her," he said. "He shot her himself. Now go away and leave me alone."
It was said in a manner of wearied and persecuted innocence; and Colburn, with his eyes on his feet, turned it over in his mind, dispassionately.
"You took the clean-up, though."
"I took my share of it."
"I see. You were partners in the mine. You 're not a Westerner."
Sims shook his head feebly. "Chicago."
"Neither is he."
"He 's my brother."
"Your brother!"
Sims's teeth bared between drawn lips, as if in the emotion of a bitter smile. It was about as interpretable as the grimace of a monkey. Colburn could make nothing of it, but he saw his opportunity to ask the first question on his list. "What was the name of the island?"
"Henry's," the man answered; and as if the name were as full of memories as a photograph in a family album, he stared at it from the hollows of his eyes, his chin sunken on a collar that was too large for his shrunken neck.
The car was jarred by a sudden bump as the two sections of the train—divided by a station crossing—were brought together and coupled for the journey. The covered platform echoed with cries of "All 'boad!" from the negro porters. Sims looked up, roused from his thoughts. Colburn made no move to leave.
