PART ONE

There were three of them. The bigness of the room hid them from the sun, burning up the road outside. They sat round a table, close to the bar, drinking corn whisky.

George, behind the bar, held a swab in his thick fingers, and listened to them talk. Every now and then he nodded his square head and said, “You’re dead right, mister.” He just “yessed” them along—that was all.

Walcott uneasily fingered a coin in his vest pocket. It was all the money he had, and it was worrying him. Freedman and Wilson had stood him a round, and now it was coming to his turn. He couldn’t rise to it. His weak, freckled face began to glisten. He touched his scrubby moustache with a dirty thumb and moved restlessly.

Wilson said, “Cain’t go no place these days but there’s some lousy bum lookin’ for a free flop an’ a bite of somethin’ to eat. This town’s lousy with bums.”

Walcott said quickly, “Ain’t it gettin’ hot in here? Seems like it’s too hot to drink even.”

Freedman and Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Then Freedman drained his glass and set it on the table with a little bang. “Ain’t never too hot for me to drink,” he said.

George leant over the bar. “Shall I fill ’em up, mister?” he said to Walcott.

Walcott hesitated, looked at the two blank, coldly suspicious faces of the other two, and nodded. He put the coin on the counter. He did it reluctantly, as if the parting with it was a physical hurt. He said, “Not for me… jest two.”

There was a heavy silence, while George poured the liquor. The other two knew it was Walcott’s last coin, but they wouldn’t let him off. They were determined to have everything they could from him.

George picked up the coin, looked at it, spun it in his thick fingers, and flipped it into the till. Walcott followed every movement with painful intensity. He screwed round a little in his chair, so that he couldn’t see the others drinking. He put his hands over his eyes.

Freedman turned his red fat face and winked at Wilson. He said, “It’s only the Kikes that have the dough.”

George said ponderously, “Yeah, you’re right, mister.”

“Sure I’m right,” Freedman said, sipping his corn whisky. “Take a look at Abe Goldberg, ain’t he got most of the dough in the town?”

Walcott turned his head. His pale eyes lit up. “That guy’s stinking with it,” he said. “Hell of a lot of good it does him, too.”

Wilson shrugged. “His fat cow sews up his pockets,” he said. “He don’t drink, he don’t smoke, he don’t do nothin’.”

Freedman winked again. “You’re wrong there,” he said. “But what he does do don’t cost him anything.” They laughed.

The three-quarter swing doors of the saloon pushed open, and a girl came in. She stood hesitating in the patch of sunlight at the door, trying to see in the dimness of the room. Then she came over to the bar.

George said, “’Morning, Miss Hogan, how’s your Pa?”

The girl said, “Gimme a pint of Scotch.”

George reached under the counter and slapped down a bottle in front of her. She gave him a bill, and while he was getting change she looked round the room. She saw the three, sitting watching her. They sat like waxworks, suspended in everything but her. She looked slowly from one to the other, then she tossed her head and turned back to the bar.

“I ain’t got all day,” she said. “Stir your stumps, can’t you?”

George put the money on the counter. Aw, Miss Hogan—” he began.

She picked up the money and the bottle quickly. “Forget it,” she said, and walked out.

The three turned in their chairs as she went, their eyes fixed in a bright, unblinking stare. They watched her push the swing doors and disappear into the hot, sunlit road.

There was a lengthy silence.

Then Freedman said, “She ain’t got a thing under that dress, did you see?”

Walcott still stared at the door, as if hoping she’d return. He nervously wiped his hands on a cap he held on his knee.

Wilson said, “If I were Butch I’d take the hide off her back… the little whore.”

George said, “Ain’t she a looker? There ain’t another skirt in this dump like her, ain’t that right?”

Walcott dragged his eyes away from the door. “Yeah,” he said: “See the way she came in? Standin’ in the sunlight like that, showing all she got. That girl’s a tease. She’s going to get into trouble one of these days, you see.”

Freedman leered. “You don’t know nothin’,” he said. “You can’t teach that babe a thing. I’m tellin’ you, she’s hot. I’ve seen her at night with one of those engineer fellows in the fields.”

The other two jerked their chairs forward. They leant over the table. George looked at them. They had suddenly lowered their voices. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He hesitated, then, feeling himself excluded, he moved further down the bar, and began to polish glasses. Anyway, he told himself, it wasn’t too healthy talking about old Butch Hogan’s daughter Old Butch was still dangerous.

A long, starved shadow of a man tell across the floor of the saloon, making George look up sharply.

The man stood in the doorway holding the swing doors apart with his hands. A battered, greasy hat pulled over his face hid his eyes. George looked at him, saw the frayed, stained coat, the threadbare trousers and the broken shoes. He automatically reached forward and put the cover on the free-lunch bowl.

“Another goddam bum,” he thought.

The man came in with a limping shuffle. He looked at the three at the table, but they didn’t see him. They were still wrangling about the girl. George leant forward a little over the bar and spat in the brass spittoon. Then having expressed his attitude, he straightened up and went on polishing a glass.

“The name’s Dillon,” the man said slowly.

George said, “Yeah? Ain’t nothin’ to me What’s yours?”

“Gimme a glass of water.” Dillon’s voice was deep and gritty.

George said, his face hostile, “We don’t serve water here.”

“But you’ll serve me an’ like it,” Dillon said. “D’you hear me, punk?—I said water.”

George reached under the counter for his club, but Dillon suddenly pushed up his hat and leant forward.

“You ain’t startin’ anythin’,” he said.

The cold black eyes that looked at George made the barman suddenly shiver. He took his hand away with a jerk. Dillon continued to stare at him.

There were no guts in George. He was big, and every now and then he had to smack someone down with his club. He did it without thinking. This bum was different. George knew he’d get nowhere being tough with a guy like this.

“Here, take the water, an’ get the hell outta here.” He pushed a bottle of water across the wood in Dillon’s direction.

The three at the table stopped talking about Hogan’s daughter and turned in their chairs. Freedman said, “Well, by God! Here’s another bum blown in.”

George began to sweat. He walked down the counter to Freedman, shaking his head warningly.

Dillon took a long pull from the water-bottle.

Sure of himself, because of his two companions, Freedman said, “This punk stinks. Get him outta here, George.”

Dillon put the bottle down on the counter and turned his head. His white, clay-like face startled Freedman. Dillon said, “You’re the kind of heel that gets slugged some dark night.”

Freedman lost some of his nerve. He turned his back and began talking to Walcott.

Just then Abe Goldberg came in. He was a little fat Jew, maybe about sixty, with a great hooked beak and two sharp little eyes. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving him a kindly look. He nodded at George and ordered a ginger ale. Dillon looked at him closely. Abe was shabby, but he wore a thick rope of gold across his chest. Dillon eyed that with interest. Abe met his eye. He said, “You a stranger around here?”

Dillon began to shuffle to the door. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said.

Abe looked him over, sighed, and put his glass on the wood. He walked over to Dillon, looking up at him. “If you could use a meal,” he said, “go over to the store across the way. My wife’ll fix you something.”

Dillon stood looking at Abe, his cold eyes searching the little Jew’s face. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess I’ll do that.”

The three at the table, and George, watched him shuffle out of the saloon. Freedman said, “That’s a bad guy all right. There’s somethin’ about that guy.”

George mopped his face with the swab. He was mighty glad to see Dillon go. “You gotta be careful with those bums, Mr. Goldberg,” he said. “You don’t know how tough hoboes are.”

Abe drained his glass, then shook his head. “That guy’s all right. He’s hungry,” was all he said. He crossed the street and went into the store.

Abe Goldberg was proud of that store. It was all right. It was a good store. You could get most things from Goldberg’s Stores. Maybe you did have to pay a little more, but it was convenient. All under one root. It saved a walk in the heat, so you expected to pay a little more. Anyway, Abe made a good thing out of it. He didn’t toss his money about, nor did he yell-about it. He just socked it away in the bank, and said nothing. Most people liked Abe. He was a little sharp, but then you expected that too, so you haggled with him. Sometimes, if you haggled long enough, you got what you wanted cheaper. Abe’s joint was the only one in town that you could haggle in. And sometimes people like to haggle.

Abe walked into his shady cool store, sniffed at the various smells, and smiled to himself. His wife, who came a little older than he, shook her black curls at him. She was fat, and she had big half-circles of damp under her arms, but Abe loved her a lot.

“Goldberg,” she said, “what’s the big idea, sending bums into my kitchen?”

Abe lifted his narrow shoulders and spread out his hands. “That guy was hungry,” he said. “What could I do?”

He lifted the trap on the counter and passed through. His small hand patted his wife’s great arm. “You know how it is,” he said softly; “we’ve been hungry Give him a break, Rosey, won’t you?”

She nodded her head. “It’s always the same. Bum after bum comes into this town and they all make tracks for you. I tell you, Goldberg, you’re a sucker.” Her big, fleshy smile delighted him.

“You’re a hard woman, Rosey,” he said, patting her arm again.

Dillon was eating in the kitchen, intent and morose, when Abe went in. He glanced up, keeping his head lowered over his plate, then he looked down again.

Abe stood there, shifting his feet a little in embarrassment. He said at last, “You go ahead an’ eat.”

With his mouth full, Dillon said, “Sure.”

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.

Dillon explored his teeth with a match-end. He said nothing. Abe got to his feet and walked into the store.

Walcott was leaning over the counter, glaring at Rosey. His thin, boney face was red.

Abe said nervously, “What is it?”

Walcott shouted, “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up, you goddam Kike. She ain’t givin’ me no more tick, that’s what’s up.”

Abe nodded his head. “That’s right, Mister Walcott,” he said, going a little white. “You owe me too much.”

Walcott saw he was scared. He said, “You gimme what I want, or I’ll bust you.” He closed his hand into a fist and leant over the counter, swinging at Abe. Abe stepped back hastily and banged his head hard against a shelf. Rosey squealed again.

Dillon shuffled slowly out of the kitchen into the store. He looked at Walcott, then he said, “Lay off.”

Walcott was drunk. The corn whisky still burnt in a fiery ball deep inside him. He turned slowly. “Keep out of this, you bum,” he said.

Dillon reached forward and hit Walcott in the middle of his face. The blow came up from his ankles. A spongy mass of blood suddenly appeared where Walcott’s nose had been. Walcott reeled away, holding on to his face with both hands.

Dillon stood watching him. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He said, “Scram… get the hell outta here!”

Walcott went, his knees buckling as he walked.

Abe and Rosey stood motionless. The little Jew’s hands Muttered up and down his coat. He finally said, “You shouldn’t’ve hit him that hand.”

Dillon said nothing. He began to move to the door.

Abe said, “Wait. Don’t go. I guess we gotta thank you for that.”

Dillon turned his head. “Save it,” he said, “I got to get goin’.”

Rosey plucked at Abe’s sleeve. “Give that boy a job, Goldberg,” she said.

Abe looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Rosey…” he began.

Dillon looked at them suspiciously. Standing there in the dim store, his great shoulders hunched, he frightened Abe.

Rosey said, “Go on, Goldberg, give him a break You gotta get a hand some time, so make it now.”

Abe looked timidly at Dillon. “Sure,” he said uneasily. “That’s dead right. I was goin’ to hire me a hand. That’s right. Suppose we talk it over?”

Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.

“Sure, go ahead an’ talk about it.”

Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.

She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.

The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.

At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.

With an uneasy smile on her full red lips she came on. But the women, as she came nearer, shifted like a brood of vultures, turning their drooping shoulders against her, their eyes sightless, not seeing her. Again the wooden heels began to click Her face flushed, her head held high, she went past.

A buzz of talk broke out behind her. One of the women said loudly: “I’d give her something—the dirty little whore.”

Myra kept on. “The sluts!” she thought, furious with them. “I’ve got everything, and they hate me.”

The bank stood at the end of the main street. Clem Gibson was standing in the doorway. He saw Myra coming, and he nervously fingered his tie.

Clem Gibson was someone in the town. He ran the bank, he owned a car, and he changed his shirt twice a week.

Myra slowed down a little and flashed him a smile.

“Why, Miss Hogan, you are lookin’ swell,” Gibson said.

This line of talk pleased Myra. She said, “Aw, you’re kiddin’.”

Gibson beamed behind his horn glasses. “I wouldn’t kid you, Miss Hogan, honest.”

Myra made to move on. “Well, it’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “I’ve just got to get goin’. My Pa’s waitin’ for me.”

Gibson came down the two steps. “I was going to suggest—that is—I wanted to ask you… He paused, embarrassed.

Myra looked up at him, her long black lashes curling above her eyes. “Yes?”

“Look, Miss Hogan, suppose you an’ me go places sometime.”

Myra shook her head. She thought he’d got a hell of a nerve. Go out with him and have his horse-faced wife starting a beef. He was crazy. Myra had enough sense to leave the married men alone. They were only after one thing, and she wasn’t giving anything away. “Pa just wouldn’t stand for it,” she said. “He don’t like married men takin’ me out. Ain’t he soft?”

Gibson stepped back. His face glistened with embarrassment. “Sure,” he said, “your Pa’s right. You better not tell him about this. I wasn’t thinking.” He was scared of Butch Hogan.

Myra moved on. “I won’t tell him,” she said.

He watched her hungrily as she went, her buttocks jerking under the tight dress.

It was quite a walk to her home, and she was glad when she pushed open the low wooden gate that led to the tumbledown shack.

She stood at the gate and looked at the place. She thought, “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!”

The garden was a patch of baked, cracked mud. The house was a one-storeyed affair, made throughout with wood that wind and rain had warped and sun had bleached. It stood there—an ugly depressing symbol of poverty.

She walked up the path and climbed the two high steps leading to the verandah. In the shadow, away from the sun, Butch Hogan sat, his great hands resting on the top of a heavy stick.

He said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She stood there and looked at him. His broken, tortured face, those two horrible eyes, sightless, with a yellow blob in each pupil, looking like two clots of phlegm, the great square head, the overhanging brows, and the ferocious mouth made her shiver. He startled her by suddenly regurgitating violently into the mud patch a sodden wad of chewing-tobacco.

He said, “Say somethin’, can’t you? Where in hell’ve you been?”

She put the bottle of whisky on the table beside him. “There it is,” she said and she put beside it the rest of the money.

With fumbling fingers he checked the money, before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood up and stretched. Although he was tall, his great shoulders gave him a squat look. He turned his face in her direction. “Go on in I wantta talk with you.”

She went into the living-room, leading off the verandah. It was a large room, untidy and full of aged and decaying furniture. Hogan followed her in. He moved with quick, cat-like steps, avoiding in some extraordinary way any obstacles that lay in his path. Blindness had not anchored him. He had been like that for ten years. At first the darkness had suffocated him, but he had fought it, and, like all his other fights, he had beaten it. Now it was of little hindrance to him. He could do most things he wanted to. His hearing had intensified and served him for his eyes.

Myra stood sulkily by the table. She made patterns with her flimsy shoes on the dusty floor.

Hogan went to a cupboard, found a glass, and poured himself out a stiff shot of whisky. Then he went over to the one overstuffed chair and folded himself down in it. He took a long pull from the glass.

“What’s your age now?” he asked abruptly. The two yellow clots fixed on her.

“Seventeen.”

“Come here,” Hogan said, reaching out a great thick arm. She didn’t move.

“If I come an’ get you, you’re goin’ to have grief.”

She moved over to him reluctantly, and stood just by his knees. “What is it?” she asked, her face a little scared.

His hand closed on her arm, the big thick fingers pinching her muscle, making her squirm.

“Stand still,” he said. With his free hand he began exploring her body. Letting his hand run over her, like some farmer poking and examining a plump bird. Then he let her go, and sat back with a grunt. “You’re growing up,” he said.

Myra stepped back, a little flush of anger on her face. “You keep your paws off me,” she said.

Butch pulled at the coarse hairs growing out of his ears. “Siddown,” he said, “I’m goin’ to talk to you.”

“Supper ain’t ready,” she said; “I ain’t got time to listen to you.”

He left his chair with incredible speed, and before she could dart away from him he struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand. He was aiming at her head, but he misjudged. She went over on hands and knees and stayed there, dazed. He knelt down beside her. “You’re getting big ideas, ain’t you?” he snarled at her. “You think I can’t hold you, but I can. Do you get that? Maybe I’ve lost my peepers, but that ain’t goin’ to mean a thing to you. So get wise to yourself, will you?”

She sat up slowly, nervously feeling her shoulder. A smack from Butch meant something.

“I gotta hunch you’re goin’ to take after your Ma. I’ve had my eye on you for some time. I hear what’s been said. You’re after the punks already. Like your Ma. That dirty little whore had the ants okay. You’re showing yourself off, an’ you’re working up a hot spot for yourself. Well, I’m watchin’ you, see? I’m goin’ to crack down on you, once I catch you at it. You leave punks alone, and make ’em leave you alone.”

She said uneasily, “You’re nuts! I don’t go around with fellas.”

Butch sneered. “I’m tellin’ you before you start. You’re ripe. You’re ready to go ahead. Well, start somethin’ an’ see what you get.”

She climbed to her feet. “You gotta catch me at it,” she thought.

“Okay, go an’ get somethin’ to eat. You get the idea now, huh?”

She turned to the door, but he reached out and jerked her back. “You get it?” “Oh, sure!” she said impatiently.

Butch tapped the broad belt round his waist. “If ever I catch you in a tumble, I’m goin’ to lift the hide off your back.”

She snatched her arm away and walked out of the room, her knees trembling a little.

Outside, a ramshackle car drew up, and three men got out. Myra sped to the door, looked out, then ran to her bedroom. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and a little smile flickered on her lips. Gurney was coming in, with his ham boxer. Gurney made Myra’s heart flutter. He was some guy, this Gurney.

Sankey the boxer walked up the broken path, his head on his chest, his big hands hanging loosely by his side. Hank, his trainer, watched him anxiously. He caught Gurney’s eye, and jerked his head. He looked worried. Gurney was looking for Myra. Sankey gave him a pain.

The three of them paused on the verandah. Butch came out of the room. He said, “You ain’t been around here for some time. How’re you makin’ out?”

Gurney made signs to the other two Sankey took no notice, but Hank nodded briefly.

Butch was glad to have them. He said, “Sit down, for Pete’s sake. How’s your boy shapin’?”

Under cover of the noise made by the other two dragging their chairs up, Gurney slipped into the house. He knew Myra’s room. He opened the door and put his head round. Myra was painting her lips. She had put on a pair of white step-ins. She jerked round, seeing his face in the fly-blown mirror.

“You get out!” she said.

Gurney found his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped in and shut the door, putting his back against the panels. Gurney was big. He had a bent nose and a big slit of a mouth. His eyes were always a little shifty. He dressed in a loud, flashy way, wearing black suits with a yellow or pink stripe. His shirts were mostly red or yellow cotton. He thought he was a swell dresser.

Myra, suddenly anxious, said, “Nick…. blow the old man won’t stand for it… please.”

Gurney came round the bed and reached out for her. She skipped away, her eyes suddenly large and scared. “If you don’t get out, I’ll yell,” she said.

“Aw, honey, that ain’t the way to talk…. Gurney was crowding her the whole time. “You’re lookin’ swell. I ain’t goin’ to start anythin’, honest.” His hand touched her arm, and she suddenly felt weak. She said feebly, “Don’t, Nick, the old man’ll kill me—”

Gurney said, “Don’t worry about him.” He pulled her into his arms, his hands burning on her cool flesh.

White-hot desire for him stabbed her, gripping her inside with iron fingers. She searched for his mouth with hers, gripping him round the neck, half strangling him. Gurney grinned to himself. He said to her, “I’m comin’ out to see you one night soon. You’re goin’ to like that, ain’t that right?”

Outside on the verandah, Butch punched and pummeled Sankey. Sankey stood there, with his head on his chest, like a horse on the way to the knacker’s.

Butch said, “He’s all right, ain’t he?” He said it anxiously, looking in Hank’s direction.

Hank said, “Sure.” But it wasn’t impressive.

“I’m goin’ to need a lot of luck with Franks,” Sankey mumbled.

Butch stiffened. “For God’s sake, that guy ain’t no use. He can’t hit you.”

Sankey shifted. “I wish to hell you’re right.”

“That punk couldn’t hit you with a handful of gravel.”

“He ain’t got to hit me with gravel, has he?” Sankey turned to the rail and sat on it. He still kept his head down.

Butch rubbed both his hands over his bald head. “Listen, this is crazy talk. When you get in there, you’re goin’ to give this punk the works, see? You’re going to left-hand him till you’ve pushed his nut off his neck. Then over with your right, an’ lay him among the sweet peas.”

Sankey didn’t say anything.

Butch was getting the jitters. “Where’s Gurney? Ain’t he here?” he asked suddenly.

“Sure,” Hank said quickly. “He’s fixin’ the auto. She ain’t so good as she was. He’ll be along.”

Butch said, “I want him now.”

Hank went to the edge of the step and yelled, “Hi, Gurney! Butch wants you.” He put a lot of beef in his voice.

Butch said suspiciously, “Why d’you yell like that?— he ain’t deaf.”

Hank began to sweat. He shouted again.

Gurney came round the side of the shack at a run. He’d got a lot of red smears on his face from Myra’s paint. That didn’t matter. Butch couldn’t see them. He was quite cool when he came up the steps.

Butch said, “What the hell’ve you been doin’?”

Hank put in quickly, “I told you, he’s been fixin’ the bus.”

Gurney grinned a little. “Yeah that’s right. That auto’s sure goin’ home.”

Butch said. “Where’s Myra?”

Gurney was elaborately calm. The old sonofabitch was sharp, he thought. “Just what I was goin’ to ask you. I gotta soft spot for that kid.”

Butch chewed his underlip. He sat down in the chair, his great fists clenched. “You leave her alone,” he growled.

Gurney grinned again but he made his voice smooth. “What’s biting you, Butch? You know kids ain’t my racket. When I have a woman, she’s gotta be a tramp ”

Butch said, “Okay, but leave Myra alone.”

There was a little pause, then Hank said: “Will you be there, Butch?”

His mind brought back to Sankey, Butch began to look worried again. “Your boy ain’t got no confidence,” he said to Gurney.

Gurney lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the mud patch. “He’s okay. He’s just nervous. It don’t amount to anythin’.”

“Yeah?” Butch levered himself forward. “You crazy? That guy’s carrying my dough. That guy’s gotta win.”

Sankey shifted. “Forget it,” he said. “Can’t you gab about somethin’ else?”

Butch turned his head. “Take him away,” he said to Hank. “Lead him round the place. I wantta talk to Gurney.”

Hank got up and jerked his head. “Come on,” he said to Sankey. They went down the path and sat in the car.

Butch leant forward. “What the hell’s this?” he snarled. “That palooka’s out on his feet already.”

Gurney scratched his chin. “What the hell can I do about it? Franks has scared him, got him jittery. They ran into each other at the boozer the other night. You know Franks, he got on Sankey’s nerves.”

Butch got to his feet. He raised his clenched fists above his head. “The yellow punk,” he said, his voice suppressed and strangled. “You gotta do somethin’, Gurney. I’ve got too much dough on that bum to risk. I tell you, you gotta do somethin’.”

“I’ve got a hundred bucks on him myself,” Gurney said uneasily. “He’s a trifle over-trained, I guess.”

“You’ve got a week to fix things,” Butch said slowly. “Use your head.”

Myra came out on the verandah. Her eyes were fixed on Gurney. Butch jerked his head round. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded.

“Your supper’s ready,” she said.

Gurney got to his feet. “Okay, Butch, I’ll see what I can do.”

Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch’s nose. Myra didn’t dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.

“What you doin’?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.

“I’m on my way,” Gurney grinned. “’Bye, Myra; take care of your Pa.”

He went away, grinning.

Myra slipped into the kitchen. Her heart was thumping hard against her ribs. The crazy loon, she thought, to do a thing like that. She stood quite still, in the middle of the untidy kitchen, holding her breasts tightly, her eyes half closed, thinking of him.

The town took an interest in Dillon. Abe noticed that trade picked up when Dillon was in the store. The women came in to look at him. They had heard about Walcott. A guy who could hit like that must have plenty of steam. Any guy with steam made the women in Plattsville a little light-headed.

They got a shock when they saw Dillon, but they wouldn’t admit they were disappointed. They had hoped to see a Clark Gable, and Dillon’s clay-like face and cold expressionless eyes startled them. They told one another that he was a bad man, and they kept on coming in to have another look at him.

The men in Plattsville got sour about it. They said anyone could have smacked Walcott down; he was a cheap punk and didn’t amount to anything.

They were talking about Dillon in the saloon when Gurney came in. They broke off. Gurney stopped most talk wherever he went. They wanted to know how Sankey was shaping.

Freedman pushed his way forward. “H’yah, Nick,” he said, “what you havin’?”

Gurney was used to this sort of thing. He couldn’t place Freedman, but that didn’t worry him. He said, “Rye, straight.”

George lumbered along the counter with the bottle and glass. He left it at Gurney’s elbow.

Freedman said, “Your boy okay?”

Gurney poured himself out a shot and tossed it down his throat. He said, “Sure, he’s all right.”

“I got my money on him,” Freedman said. “I’d like to see him win.”

“He’s goin’ to win, you see.”

Wilson lounged to the bar. “Franks ain’t so bad,” he said; “I guess I fancy Franks.”

Gurney looked him over. Just a small-town wise-guy he thought, maybe not so small-town. He said, “Hell, someone’s got to back him.”

The others laughed.

Wilson’s face reddened angrily. “Yeah?” he said. “Sankey’s gettin’ nerves. That guy’s goin’ to be stiff before he gets in there. Franks’ll beat hell out of him.”

Gurney turned to fill his glass. He thought this line of talk wouldn’t get him anywhere. He tapped Wilson on his coat-front. “Get wise, sucker,” he said. “Ain’t you heard of a front? Sankey’s full of tricks. This is one of ’em. Listen, Sankey could whip Franks blindfolded. He’s springing a surprise for that palooka. Get your dough on the right man.”

Wilson began to lose confidence. “That straight?” he asked; “that on the level?”

Gurney winked at Freedman. “He asks me it it’s straight? Me! Take him away someone an’ bury him.”

Freedman said, “I’d like your boy to push this Dillon around. That’s what that bastard wants.”

Gurney raised his eyebrows. “Dillon? Who’s he?”

They jostled one another to tell him. Gurney stood, his shoulders against the wall, a glass in his hand, and listened. He said at last, “Abe ain’t no fool This guy can’t be so bad.”

Freedman said, “He’s got Goldberg tooled.”

Gurney was getting sick of Freedman. He straightened his coat, leant forward over the counter, and adjusted his hat in the wall mirror. “I gotta see Abe; I’ll look this guy over.”

Freedman made as if to go with him. Gurney checked him with a look. “This is a little matter of business,” he said.

Freedman said, “Sure, you go ahead.” He said it hastily. He didn’t want to get in bad with Gurney.

Crossing the street, Gurney entered the store. It was the slack part of the day, and the place was empty. Dillon came out from the back, and stood with his hands resting on the counter, framed by two towers of tinned foods. He was wearing one of Abe’s store suits that fitted him in places, and his face was close-shaven. He didn’t look the hobo that had come into Plattsville a few days back. He looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. A cold, suspicious stare. Gurney thought he might be a mean sort of a guy.

“Abe about?” he asked.

Dillon shook his head. “He’s out,” he said briefly.

“Too bad. I wanted to see Abe.” Gurney fidgeted a little. Dillon made him a little uneasy.

“Will he be long?” he said after a pause.

“Maybe.” Dillon began to edge away into the darkness of the store.

Gurney thought he’d try a little probing. He said: “You’re new around here.”

Dillon rubbed his forearm. He still looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. “You’re the guy who’s runnin’ Sankey, ain’t you?” he said.

Gurney swelled a little. “That’s me,” he said.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Matter? Nothin’. What d’you mean?”

“You know. That guy’s gone yellow. What’s eatin’ him?”

Gurney paused, uncertain. Then he said, “Listen, I don’t like that line of talk.”

Dillon wandered out from behind the counter, he still rubbed his forearm. “Don’t ‘big shot’ me,” he said. “I said what’s the matter with him?”

Again Gurney felt uneasy. The dangerous, savage power in Dillon conveyed itself to him.

“Franks got him jittery,” he said reluctantly.

Dillon nodded. “He goin’ to win?”

“Sankey? I guess not.” Gurney frowned. “I gotta lotta dough on that boy.”

“I guess I could fix it,” Dillon said, watching him closely.

“You?” Gurney looked incredulous.

“Sure, why not?” Dillon lounged to the door and looked into the street, then he came back again.

“What d’you know about fixin’ fights?” Gurney asked suspiciously.

“Plenty,” Dillon told him, then, after a pause, he added: “I’m lookin’ for a chance to break into the dough again.”

Gurney was getting more than interested. “Suppose you come on out an’ see Butch tonight? I’d like you to meet Butch Hogan.”

“Hogan?” Dillon thought a moment. “That the old ex-champ?”

“That’s the guy. He lives just outside the town now. Blind he is—a tough break for a guy like that.”

“Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head, “a tough break.”

“Will you be along?”

“I guess so. Any other guys interested in Sankey?”

“There’s Hank, he trains him, an’ there’s Al Morgan, who manages for him.”

“Tell ’em both to come. Not Sankey; he’d better keep out of it.”

Gurney said, “I’ll take you along tonight.”

Dillon shook his head. “I’ll be there,” he said; “you don’t got to worry about me.”

He walked back behind the counter, leaving Gurney standing uncertain in the middle of the store. Then Gurney walked out into the bright sunlight. This guy Dillon got him beat. There was somethin’ phoney about him. He was no hobo, he could tell that. This guy was used to handling men. He said a thing and expected the thing done. He scared Gurney a little.

He was so busy thinking about Dillon that he didn’t see Myra walking down the street. Myra hastened her steps, but Gurney was already climbing into the car, and before she could call to him he had driven away.

Myra was quite pleased he hadn’t seen her. She had taken some trouble in dressing. Her flowered dress had been washed and ironed. Maybe it had shrunk a shade, but that didn’t worry her. She knew it showed off her figure. Her thick black hair glistened in the sunlight, and was dressed low in her neck. The seams of her imitation silk stockings were straight, and her shoes shone. She was going to have a look at Dillon.

She’d heard about Dillon the day he had moved in, but she had purposely waited until he had seen all the women in Plattsville. She thought it was time now to give him an eyeful. Walking down the street, she knew she was good. She knew the men turned their heads, and she guessed that she was going over big with this Dillon.

She walked into the empty store, clicking her heels sharply on the wooden floor. Purposely, she stood in the patch of sunlight flooding the doorway. She’d seen that trick worked before, and with her thin dress she knew she was showing plenty.

Dillon looked up. “I’ve seen it before,” he said, “it ain’t anythin’ new. Come out of the light.”

If he had struck her she couldn’t have been more furious. Automatically she moved a few paces into the shadow, then she said, “What kind of a cheap crack do you think that is?”

Dillon shitted a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you want?” he said.

“A real live salesman, ain’t you?” she said, gripping her purse hard. “If you want to keep your job you gotta do better than that.”

Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain’t listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”

Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon’s face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain’t in the movies.”

She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I’ll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.

He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.

She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”

Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Myra spun round. “You’re crazy to have that bum in here. He’s been insulting me—”

Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn’t stop— she ran.

Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he squeaked. “That’s Butch Hogan’s daughter. The old man’ll raise the dead about this.”

Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m about sick of these goddam bitches starin’ at me. Maybe they’ll leave me alone for a while.”

Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An’ what about my business? What are people goin’ to say? They ain’t comin’ here to be roughed around. This is goin’ to ruin me.”

Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.

“Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain’t goin’ to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain’t goin’ to get round the town. A kid like that ain’t goin’ to let on she’s just had her fanny smacked…. Forget it.”

They all sat on Butch’s verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.

Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.

Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell’s this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.

“I don’t know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin’.”

Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey’s in a terrible state. He don’t say anything, but just sits around an’ broods. Franks’s got him tied up.”

Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn’t heard him or seen him.

The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”