Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An’ what about my business? What are people goin’ to say? They ain’t comin’ here to be roughed around. This is goin’ to ruin me.”
Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.
“Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain’t goin’ to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain’t goin’ to get round the town. A kid like that ain’t goin’ to let on she’s just had her fanny smacked…. Forget it.”
They all sat on Butch’s verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.
Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.
Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell’s this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.
“I don’t know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin’.”
Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey’s in a terrible state. He don’t say anything, but just sits around an’ broods. Franks’s got him tied up.”
Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn’t heard him or seen him.
The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”