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.”