Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase

tied an accessory rap on you. He's the boss, an' you jumpin' in circles. You're just a goddam sucker, scared by a bum like that.”
     Gurney shifted. “That guy totes a—rod,” he said. “What can I do?”
     Myra's eyes glittered. “I'm goin' to tell you what you're goin' to do. You're goin' to 'yes' that guy until you get the run of his game, then you're goin' to turn him in. You're goin' to have a gun, an' you're goin to shoot better than he shoots. You're goin' to do everything better than he does. Then he goes ”
     Gurney stood looking at her. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Sure,” he said thoughtfully. “That's an idea.”
      
     The sun was tailing behind the hills when Dillon got back.
     Gurney heard the old engine faintly in the distance, and he went out, standing by the well, looking down the rough road. He wondered where the hell Myra had got to. She had slipped off after the midday meal, and he hadn't seen her since. Restless and bored with his own company, the sound of the car chugging up the hill came as a relief.
     He had spent most of the afternoon wandering round the cabin, brooding. He felt that Myra had a good idea, ditching Dillon. He was scared of the guy. He couldn't bring himself to think how Dillon was to be ditched. Unconsciously, he left that for Myra to fix. Sitting on the step in the sunshine, he had gone over everything Myra had said. That dame had a head all right. She'd got Dillon pinned down. Yeah, she was right. Dillon was a mean guy. He'd run them for a while, then leave them flat. Gurney's hands ached for the feel of a gun. Just give him a gun and he'd fix Dillon okay.
     Dillon drew up outside the cabin. He waved his hand to Gurney. His sullen face seemed more animated. Gurney came over.
     “You been away some time,” he said You get the breaks?”
     Dillon climbed out of the car and went round the back. He reached in and dragged out a bulky object covered with a blanket. “Come inside,” he said, “I got somethin' to show you.”
     Gurney followed him in. Dillon dumped the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
     Gurney stood quite still, his heart beating hard. “Well by God!” he said.
     Lying on the table was a Thompson riot gun, a heavy 45 Smith & Wesson, and a large case of shells.
     Dillon patted the Thompson, his thin lips curving a little. “A guy who's got a thing like that can get most places,” he said.
     A shadow fell across the table. They looked up sharply. Myra stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the gun. The two men took their eyes away from her, and forgot her in the gun.
     “How the hell did you get that?” Gurney asked. He picked up the .45 and caressed the cold butt. It felt good.
     Dillon was in an expansive mood. He wandered over to the bench under the window and sat down. “Once you know the tricks,” he said, “it's easy.”
     Myra went over to the table and stood looking. She cautiously put her hand on the cold barrel of the Thompson.
     Dillon watched her. His triumphant mood included her. “Pick it up,” he said. “It ain't goin' to bite.”
     She held the Thompson, the butt tucked under her arm. The long barrel pointed to the stove. She let her hand run over the smooth drum.
     Gurney watched her. His mouth was dry with excitement. Maybe this guy wasn't such a bum after all, he thought. “You didn't find that growin' on a tree,” he said.
     Dillon shook his head. “These guns don't get picked up easy,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Know how I got it?” His thin lips grinned at them. Myra watched him, her face blank, but her eyes hated him. Dillon didn't feel her. He was big-shotting himself to death.
     “I went into the sheriff's office an' bought it off him,” he said.
     “That's a hell of a tale,” Gurney said.