Myra scrambled to her feet. She held her hand to her head. The ground rose a little under her feet. She focused Dillon with difficulty. “You devil!” she said.
Dillon hitched his trousers up and walked over to her. “Get out an’ put some food together. You’re here to work, see? I ain’t havin’ any hot air from you.”
She looked over his shoulder at Gurney. “Think you’re going to crawl in my bed after this, you yellow rat… you’ve got some chance.”
Dillon said, “You shut up!”
Gurney turned and went into the front room. He guessed Myra would give him hell for this. Dillon didn’t take his eyes off Myra. He remembered the way she bounced Butch around. This dame was dangerous. Myra looked at him, her eyes hating him. “You ain’t going to get away with this,” she said through her teeth. “I’ll fix you, you dirty heel!”
Dillon said, “Aw, can it!” He moved away, still keeping his eyes open.
Myra hesitated, then walked into the front room. Gurney gave her a scared look, but she took no notice of him. She began to prepare the meal. She cut the ham into thick hunks, savagely sawing at the salty meat, and slapping the slices into the pan.
Gurney expected her to cry. He guessed most dames would have folded up from a smack like that. Myra’s face was white and set. A livid mark, where Dillon had hit her, burnt on her temple, and her eyes were stormy.
Gurney said uneasily, “You ain’t goin’ to get nowhere, startin’ to fight that guy.”
Myra said nothing. She served the food, banging the plates on the table. Then, pouring herself out a cup of strong coffee, she went out into the sunshine and sat away from the cabin.