Hurst stiffened. “You heard what I said,” he barked.
Dillon nodded. “Sure,” he said; “but this guy ain’t in the way. What’s on your mind, Mr. Hurst? You seem sorta steamed up.”
Hurst stood hesitating, then he sat down. “Look here, Dillon, this game of yours has gotta stop. I’ve told you before you gotta leave Little Ernie’s ground alone.”
“Can’t you take it, Mr. Hurst?” Dillon sneered.
Hurst sprang to his feet. “What the hell’s this?” he snapped. “You take your orders from me, and when I say leave oft you leave off!”
“I’ve been getting some ideas that’ll get us somewhere in this organization,” Dillon said, speaking slow. “Suppose we push into that ground you’re so scared about? Suppose we give Little Ernie the works? How do you like that?”
Hurst was speechless. His face turned a dusky red, and his big hands clenched on his knees. “My God!” he blurted out at last. “This finishes it. You’re out, Dillon Do you hear? Out!”
Dillon pursed his heavy lips and shot a side look at Roxy. Roxy sat in a heap, his hat tilted over his eyes.
Hurst went on, “You’re crazy to think of such an idea. A thing like that would blow the town to hell. I ain’t having you around my mob any more…. You get out.”
Dillon leant forward, his eyes like ice chips. “Where did you get ’my mob’ stuff?” he snarled. “You ain’t got a mob no more, you yellow four-flusher. I got it, see? An’ what I say goes with the mob. I’ve given you a chance, an’ you’re too damn yellow to take it. All right, from now on I’m runnin’ this outfit, an’ you’re likin’ it… get that?”