The door opened and Myra came in. She stood in the open doorway, her face bony, holding herself upright against the woodwork. She made no move to go across to Butch. She just stood and watched.
Butch died like that, on his knees. He gradually slumped over like a limp sack of wheat.
Dillon eyed Gurney, then put the gun away inside his coat. “He was crazy to start on me,” he said.
Gurney said hoarsely, “You’d better get outta here.”
Dillon showed his teeth. “You’re comin’ with me, pal,” he said. “Don’t make a mistake about that.”
Gurney gulped and said hastily, “Sure… I didn’t blow like those other paloks.”
The two of them looked at Myra. She was suddenly conscious of them, aware that she was now alone, that Butch was finished, and she had to look after herself.
Gurney went over to her. “Shove some things together,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me.”
She didn’t say anything, but turned and went out of the room with trembling knees.
Dillon said, “Yeah, she’ll be useful.”