Gurney pulled a chair round and sat down. He was careful to put the table between them. Dillon leant against the door. Beth watched him the whole time. She was dead scared of Dillon.
“We’re tippin’ you off,” Gurney said evenly, “Sankey’s gotta win this brawl.”
“Yeah?” Franks’ breath whistled through his nose. “He’ll win okay if he ain’t flattened before the last round.”
“You don’t get it,” Gurney said patiently; “you’re throwin’ the fight.”
Franks stood very still. “Like hell I don’t get it,” he said. “Who said?”
Dillon said quietly from the door, “I said so.”
Franks turned his head; he looked at Dillon slowly up and down. “Who’re you?” he said. “You’re nuts. You two’d better get outta here before I toss you out.”
There was a pause, then Dillon said, “You’re goin’ to run into a lotta grief if you don’t take a dive.”
Franks went a little pale. “Okay, you two rats; here it comes.” He jerked aside the table. Gurney scrambled to his feet, his face white. Beth gave a sudden short scream as the big Colt sprang into Dillon’s hand. Franks saw it. It stopped him just like he had banged his face against a brick wall. “Hey!” he said.
“That’s it,” Dillon said viciously. “Don’t start anything; you’ll have a second navel if you do.”