I said, “Alta’s car’s outside. Let’s go for a ride.”
“Can I come?” Alta asked.
“I don’t think so. We’re going to call on a bachelor who’s already retired.”
“I like bachelors.”
“Come on,” I said.
We sat three in the front seat, and I drove over the rough road through the tailings until the headlights, dancing along ahead, showed the outlines of Pete Digger’s old shack.
“You sit here,” I said. “I’ll get out and see if he’s ready to receive visitors.”
I slid out of the car and started toward the house. A cracked voice from the shadows said, “Hoist ’em brother, and hoist ’em high!”
I swung around and shot my hands up in the air. The illumination of the headlights showed my features, and Pete Digger said savagely, “Might have known you was a god-darn stool pigeon— All right, go ahead and try to find it, you cheap, tin-star, two-faced hypocrite. A writer, huh? That car looks like you was a writer. If you ain’t got a warrant, get the hell out of here. If you have, serve it.”
I said, “You’ve got me wrong, Pete. I want some more information, only this time I’m going to pay more money for it.”