“How the hell did you get that?” Gurney asked. He picked up the .45 and caressed the cold butt. It felt good.
Dillon was in an expansive mood. He wandered over to the bench under the window and sat down. “Once you know the tricks,” he said, “it’s easy.”
Myra went over to the table and stood looking. She cautiously put her hand on the cold barrel of the Thompson.
Dillon watched her. His triumphant mood included her. “Pick it up,” he said. “It ain’t goin’ to bite.”
She held the Thompson, the butt tucked under her arm. The long barrel pointed to the stove. She let her hand run over the smooth drum.
Gurney watched her. His mouth was dry with excitement. Maybe this guy wasn’t such a bum after all, he thought. “You didn’t find that growin’ on a tree,” he said.
Dillon shook his head. “These guns don’t get picked up easy,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Know how I got it?” His thin lips grinned at them. Myra watched him, her face blank, but her eyes hated him. Dillon didn’t feel her. He was big-shotting himself to death.
“I went into the sheriff’s office an’ bought it off him,” he said.
“That’s a hell of a tale,” Gurney said. The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.
“Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country’s nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over ’cause he’s too old, or maybe he’s sick or somethin’. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What’s he to do then? Some guy blows in an’ makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he’d get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain’t legal sellin’ Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He’s out for good, so he should worry.”