there, and say you 're a reporter come to interview him, and get the answers. I 'll give you twenty-five bucks for each answer. Worth trying, ain't it?"
Colburn shook his head, his eyes on the floor. "He could pass me out any old talk. I 'd come back here and get the laugh. My time 's worth money."
"I 'll—" Fisher threw himself back in his chair and thrust out a leg to clear his trousers pocket. "I 'll give you twenty-five down."
"Well?"
He drew out a roll of bills and thumbed off two tens and a five, shakily. Colburn took them, as if deep in thought.
Fisher clucked a hoarse, excited cough to clear his throat. "You ask him what was the name of the island in the Snake River where he helped to stake out a claim in '98. Write it down."
"Go ahead." It was a point of professional pride with Colburn that he rarely took notes.
"Ask him how much he got when he skipped with the clean-up." He reflected a moment, with his eyes turned up to the electric lights, glowing in their burnished copper calyxes. He blinked, smiling and puckering up his lips like a man who has a pleasant taste in his mouth. "Ask him what was the name of the woman he hid behind."
Colburn tucked the money into his waistcoat pocket.
"And ask him why he did n't stop to bury her."
Colburn had been watching him under the brim of his hat. Suddenly he said—in the sharp voice
