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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,