The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts Page A

“And can I quote you?”
    â€œUm, no, you can’t quote me,” Clint said. “I came here to ask some questions, not answer them.”
    â€œWell, you can understand if I’m more experienced asking them than answering them.”
    â€œI do understand,” Clint said. “But my questions are very simple.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “maybe we can come to an understanding.”
    Clint did know why he’d met so many attractive newspaperwomen in his life. Was there something about the job that made the women in it appealing?
    â€œMiss Abbott, I just need to know who the rich men in town are.”
    â€œThat’s it?” she asked. “You could get that information from any bartender in town.”
    â€œI know that,” he said, “but I thought while I was here, I’d have a look at your coverage of the shooting that took place a few months back.”
    â€œThe shooting?”
    â€œFive men shot down a man named Carl Sonnet.”
    â€œOf course. I know what shooting you’re referring to.”
    â€œWell, nobody else in town seems to want to admit to knowing about it,” Clint said. “At least, everybody claims to have heard and seen nothing.”
    â€œWell, it was a terrible thing.”
    â€œTell me,” Clint said, “were you able to hear the shooting from here?”
    â€œActually, I didn’t hear anything that way.”
    â€œHow could that be?” Clint asked. “That much shooting would have made plenty of noise.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “the printing press . . .”
    â€œI see,” he said. “Can I look at a copy of your newspaper from the next day?”
    â€œWe are a weekly paper,” she said, “but I can show you the issue that covered the shooting.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it.”
    â€œCome in the back with me,” she said. “That’s what we consider our morgue.”
    He followed her to a back door that led to a hallway, then along that hall to another door, which she opened with a key. The interior of the room smelled musty. She lit a lamp and he could see the stacks of newspapers on shelves.
    â€œWow,” he said, “this is a lot of paper for a weekly.”
    â€œWe started out as a daily,” she said. “Feel free to look through it all.”
    â€œThanks,” Clint said. “Where’s the most recent—” But before he could finish his question, she was gone, closing the door behind her.
    He started leafing through papers . . .
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    When he came out, the printing press was still not running. He reentered the editor’s office, and she turned to look at him from her desk.
    â€œFind what you wanted?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œWhat did you learn?”
    â€œThat everybody in this town is probably deaf and blind,” he said. “Thanks for the look.”
    He started for the door.
    â€œWait,” she said.
    â€œYes?”
    She walked to him and handed him a piece of paper.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œThe list you wanted,” she said. “Richest men in town? I included some of the ranchers in the area.”
    â€œOh . . . thanks.”
    â€œDidn’t think I was going to come through, did you?” she asked.
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œLook,” she said, “I’d love to do an interview with you while you’re in town, but that’s up to you.”
    â€œI appreciate that.”
    â€œI do ask one thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIf you come across anything that’s newsworthy, you’ll let me know?”
    â€œMiss Abbott,” he said, “since you’re the only newspaper in town, you’ll be the first to know.”

THIRTY-FIVE
    When Clint got to the saloon in his hotel, Sonnet was already there, nursing a beer.
    â€œBeer,” Clint said to the