Dillon looked at him impassively. “Just havin’ a drink with a pal of mine,” he said. “What’s wrong with that?”
Strawn looked him over, his face hardening. “Where you from?” he snapped.
Dillon shot a look at Myra. Strawn swung his fist. He smacked Dillon on the jaw. Dillon was off balance—he went over with a thud.
Roxy yelled, “Don’t start anything!” His eyes were popping.
Dillon looked up at Strawn, his eyes black with hate. He came slowly to his feet, rubbing his jaw with his hand. Beyond the look in his eyes he remained impassive.
Strawn said, “Listen, you melon-headed monkey, when I ask you somethin’ you answer quick Where are you from an’ what’s your name?”
The other dick looked bored, but he had got a gun in his hand.
Dillon said between his teeth, “I’m from Plattsville. Name’s Gurney… Nick Gurney.”
Myra stood very still. She put her hand to her mouth.
“Just a big farmer’s hick, huh?” Strawn sneered. “Well, listen, hayseed, you better keep outta this town. We don’t like punks like you. You better go right back to Plattsville an’ stay there. Do you get it?”