gurney found his hands trembling. “I guess I ain't standin' for a murder rap,” he said suddenly.

Dillon reached out and turned off the switch. The engine spluttered and went dead. Gurney trod on the brake. “What's the idea?” he asked nervously.

Dillon pushed back his hat and leant towards Gurney, crowding him into the corner of the car. “Listen,” he said, “you're goin' to get this straight. From now on I'm givin' the orders and you're takin' 'em, see? We're gettin' into the dough, an' no one's stoppin' us. If they get in our way it's goin' to be so much grief for 'em—get that? In a little while I'll be running the town. You can get in in the ground floor or you can stay out. You stay out an' one dark night someone's goin' to toss a handful of slugs in your guts; you know too much—get all that? Butch's on, so get wise to yourself.”

Gurney went a little yellow. He didn't have to think much. “Sure,” he said, “I get it. Sure, you go ahead. You're the boss.”

Dillon raked him with his cold eyes. “There was one bright boy who talked like that an' changed his mind. He walked down a street one night with his guts hanging out down to his knees. Someone gutted him with a knife. Hell! You ought to have seen that guy. He tried to stuff his guts back, but just touching them with his hands made him so sick he let 'em hang in the end.”

Gurney said, “You ain't goin' to have any trouble with me.” He said it in a weak voice, but he meant it.

They drove on.

A clock somewhere struck the half-hour after ten when they pulled up outside Franks' house. It wasn't much to look at from the front, but then Franks was only a smalltime fighter, just making his way. They walked up the short path and stood outside the screen door. Gurney pulled at the bell, hearing it jangle somewhere at the back. Behind a yellow blind a light gleamed. Someone was up all right.

Through the screen door they could see a woman coming. Dillon nodded to Gurney and stepped back a little.

The door opened outwards, and the woman stood on the step looking at them with a little puzzled frown. She was young and plain. Her black hair was done up in a coil, a few ends straggling untidily. She had a good figure, her breasts riding high, and large hips. When she spoke, her voice was soft and carried a southern accent. “What is it, please?” she said.

“Len in?” Gurney said.

The woman nodded. “Sure he's in,” she said. “Who shall I say?”

Gurney took a step forward, pushing the woman back. Followed by Dillon, he walked into the house. The woman retreated, her face suddenly frightened. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “You can't come busting in like this.”

Gurney walked into the sitting-room. Franks was sitting in an easy chair holding a child awkwardly, a bottle of milk suspended in his hand. Franks was a big, smoothfaced guy, young and free from the usual mashed features of a fighter.

The woman brushed past Gurney and ran over to Franks. She was badly scared. Franks pushed the baby into her arms, getting to his feet quickly. He was startled. His eyes showed it; they were a little wide, but he wasn't losing his head. If there was going to be trouble, his confidence in his great flat muscles was unshakable.

“You can't come in here like this,” he said to Gurney. “I see guys like you at the gym.”

Gurney grinned uneasily. He was a little nervous of Franks. “We're in, buddy,” he said. “Get the dame outta here, we want to talk to you.”

Franks said, “Beth, take the kid.”

She went out without a word. She was only gone a second or so. She came back alone, and stood just behind Franks. Her eyes were big and scared. Franks said to her patiently, “Keep out of this, honey.”

She didn't say anything, but she didn't move. Dillon's thin lips set in a sneer.

Franks was calming down. He said, “You sure startled me,” there was a foolish little smile on his big, rubbery lips, “bustin' in like that. You're crazy I might've pushed you boys around.”

Gurney said, “Don't talk big, Franks, you're in a spot.”

Franks' eyes opened. He knotted his muscles. Gurney could see them swelling under his coat. “Not from you I ain't,” he said. “What is it?”

Gurney pulled a chair round and sat down. He was careful to put the table between them. Dillon leant against the door. Beth watched him the whole time. She was dead scared of Dillon.

“We're tippin' you off,” Gurney said evenly, “Sankey's gotta win this brawl.”

“Yeah?” Franks' breath whistled through his nose. “He'll win okay if he ain't flattened before the last round.”

“You don't get it,” Gurney said patiently; “you're throwin' the fight.”

Franks stood very still. “Like hell I don't get it,” he said. “Who said?”

Dillon said quietly from the door, “I said so.”

Franks turned his head; he looked at Dillon slowly up and down. “Who're you?” he said. “You're nuts. You two'd better get outta here before I toss you out.”

There was a pause, then Dillon said, “You're goin' to run into a lotta grief if you don't take a dive.”

Franks went a little pale. “Okay, you two rats; here it comes.” He jerked aside the table. Gurney scrambled to his feet, his face white. Beth gave a sudden short scream as the big Colt sprang into Dillon's hand. Franks saw it. It stopped him just like he had banged his face against a brick wall. “Hey!” he said.

“That's it,” Dillon said viciously. “Don't start anything; you'll have a second navel if you do.”

Beth put her hand on Franks' arm. “Don't let him shoot you, Harry!... Don't let him shoot you!”

Dillon crouched a little by the door. His face was drawn, his lips just off his teeth. “I'll give it to you, sucker,” he said; “just one move outta you an' you get it.”

Franks was scared of the gun. He'd never run into a gunman before. It unsettled him. “Are you bugs?” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You can't do this.”

“Forget it,” Dillon said savagely; “you listen. You're takin' orders, an' you're likin' 'em. You're throwin' that fight, see? Sankey's gotta win in about the fifth. You can fix it how you like, but he's gotta win We got too much dough on that boy to fool around makin' mistakes.”

Beth began to cry. She made a little shuddering, jarring sound that got on Gurney's nerves.

Dillon went on talking. “When you get in there, you put up a good show, but no heavy work; just rough around, see? Then let Sankey haul off an' sock you. Just one, make it look a lucky punch. Right, you go down, an' you stay down. Now listen, you goddam punk, you double-cross me' an see what you get. I'll get this dame first, an' I'll get the little 'un as well. Then I lay for you. This ain't a bluff—you see.”

For a moment Gurney thought Franks was going to rush Dillon, and he braced himself. Franks could see that he'd get nowhere doing that. Dillon could have fired three or four times before he caught up with him. So he just stood there, his head lowered, his eyes gleaming, and his great hands working at his sides. He said at last, “Sankey'll win okay.” His voice came out of his throat in a strangled croak. Beth slipped to her knees, holding his hand. They stood like that for a long time, with Dillon staring at them. Then Dillon jerked his head at Gurney, and together they backed out into the night.

* * * *

Gurney sat in the car, smoking. He had left Dillon at Abe's store and had driven out of town. The night was still and very close. Big black clouds, looking like lumps of coal, hung sluggishly in the sky. The moon rode low, just skirting the black tree-tops.

His mind excited, Gurney sat smoking hard. The red tip of his cigarette glowed in the smothering darkness of the car. His brain was crawling with thoughts. It was the gun that excited him. He could see Franks' face now. He could see how that gun stopped his rush, turned him from toughness to dough. Any guy could give orders with a rod in his hand. It was the rod that did it. Gurney shifted in his seat. Dillon was a hard guy, but without a gun Franks would have squashed him—made a smear of him on the wall. That showed you how powerful a gun was.

A big, silent car flashed past. Gurney saw the dame sitting in front with a well-dressed guy, looking as if he owned the earth. The dame was glittering in a white dress, that sparkled. She looked a honey all right.

With a gun, Gurney thought, I'd have the last word with that lousy punk. A gun would level things up mighty quick. Thinking about the dame, his mind went on to Myra. If there was ever a broad asking for it, there she was. What the hell was he waiting for, anyway? He leant forward and turned the switch.

It did not take him long to run out to Butch's place. He stopped the jaloopy a few hundred yards from the shack under a clump of trees, and turned off the lights. It was off the road, and it would be safe there. He got out, and walking on the grass border of the road approached silently.

One solitary light was burning in the downstairs room. Silently, moving his feet with care, he walked towards the window. He had a great respect for Butch's ears. He put his fingers on the window-ledge and pulled himself up.

Myra was standing quite close to him, pressing a dress with a flat-iron. She was alone.

Gurney lowered himself to the ground and walked round the front. He rapped on the screen with his knuckles. He waited a minute, feeling his heart beating jerkily against his ribs. Then Myra's silhouette blotted out the screen and she said, “Who is it?”

“Hyah, baby,” Gurney said, speaking very low; “you alone?”

She pushed open the screen and came out on the step. “Nick!” There was a little catch in her voice. It didn't get by Gurney. He grinned in the darkness.

“Sure,” he said. “Butch in?”

She shook her head. “He went down to the gym. He won't be so long, though.”

“Lemme in, baby, I gotta talk to you.”

“No—no, it's late, Nick. You can't come in now.”

Gurney reached out his hands, taking her arms just above her elbows. “Get goin',” he said gently; “you don't want to be seen yappin' out here.”

At his touch her resistance sagged. She let him push her back into the house. She broke away from him when they entered the room, standing with her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on him.

“You gotta be careful,” she said. “He's coming back. You know him. He'll be right in on us; he comes so quietly. Not now, Nick, I'm scared he'll come.... Nick, please...”

Gurney, his hat still at the back of his head, pulled her away from the wall. She struggled to get away from him until his mouth reached hers, then she clung to him, beating his shoulder-blades with the flat of her hands.

Down the road Butch came, his great body throwing a bloated shadow that stumbled and lurched just ahead of him. He made no sound, walking in the grass. He kept his ear-cocked for motors. Butch had got to watch out for himself. Skirting the bend, he hastened his steps; he knew that he was nearly home. Walking, his head bent, he was puzzling about Dillon. Sankey also worried him. He'd got a lot of dough on Sankey. If Dillon didn't get that brawl rigged he was going to be down a lot—a hell of a lot too much.

He silently padded up the mud path, pausing on the top step of the verandah to have a last smell of the night air. He didn't like it. It came hot and close to him. He thought maybe a storm would get up.

Myra slid from the settee to the floor when Butch walked in. Gurney sat up, his face going a little green with his fright. Butch would break his back if he caught him in here.

Myra hadn't any clothes on, except her shoes and stockings. She stood quite close to Gurney, her face set, and the first shock ebbing away. She said, “I was just going to bed.” Her voice was steady.

Butch remained by the door. Something told him that things weren't right. “It's late,” he said, listening with his head on one side.

Myra motioned Gurney to stay where he was. Gurney was sitting propped up on his elbow, one leg on the floor. Sweat ran down his face, making him look ghastly in the bright naked light.

Butch moved forward a little, shutting the door.

“Sankey all right?” Myra asked.

“Yeah,” Butch said; he passed his hand over the top of his bald head. His eyes looked straight at Gurney. The two yellow clots bore into Gurney's brain. “Seems quiet here,” Butch went on.

Myra stooped and picked up her dress. Butch heard the rustle of the material as she gathered it into a ring to slip over her head. “What you doin'?” he said sharply.

Myra shook a little, the dress slipping out of her hands. “I told you I'm going to bed.” She began to walk heavily about the room, taking up the ironing-board and putting it against the wall. “Sankey going to win?” she asked, for something to say.

“You're interested in that guy, ain't you?”

Gurney's muscles began to ache, sitting like that. He was too scared to move. He just stayed there, his eyes fixed on Butch.

“Why not?” Myra's knees were beginning to shake. The old geezer guessed there was something wrong, she thought. She walked carelessly over to the couch again and picked up her dress. Neither Gurney nor she looked at each other.

Butch moved quickly. He almost trod on Gurney's foot as he went by. He snatched Myra's dress out of her hands. Myra skipped away and flattened herself against the wall. Her eyes sprang open wide.

Butch felt the dress in his hands, then he put it to his nose. His big, rubbery face darkened. “What the hell you doin'?” he growled. “Why've you taken this off?”

Steeling her voice, she said, “What's the matter with you tonight? I was hot... can't a girl take her dress off?”

“Come here.”

Gurney stopped breathing.

Myra said, pressing herself against the wall, “Not damn likely!”

Butch walked slowly to the door and locked it. He took the key out and put it in his pocket. “There's something phoney goin' on here,” he snarled at her. “Let's see what it is.”

Gurney thought, “With a gun I could blast the old devil.”

With a sliding shuffle Butch came at Myra. He came so quickly that she only just escaped him. Slithering along the wall, out of his reach, she stood by the door breathing in short, jerky gasps.

Butch stood, his hand on the wall, his sightless eyes turned on her. “You'd better come here,” he said.

Myra said in a small voice, “You're scaring me. Open the door, I tell you, I want to go to bed.”

Butch caught her this time. Gurney didn't think it possible for him to move so quickly. His great hand caught her arm as she fled from him. He jerked her to him. His hot breath fanned her face.

She said, “Let me go!... Let me go!... Let me go!” Her voice went up a tone, mounting to a scream.

Gurney swung himself to the floor and stood up. Swiftly, Butch jerked his head round. “What's that?” he said harshly. He shook Myra. “What was that? There's someone else here.... Who is it?”

“You're crazy,” she gasped. “There's no one here.”

His hand, swinging down, slapped her. Then he stiffened. Holding both her wrists in a crushing grip, he touched her quivering body.

Gurney was creeping inch by inch towards the open window. Myra, seeing him, began to scream, covering any sound that he made.,

Butch reached up; his hand, closing on her throat, nipped her screams short. Gurney swung himself forward, falling head first out of the window, his feet jerking the curtains from the rod. Picking himself up, he began to run drunkenly down the road, swaying from side to side.

Butch said, “So that's it, is it, you little whore?”

Myra felt her knees buckle. If Butch weren't holding her she would have slipped to the floor.

“Who was it?” He shook her. His great arms flung her this way and that, banging her legs against the wall. “Do you hear, who was the sonofabitch?”

“You'll... never make... me tell,” she gasped, trying to tear her hands away.

“Yeah? Just wait an' see.”

He dragged her across the room, until his legs struck the settee, then he flung her down on it. She lay there, her eyes wide with terror. He kept a grip on her arm, muttering to himself and fumbling at the buckle of the broad belt at his waist. As he pulled it off, she twisted and turned over on her face, her arms protecting her head, screaming deep in her throat.

The belt curled through the air and hit her arched body. Myra screamed, “I'll kill you for this!...”

It Was only when his hand was slippery with sweat that she escaped him. She rolled off the settee, her arm sliding from his grip. They stood there, facing each other. Butch, his rubbery face hideous with cruel rage; Myra, her body streaked with red weals, murderous in her fury. Her hands closed on the back of a chair and, swinging it high, she hit Butch across the head with it.

Butch half guessed what she was doing, and he swerved, but she had anticipated the move. The chair crashed on his bald head, shattering itself. The legs of the chair flew across the room. Butch fell on his knees, roaring, as his brain reeled. She came at him again, battering down his upraised arms, beating him again and again with the thick chair-back. He tried to save himself, his defence becoming more and more feeble, until he reeled over and fell on his side, like a stricken elephant. She drew off. Swinging the chair-back over her head, she gave him one final crushing blow that made his battered head jerk up and then flop on the floor. Then, with a frightened look, she snatched up her dress and ran blindly up to her attic.

They pushed their way down the aisle. Gurney came first, then Dillon, and then Morgan. The house was so full they had difficulty in getting to their seats. They were right on top of the ring.

A preliminary was just commencing. The arc-lights overhead dimmed as they arrived at their seats. Gurney squeezed past a slim blonde, pulling her skirts to her knees. “Don't mind me,” she snapped.

Dillon stood waiting to pass. “If your arches ain't broke,” he said, “suppose you stand up; I ain't so likely to strip you that way.”

Two fat guys sitting behind her went off in loud, explosive sniggers.

The blonde took a look at Dillon and figgered he was too tough for her. She stood up and let him through. Morgan crowded past her quickly. They sat down.

Just above the ring lights a heavy haze of tobacco-smoke lay like a mist rising from damp ground. The hall was as hot as hell. Dillon wrenched his collar undone and pulled his tie down a little.

The two lightweights were slamming into each other murderously. Gurney leant towards Dillon. “You seen Sankey?” he asked.

Dillon shook his head. “Sankey ain't worryin' me,” he said. “I guess I'll give Franks a call.”

“We got him scared,” Gurney said; “you see.”

The crowd suddenly gave a great sigh, that sounded like a groan, as one of the fighters began to buckle at the knees.

Morgan shouted, “Go after him, you little punk—nail him.”

The gong saved him.

Dillon got to his feet; he pushed past Morgan, climbed over the blonde and walked up the aisle again. At the head of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms a little runt in a yellow-white jersey stopped him. “This is as far as you'll get,” he said.

“I'm on business,” Dillon said, and went on.

The little runt had to let him go; he was just swept aside.

Dillon wandered into Sankey's room. Hank was sitting on a stool beside the table. Sankey was lying on the table, a bright-red dressing-gown covered him. They both looked up as Dillon came in.

Hank said, “He's on next but one.”

Dillon pursed his lips. “You okay?” he said.

Sankey half sat up. “Sure I'm okay. This guy's goin' to take a dive, ain't he?”

Dillon nodded. “That don't mean you ain't gotta try,” he said evenly; “you gotta watch this guy, Sankey.”

Hank said heatedly, “Sure he'll watch him... what you think?”

Dillon nodded. Then he wandered out again. He walked softly down the corridor until he came to Franks' room. He put his hand inside his coat, feeling the cold butt of the Colt. Then he opened the door and went in.

Franks was staring moodily at his feet. His trainer, Borg, was sitting despondently on a wooden chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up sharply as Dillon came in. “Wrong room, buddy,” he said crisply. “On your way.”

Dillon didn't even look at him. He said to Franks, “We're outside watching.”

Franks looked up. “Get out, an' stay out!” he said.

Dillon didn't move. “Don't get this thing wrong,” he said. “We don't want to start anythin'.”

Borg got off his chair. He came over to Dillon fast. He was only a little guy, and fat, but he'd got plenty of guts. “What the hell you blowin' about? Scram, you ain't wanted here.”

Dillon looked down at him, sneered, and wandered out. At the door he turned his head. “In about the fifth, Franks,” he said, and pulled the door to with a sharp click.

A sudden burst of ironic cheering came to him from the hall. He passed the little runt again, who glowered at him but said nothing.

At the entrance of K Section he saw Gurney and Morgan pushing through to the saloon. Dillon forced his way through the crowd and caught up with them.

“Those two little punks are scared sick of each other,” Morgan said, as he came up. “They're just sleepin' off time in each other's arms.”

Gurney said, “Did you see Franks?”

Dillon nodded. He leant against the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “He'll be okay,” he said.

Gurney poured himself out a shot of bourbon and pushed the bottle over to Morgan. “And Sankey?”

“Sankey's got his nerve back. He's a big shot now the brawl's rigged. That guy's got a yellow streak somewhere.”

Morgan didn't like that, but he kept his mouth shut. He wasn't sure of Dillon. “Too bad about Butch,” he said, pushing the conversation into safer channels.

Dillon raised his eyebrows. “I ain't heard,” he said.

Gurney looked uncomfortable. He hurriedly filled his glass. Under his eyelids, Dillon watched him.

Morgan gave a tinny laugh. “Ain't you heard? Say, it's rich! That little kid of his nearly knocked his block off.”

“You're crazy,” Dillon said, frowning.

“It sounds like that, but it's on the level. Old Butch comes back from an evenin' out, and catches her with some guy neckin' in the front room. Gee! I'd like to've been there. She didn't have a stitch on. The guy blows his top an' lams through the window. I guess it must've been a scream.” Morgan hit his thigh, bending forward, laughing in a hoarse burst.

Dillon eyed him contemptuously.

“Then Butch takes his belt to her and raises a few blisters. Just what's been comin' to that little broad. After he's half skinned her she breaks loose, an' damn if she don't bounce a chair on his dome. I tell you, that dame is sure hot an' wild. She goes on bouncin' that chair until Butch takes the count. He's lying up now, sore as a bear with a boil, an' the kid's runnin' the house, givin' herself airs.”

Dillon said, “Who was the guy?”

He knew, by just watching Gurney.

Morgan shrugged. “Butch can't find out,” he said. “He figgered the strap would make her talk, but it didn't. She kept her mouth shut. I guess it was a lucky break for that runaway. Butch would've twisted his neck for him.”

, Gurney mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. Dillon looked at him, but Gurney shifted his eyes.

Dillon said, “We'll go back. They'll be comin' in soon.”

The hall was ablaze with light when they walked in. A buzz of talk hummed round the walls. The ring was empty. As they took their seats the lights began to dim.

The fat men behind them were talking in loud, hoarse voices. “There ain't enough business goin' on tonight,” one of them complained. “I'm layin' three to one on Franks. The suckers ain't taking me.”

Dillon turned his head. “I'll take five hundred of that,” he said.

The two fat men looked at each other, a little startled. Then one of them said, “Sure,” but they stopped talking after that.

Gurney nudged Dillon, jerking his head. Beth Franks was coming down the aisle. She slipped into a vacant seat near one of the corners. Her face had a boney, scraped look, and her eyes glittered as if she had a fever.

Gurney whispered, “She's nuts to come here.”

Dillon shook his head. “It'll keep Franks' mind right,” he said.

The crowd began to yell. Sankey was coming in. The spotlights followed him down the aisle, reflecting on his red dressing-gown. He climbed through the ropes, holding one hand above his head.

Gurney said, “Hell! He thinks he's Louis.”

Sankey plodded round the ring, keeping his hand up, while half the house groaned at him, and the other half yelled. He had four handlers in white, who stood self-consciously in the corner, waiting for him to get through with his stuff. He came back at last, and stood in his corner, flexing his knees and worrying the ropes.

Morgan cast a look at Dillon. “He's got his nerve back, ain't he?”

Dillon sneered.

Franks came down now. The crowd got to their feet for him. The roof trembled at their roar. The three twisted their heads to watch him come. Franks looked a little fine-drawn, and there were smudges just under his eyes. He had to walk past them to the ring.

Gurney called, “Don't get too tough with him, Harry.”

The crowd liked that, and they hooted. Franks didn't look, he kept on.

Beth heard Gurney and she stood up, looking with wild eyes at the three of them sitting on her left. She stared at them for several seconds, then she sat down again.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. “She'll know us again,” he said.

The other two didn't say anything.

Sankey bounced out of his corner and pushed the rope down for Franks to get through. Franks paused, looking up at him. “Be yourself,” he snarled. “Get to hell out of it!”

The crowd thought Sankey was being sporty. They gave him a yell. Franks took the ropes like a hurdle, leaving Sankey still holding them. The crowd liked that too, they hooted and clapped.

They couldn't keep Sankey out of Franks' corner. He went over there and patted Franks' shoulder. The crowd thought it was wonderful.

Franks said, “If you don't keep this sonofabitch away from me, I'll start on him now.”

Borg said to Sankey, “Give us a little air, brother, you'll be seein' him too much soon.”

Sankey wandered back to his corner, his two fists together, waving to the crowd.

Gurney said, “This bastard'll drive me barmy.”

Hank went over to Franks' corner while Borg bandaged his hands. Hank said, “You got enough tape.”

Franks looked up at him. “Don't he dumb,” he said, “it's soft enough.”

A little guy with a hand-mike got into the ring and started blowing. He got the crowd worked up all right. The only thing worth noting was Franks went six pounds heavier than Sankey.

Gurney was conscious of a dryness in his throat and his heart's heavy thumping. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and rubbed his glistening forehead with his hand. Dillon sat like a rock, his hands limply on his knees and his jaw moving slowly, clamping on the gum.

Gurney watched the referee call the two men in the centre of the ring. Sankey came out, his dressing-gown like a cape on his shoulders. Franks only had a towel across his back.

They stood there listening to the referee giving them the same old line. Gurney wished they'd get on with it.

They went back to their corners Cigar-smoke spiraled slowly to the ceiling. The crowd was tense, silent and waiting.

Sankey shed his dressing-gown, holding on to the ropes, rubbing his shoes in the resin. The handlers bundled themselves out of the ring as the gong rang.

Franks came out cautiously, his chin on his chest. Sankey almost ran at him. He swung a left and a right, but Franks went under them, socking Sankey in the body. Sankey didn't like it; he went into a clinch, roughing Franks round, cuffing his head with half-arm punches that didn't worry Franks. He hung on until the referee smacked his arm, then, as he was going away, Franks caught him with a right swing to the side of his head. The crowd howled with joy. Sankey came back at him, but Franks tied him up in a clinch. They wrestled some more and again Franks caught him as he broke.

Gurney shifted, crossed his legs and uncrossed them. “What the hell's he playin' at?” he asked.

The other two didn't say anything.

Franks was coming in fast again; Sankey backed against the ropes, smothering most of what Franks was handing out to him. Sankey sent over a tremendous right that caught Franks as he was coming in. It caught him too high up to hurt him, but it stopped him, and Sankey got off the ropes and danced away. Franks bored in and they both exchanged short jabs to the head and body. The gong went just as Sankey was getting going. It was Franks' round all right.

The crowd buzzed and buzzed all round them. Gurney sat back, conscious of the sweat that was running down his back. He said to Dillon, “You said the fifth, didn't you?”

Dillon said, “Don't get into a spin. It's in the bag. That punk's got to put up a show.”

Sankey lay back in his corner, his face sullen.

Hank flapped a towel over him, telling him to take it easy.

The gong went for the second round.

It was Franks who came out fast this time. He was almost into Sankey's corner before Sankey got his hands up. The crowd roared at them. Sankey's left jumped into Franks' face, jerking his head back, but he was coming in with such steam that it didn't stop him. He banged Sankey into his corner, bringing both hands hard into his body. You could hear those two blows out in the street.

Sankey jerked up with both of them, his mouth going slack. A wild look came into his eyes, but he kept his hands up. Gurney screamed at him, “Push him off! Get away from him!”

Franks brought over a round-house swing. It landed on Sankey's head. Sankey went down on his knee. Franks was keeping cool. He immediately walked away to a neutral corner, letting the referee start a count. The hall shook with the noise. People stood up on their chairs, yelling themselves hoarse.

Morgan's shrill yell drifted to Sankey. “Wait for it! Stay where you are!”

Sankey got up at nine. He seemed all right. Franks came at him, just a little reckless. Sankey saw an opening and lammed in. Franks didn't like it. He was shaken. They were both glad to clinch. And this time Franks missed Sankey when they broke. Sankey kept Franks away with left jabs, running backwards all round the ring, poking with his left. Franks just wanted to get in and sock. Towards the end of the round Franks got in. Sankey tried to tie him up, but it was like holding on to a buzz-saw. Franks let go four hooks one after the other. They sank into Sankey's ribs, making the crowd give a sighing groan. Sankey's knees went. He was in trouble, trying to keep his hands up when the bell went.

Dillon got to his feet. “Go to his corner,” he said to Gurney savagely. “Tell him to fight. He won't last to the fifth at this rate. Let that palok Franks see you. Give him a signal or something.”

Gurney pushed his way to the aisle and made his way to Sankey's corner. Hank was working on him desperately. He was looking worried. Gurney said, “For God's sake, you gotta watch that fella.”

Sankey glared at him. Great red blotches on his ribs showed the beating he was taking. “A rigged fight, huh?” he snarled. “This sonofabitch's killin' me.”

Before Gurney could say anything the gong went. Out came Franks, weaving and bobbing, with Sankey backpedaling, snorting heavily through his nose. Gurney put his elbows on the canvas, watching closely.

Sankey tried a left, but Franks' head moved, then Franks caught him with a left and a right. Sankey began to bleed from his mouth. He drew his lips off his gum-shield, snarling at Franks. He kept circling until the crowd began to yell at him. He flung over another left that landed as Franks was going away, and tried to follow it up with a terrific right swing. It whistled over Franks' head, who came in close and socked with both hands. Sankey pushed him off and jabbed away, landing too high up to do any damage.

Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn't keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks' nose.

Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.

Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He's goin' to dive in the fifth.”

“I can't stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard's spillin' my guts.”

Gurney snarled, “You'll stay all right, or you'll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren't even working on him.

The gong went for the fourth.

Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.

Gurney shouted, “Get after him... beat the hell out of him!...”

In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey's face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.

Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”

Franks showed no sign that he heard.

The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey's muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.

They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.

“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.

“Y're goin' to win in this round. If you don't go out and tear that bastard to bits I'll give you the heat.”

Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left's like lead,” he whined.

“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He'll go down.”

The gong went for the fifth.

The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn't. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn't even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He'd have been blind if he hadn't seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.

Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.

Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn't even look pleased.

Franks didn't move, he just lay there.

Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands. “Get up and fight!” she screamed. “Don't let 'em get away with it! Harry... get up and fight!...”

Franks took his time, but he got up at nine. The crowd, backing Sankey now, screamed to him to go in and finish Franks. Sankey tottered out of his corner, swearing. Franks stood waiting for him, his lips in a thin line, looking like a killer. There was nothing the matter with him. He was as strong as when he started. As Sankey came on he called Franks every obscene name he could lay his tongue to.

Franks brushed aside his feeble guard and belted him in the ribs. It was an awful punch, landing solid in the church roof of Sankey's chest. Sankey's eyes rolled back. His mouth formed a large “O", then, as he fell forward, Franks whipped up a punch that came from his ankles to Sankey's jaw.

It was a waste of the referee's time to count. The crowd went mad. They yelled and hooted as the little guy's arm ticked off the ten. Then, when he threw his arms wide and ran over to raise Franks' glove, they stood on their seats and rattled the roof.

Dillon turned his head and looked at Gurney. His eyes smouldered. “The dirty, double-crossin' sonofabitch,” he said through his teeth.

They all crowded into Butch's shack. There was Gurney, Hank and Morgan. Sankey had gone home, too sullen and furious to come. Dillon shuffled along behind the others, savage and silent.

Butch was sitting in a dirty dressing-gown. His head was wrapped in a bandage. He sensed at once that Sankey had flopped when they came in.

Overhead, Myra could hear the uproar that was going on, and she came down the ladder to listen.

Dillon sat on the table, picking his teeth, while the others shouted and cursed. Butch was so mad, Gurney thought he'd have a stroke. He beat the arms of his chair again and again. “I put all I had on that punk,” he bawled; “now where am I?”

Dillon suddenly came to life. “Shut up, you rats!” he snarled. “Franks's got more guts than the bunch of you rolled into one. What does it matter if you lost a little dough?”

There was a terrible silence, each man glaring at Dillon murderously. Butch said in a strangled voice, “You fixed that fight, huh? You ain't losing any dough... an' you talk like that?”

Dillon looked him over contemptuously. His eyes went round the others. They began to edge a little towards him, except Gurney. Gurney knew about the gun.

Butch climbed out of his chair. “Bring him to me,” he said savagely, flexing his fingers. “I'll teach the bum somethin'.”

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.