A burning, claw-like hand gripped her wrist, twisting it sharply, so that the knife fell with a little clatter on the boards. “You’ve killed him, you silly little cow,” Dillon said in her ear.
Myra screamed once. Then her body stiffened with terror. “Don’t touch me… don’t touch me!” she moaned, trying to free her wrist.
She heard Dillon’s foot touch the knife and kick it away. Then he let go of her and struck a match. With red, streaming eyes he looked at her in the dim flicker of the light.
“Stay still,” he said through his teeth. “You make a move an’ I’ll smash you.”
She remained motionless, one shaking hand at her mouth, while he walked stiffly to the lamp and lit it. Her eyes left him and turned slowly to Gurney, lying in the shadow. A narrow ribbon of blood ran from Gurney towards her, twisting like a snake across the rough boards. Still she could not move. The blood ran close to her feet, and she followed its course with eyes wide with horror.
Dillon pushed the door closed and mopped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve. His chest still heaved a little, and his face was set in granite-like lines.
“You dumb little bitch,” he said, “what you thinks goin’ to happen to you now?”
Myra jerked her eyes from Gurney. She looked at him, suddenly sensing her danger. “He made me do it…” she began; “he made me—”
Dillon sneered. “That hick wouldn’t’ve started anythin’ like that. He ain’t got the guts. You put him up to it; ain’t that the way it went? You said ‘Kill him’, an’ the louse just went ahead. I got you lined up. You bashed Butch. You’re a little hell-cat. Well, I guess you an’ me are goin’ to understand each other.”
He walked over to her slowly. She backed away, throwing out her hands and shaking her head at him in her terror.