Dead Stay Dumb (6 page)

     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.
     

     
      
     Myra swung her legs off the bed and sat up. The sun came through the open window, burning her feet. The cheap clock on the mantleboard indicated 8.10. She sat there, sniffing the crisp air, her firm white body naked. She fished about with her feet, hunting for her shoes. Finally, with a little gasp of annoyance, she went on hands and knees and dug them out from under the bed.
     She knelt there staring at the shoes. “By heck,” she said, “I'm getting a regular bum.” The shoes were just about handing in their checks. Two large cracks gaped like little mouths at her from the top, and the soles were as good as a sieve.
     She sat back on her heels, scratching her thigh, thinking. It wasn't from choice she was naked in bed. She just hadn't anything to wear.
     Three long weary weeks had crawled by since Butch had been knocked off. The cabin, hidden in the hills, was just held together by its paint. Dillon had been glad to move into it, and now he was in he just stuck.
     The last owner had been an Okie, who had taken his family with him on the futile search for work in the Californian invasion. He had left the cabin pretty well as it stood. Even the bedding had been left. That Okie had certainly been in a hurry to get away.
     Taking the car to the nearest small town, Dillon had got in enough stores to last for some time, and the three of them had dug themselves in. The cabin was lonely, off the beaten track, and they didn't see anyone from dawn to dusk.
     Dillon spent most of his time lying in bed, brooding. He got up around midday, had some food, and sat on the step of the cabin in the sun. He got on the other two's nerves. The work was shoved on to Myra. Gurney cut the wood and got the water, but he didn't do much else. He hung around the house, treading on Myra's heels, keeping his hands off her with an effort, and generally eating his head off with boredom.
     Myra was getting sick of it. She wasn't taking any chances in getting laid up, so she kept Gurney out of her room. This made Gurney sore as hell, but Myra's waspish temper stood between them like a wall.
     She got to her feet and put on the shoes, wriggling her toes inside them, feeling the rough boards through the soles. She splashed water into a tin bowl and began to wash. Slapping the water on her body, she rubbed herself briskly. All the time she was doing this her mind was busy. It was time to, shake these bums up a bit, she thought. Dillon would have to be handled carefully. Up to now he had ignored her. That irritated her. He just didn't know she was there. She thought he was a cold-blooded fish. She walked over to the stool where she had dropped her clothes. She turned them over, her nose wrinkling with disgust. Every damn garment was in holes. Even her dress was patched heavily under the arms.
     Pulling the dress over her head, she smoothed the creases with her hands. Then she walked into the living-room.
     Gurney was standing in the open doorway, fixing his belt. He nodded to her sourly. He thought he was having a swell break bringing her along, and then to have her lock herself in every night. His chin was covered with a stubbly beard, and his eyes, still puffy with sleep, peered at her hungrily.
     Across the way was another little room, where Dillon slept. The door was shut. They didn't expect to see him for some time.
     Myra said, “Suppose you get the fire goin'.” She spoke shortly.
     Gurney said, “Sure.” He wandered outside and came back with a handful of wood. He sat down in front of the small stove and began to poke at the ashes.
     Myra filled the kettle and began to lay the table. When the wood in the stove was crackling Gurney got up and put the kettle on. He walked round the room, scratching himself under the arms, yawning. His eyes were on Myra. She didn't take any notice of him, but she could feel his lust for her.
     He came up behind her, slipping his arms round her, his hands over her breasts. He hugged her to him.
     Myra stood quite still. “Get away, will you?” she snapped. “There's work to do.”
     Gurney forced her round. “I'm sick of this,” he said savagely. “I ain't goin' to stand it.”
     He lifted her off her feet and ran her into her room. Myra made no effort to resist him. In the room, he set her down, arid stood holding her, his chest heaving.
     She said, “You're gettin' wrong ideas, Nick.”
     “Yeah?” He shook her a little. “That's what you think. You're enough to drive a guy nuts.... What's the idea? You're hot enough when Butch might've killed you... but now...”
     She kept her face cold. “The kettle's boiling,” she said. “Suppose you come down to earth.”
     Gurney took his hands off her. “By God!” he said angrily. “You can't treat me like this.”
     A furious wave of rage shot through her like a flame. “And what d'you think this is?” she screamed at him. “Look at me! How d'you think I like this? There's not a rag to my back. All you think is gettin' into bed. Well, you got another think coming. That lousy punk out there's got a roll of dough, and he just sits on it. How long d'you think we're goin' to stay in this sty? Who the hell are you to get sore?”
     Gurney backed away uneasily. “Pipe down,” he said surlily, “I can't help it, can I?”
     “You can't help it!” She beat her hands together. “I'll show you something.”
     She pushed past him and burst in on Dillon. Dillon was sitting up in bed. He was wearing a shirt and trousers, a splinter of wood between his teeth. He looked at her suspiciously. “What the hell do you want, bustin' in like this?” he snarled.
     “I'll tell you what I want,” she stormed at him. “I want to get out of here. I want some dough to buy things with.... I'm sick of messing around working for a couple of ragged-arse bums like you for nothin'. Look at me... look at this dress...”
     Dillon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. Gurney stood in the open doorway. He was scared. Dillon hunched his shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “You just get out quick or I'll toss you out. I'm the boss of this outfit, see?”
     Myra sneered at him. She stood with her legs planted wide and her hands on her hips. “You couldn't be a boss of any outfit, you small-time gunman,” she said. “Get that into your thick dome Now come on, let's have some dough.”
     Dillon swung his fist and hit her on the side of her head. It was a solid punch. She hurtled across the room, banging her shoulder against the rough wood, and falling in a heap.
     Gurney said feebly from the door, “Hey! You can't knock her around like that.”
     Dillon looked at him. His cold eyes were glittering. “Keep out of this,” he said; “she had it comin' to her. She ain't goin' to get anywhere with that line of talk.”
     Myra scrambled to her feet. She held her hand to her head. The ground rose a little under her feet. She focused Dillon with difficulty. “You devil!” she said.
     Dillon hitched his trousers up and walked over to her. “Get out an' put some food together. You're here to work, see? I ain't havin' any hot air from you.”
     She looked over his shoulder at Gurney. “Think you're going to crawl in my bed after this, you yellow rat... you've got some chance.”
     Dillon said, “You shut up!”
     Gurney turned and went into the front room. He guessed Myra would give him hell for this. Dillon didn't take his eyes off Myra. He remembered the way she bounced Butch around. This dame was dangerous. Myra looked at him, her eyes hating him. “You ain't going to get away with this,” she said through her teeth. “I'll fix you, you dirty heel!”
     Dillon said, “Aw, can it!” He moved away, still keeping his eyes open.
     Myra hesitated, then walked into the front room. Gurney gave her a scared look, but she took no notice of him. She began to prepare the meal. She cut the ham into thick hunks, savagely sawing at the salty meat, and slapping the slices into the pan.
     Gurney expected her to cry. He guessed most dames would have folded up from a smack like that. Myra's face was white and set. A livid mark, where Dillon had hit her, burnt on her temple, and her eyes were stormy.
     Gurney said uneasily, “You ain't goin' to get nowhere, startin' to fight that guy.”
     Myra said nothing. She served the food, banging the plates on the table. Then, pouring herself out a cup of strong coffee, she went out into the sunshine and sat away from the cabin.
     Dillon came in, looked at the food and grunted. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Gurney sat down.
     “You gettin' sick of things?” Dillon said. There was a tense threat in his voice.
     Gurney slopped his coffee. “Me?... I ain't squealin',” he said hurriedly.
     Dillon jerked his head to where Myra was sitting. “I figgered maybe you put her up to that.”
     Gurney was round-eyed with innocence. “You got me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “You ain't got to worry about her. She's just mad at havin' nothin' to wear.”
     Dillon cut the ham up in small squares. “You have a talk with her... she'd better watch her step. I ain't standin' any buck from her—get it?”
     Gurney pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The food stuck in his throat. “Sure,” he said, “she's just a kid... you know, she don't mean a thing.”
     Dillon said evenly: “You tell her... unless you want me to give her a rub-down. You want to handle that broad... what you scared about? Why the hell don't you throw her on the bed?”
     Pushing back his chair, Gurney got to his feet. He mumbled something and went over to fix the stove.
     “I'm goin' to take the car out,” Dillon said, finishing his food and getting up. “I've a little job I wantta case Maybe you can do somethin' with it later.”
     Gurney looked at him uneasily, but said nothing.
     Myra watched the two men come out of the cabin and walk over to the shed where the car was garaged. She got up and went in, clearing the table and stacking the plates. She was still trembling with suppressed rage. She heard the car drive off, and she ran to the window. Dillon was sitting at the wheel.
     Gurney came in. “He's gone downtown,” he said.
     Myra sat down on the wooden bench under the window. “I want to talk to you,” she said, her words coming tense and harsh. “It's time you got wise to this guy.”
     Gurney scratched the back of his head. “I don't get this,” he said.
     “You ain't goin' to get anything from him. Don't you think it. He's got that scratch from Abe Goldberg... has he given you any? Not a chance! You're running around with him, an' he's tied an accessory rap on you. He's the boss, an' you jumpin' in circles. You're just a goddam sucker, scared by a bum like that.”
     Gurney shifted. “That guy totes a—rod,” he said. “What can I do?”
     Myra's eyes glittered. “I'm goin' to tell you what you're goin' to do. You're goin' to 'yes' that guy until you get the run of his game, then you're goin' to turn him in. You're goin' to have a gun, an' you're goin to shoot better than he shoots. You're goin' to do everything better than he does. Then he goes ”
     Gurney stood looking at her. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Sure,” he said thoughtfully. “That's an idea.”
      
     The sun was tailing behind the hills when Dillon got back.
     Gurney heard the old engine faintly in the distance, and he went out, standing by the well, looking down the rough road. He wondered where the hell Myra had got to. She had slipped off after the midday meal, and he hadn't seen her since. Restless and bored with his own company, the sound of the car chugging up the hill came as a relief.
     He had spent most of the afternoon wandering round the cabin, brooding. He felt that Myra had a good idea, ditching Dillon. He was scared of the guy. He couldn't bring himself to think how Dillon was to be ditched. Unconsciously, he left that for Myra to fix. Sitting on the step in the sunshine, he had gone over everything Myra had said. That dame had a head all right. She'd got Dillon pinned down. Yeah, she was right. Dillon was a mean guy. He'd run them for a while, then leave them flat. Gurney's hands ached for the feel of a gun. Just give him a gun and he'd fix Dillon okay.
     Dillon drew up outside the cabin. He waved his hand to Gurney. His sullen face seemed more animated. Gurney came over.
     “You been away some time,” he said You get the breaks?”
     Dillon climbed out of the car and went round the back. He reached in and dragged out a bulky object covered with a blanket. “Come inside,” he said, “I got somethin' to show you.”
     Gurney followed him in. Dillon dumped the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
     Gurney stood quite still, his heart beating hard. “Well by God!” he said.
     Lying on the table was a Thompson riot gun, a heavy 45 Smith & Wesson, and a large case of shells.
     Dillon patted the Thompson, his thin lips curving a little. “A guy who's got a thing like that can get most places,” he said.
     A shadow fell across the table. They looked up sharply. Myra stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the gun. The two men took their eyes away from her, and forgot her in the gun.
     “How the hell did you get that?” Gurney asked. He picked up the .45 and caressed the cold butt. It felt good.
     Dillon was in an expansive mood. He wandered over to the bench under the window and sat down. “Once you know the tricks,” he said, “it's easy.”
     Myra went over to the table and stood looking. She cautiously put her hand on the cold barrel of the Thompson.
     Dillon watched her. His triumphant mood included her. “Pick it up,” he said. “It ain't goin' to bite.”
     She held the Thompson, the butt tucked under her arm. The long barrel pointed to the stove. She let her hand run over the smooth drum.
     Gurney watched her. His mouth was dry with excitement. Maybe this guy wasn't such a bum after all, he thought. “You didn't find that growin' on a tree,” he said.
     Dillon shook his head. “These guns don't get picked up easy,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Know how I got it?” His thin lips grinned at them. Myra watched him, her face blank, but her eyes hated him. Dillon didn't feel her. He was big-shotting himself to death.
     “I went into the sheriff's office an' bought it off him,” he said.
     “That's a hell of a tale,” Gurney said. The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.
     “Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country's nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over 'cause he's too old, or maybe he's sick or somethin'. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What's he to do then? Some guy blows in an' makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he'd get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain't legal sellin' Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He's out for good, so he should worry.”