“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.