Gurney had the .45 under his coat. It made him feel good. He was excited, and he wasn’t scared any more.
The jaloopy had been hidden in a wood some twenty miles from the bank. Dillon hadn’t any trouble knocking off the Cadillac. It just stood in the main street asking to be knocked off. Even the engine was running, while some guy did his week-end store buying. That bus certainly could move.
They began to run into the town. Dillon edged himself forward, so that his head came between the two in the front. “Take it easy,” he said. “Just run up and stop without any fuss.”
Myra said, between her teeth, “What the hell you think I’d do? Turn the goddam thing over, and push it down the street on its roof?” Her heart was banging against her ribs.
Dillon sat back. “You keep your nut,” was all he said. Taking the blanket off the Thompson, he pulled the gun across his knees, his left hand on the car door.
Gurney pulled the .45 from inside his coat. He held it in his lap. His mouth was very dry.
They pulled up outside the bank.
Myra shoved out the clutch, put the gear in bottom, and revved the engine hard. She said, “Don’t take all day.”
Dillon put his Colt automatic beside her. “Maybe you better have that.”
Myra slipped the gun under her, and sat on it. The butt was just under her hand.