Gurney didn’t say anything.
“Give him a chance, an’ he’ll finish both of us.” She moved to the door. “Wait, I’ll be right back.”
Gurney wiped his sweating palms on the sheet.
She came back into the room again. He caught the flash of steel. “What’ve you got there?” he said, his voice just a croak. She showed him. The short blade of the knife flashed in the candlelight. He looked at her, his eyes popping. He started to say something, but stopped.
She sat down on the bed beside him. “Listen,” she said, “we’ll do it this way. When we’re set, I’m goin’ to start yellin’. I’m goin’ to bring the roof down. He’ll come in quick enough to see what’s wrong. I’ll give him the line that you attacked me, an’ you’ve gotta get tough. When he’s talkin’ to you, I’ll come up behind him an’ stick him with this. As soon as the knife’s in, you slam him one from the front. Watch his gun—he’ll bring that out all right. He might start shootin’ unless I kill him on his feet.”
Sweat ran down Gurney’s face. “By God!” he said. “I don’t like this.”
Myra jerked impatiently. “It’s goin’ to work—you see.”
“A knife ain’t goin’ to stop this bastard,” Gurney said; “don’t you think it will.”
Myra hesitated. She guessed maybe Gurney was right about that. Then she said, “We’ll give it him like he gave it to Butch.” She slipped into the outer room and came back almost immediately. She gave Gurney a small tin of pepper. Gurney looked at the tin and twisted his mouth into a grin.
“Yeah,” he said, and stood up.