Sitting there, his hat still wedged on his head, the knife and fork dwarfed in his big hairy hands, Dillon impressed Abe. There was an intense, savage power coming from him; Abe could feel it. It scared him a little.
For something to say, Abe remarked, “You come far?”
Again Dillon raised his cold eyes and looked. “Far enough,” he said.
Abe pulled up a chair and carefully lowered his small body down. He put his hands on the table—clean, soft hands of a child. He said, “Where you headin’ for?”
Dillon tore a piece of bread from the loaf and swabbed his plate round, then he put the bread in his mouth and clamped on it slowly. He pushed his plate away from him and sat back, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He still kept his head slightly lowered, so Abe couldn’t see him very well. “As far as I can git,” he said.
“Maybe a drop of beer’d come nice?” Abe said.
Dillon shook his head. “I can’t use the stuff.”
In spite of himself, Abe’s face brightened. The guy could have a drink on him with pleasure, but, maybe, he was getting a little generous. He said, “A smoke?”
Again Dillon shook his head. “Can’t use that either.”
Outside, in the store, Rosey gave a sudden squeal. Abe sat up listening. “What’s up with my Rose?” he said.