Dillon didn’t even look at him. He said to Franks, “We’re outside watching.”
Franks looked up. “Get out, an’ stay out!” he said.
Dillon didn’t move. “Don’t get this thing wrong,” he said. “We don’t want to start anythin’.”
Borg got off his chair. He came over to Dillon fast. He was only a little guy, and fat, but he’d got plenty of guts. “What the hell you blowin’ about? Scram, you ain’t wanted here.”
Dillon looked down at him, sneered, and wandered out. At the door he turned his head. “In about the fifth, Franks,” he said, and pulled the door to with a sharp click.
A sudden burst of ironic cheering came to him from the hall. He passed the little runt again, who glowered at him but said nothing.
At the entrance of K Section he saw Gurney and Morgan pushing through to the saloon. Dillon forced his way through the crowd and caught up with them.
“Those two little punks are scared sick of each other,” Morgan said, as he came up. “They’re just sleepin’ off time in each other’s arms.”
Gurney said, “Did you see Franks?”
Dillon nodded. He leant against the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “He’ll be okay,” he said.