Dillon looked him over contemptuously. His eyes went round the others. They began to edge a little towards him, except Gurney. Gurney knew about the gun.
Butch climbed out of his chair. “Bring him to me,” he said savagely, flexing his fingers. “I’ll teach the bum somethin’.”
Dillon’s thin lips smiled. His eyes were stony with contempt. “Forget it,” he said. “You little punks don’t know where you get off.”
Butch said, “Leave him to me.”
He began to weave forward, his great hands questing. Dillon,’ sitting on the table, watching, just hunched his shoulders in his coat. Then, when Butch was within a foot of him, the Colt leapt into his hand.
Hank screamed, “Get back, Hogan, he’s got a gun!”
Dillon shot Butch low down. The crash of the gun made Myra scream out. She stood outside the door, her hands to her mouth, shuddering.
Butch’s blind eyes closed, blotting out the two yellow clots from Dillon’s sight. He put his hands over his belly and squeezed. The blood ran through his fingers. Dillon watched him, his smile a little fixed.
Butch went down on his knees with a thud.
Hank and Morgan fought each other to get out of the room. Dillon let them go. He didn’t even turn his head. They went out through the verandah, and Gurney heard them running down the road.