Gurney said, “You got this from a sheriff?” His voice was incredulous.
Dillon nodded. “Sure I did.” He reached forward and picked up the .45. “I went into town today an’ got talkin’. Some guy said the sheriff in the next town was closin’ down, so I grabbed the car an’ went out to see him. That little lot set me back a good few bucks, but that ain’t goin’ to worry me. A Tommy talks any time.”
Myra recognized this much. Dillon knew the ropes. Gurney wasn’t in the same street with him for ideas. He knew where to-get things and how to get them. This guy could teach them something.
She said, making her voice soft, “I guess that’s smart.”
Dillon looked at her hard, but Myra’s eyes were wide with admiration. He grunted. “I guess I know my way around,” he said.
“Can you work this?” Gurney said, tapping the Thompson.
Dillon stood up. “Can I work it?” He picked it up and walked outside. “You watch me.”
Myra and Gurney followed him out. They did not look at each other, but Myra put her hand on Gurney’s arm, gripping his muscle. Gurney nodded his head, still keeping his eyes on Dillon’s back.
Dillon looked round thoughtfully, selecting a target. “You ain’t got to worry about aimin’ this gun, he said; “you spray it, see? You just gotta hold it steady an’ bring it round slow in a sweep… like this.”
He raised the gun, levelling it at the garage door, then he pressed the trigger. The shattering roar of the gun made Myra take an involuntary step backwards. Chips of white wood flew from the door. From where they stood they could see the holes spring up in the woodwork in an even line.