Dillon stopped firing and turned to look at them. “See?” he said. “That’s the way. This gun’s goin’ to stop anythin’ on two legs.”
Myra came over to him. “I bet I could do that,” she said.
Dillon looked down at her, hesitating. Then his good-humour overcame his caution. He gave the gun to her. “You gotta hold her.”
Myra pressed the butt into her side, her finger curling round the trigger, then she squeezed. The gun jumped about in her hand as if it were alive. The dry mud puffed up and the leaves from the trees overhanging the garage fell in a shower; she winged the door twice.
Dillon said, “Take it easy… you gotta hold that gun.”
Gurney was itching to try. He looked at Dillon, trying to catch his eye. Myra held the gun, looking at it thoughtfully, then she shoved it in Gurney’s hands.
Dillon scowled. “Hey,” he said, “those shells cost dough!”
Gurney was not to be put off. He raised the gun and fired off a round. The wood splinters again spurted. He could see he’d drawn a line of holes almost as well as Dillon.
Myra said, “You ain’t so good as this guy.”
That pleased Dillon. Anyway, that’s why she said it. He took the gun from Gurney and walked back to the cabin Gurney followed close behind him.