The Chase

1

JANUARY 10, 1906 BISBEE, ARIZONA

ANYONE SEEING AN OLD DERELICT SOT SLOWLY SWAYING down Moon Avenue in Bisbee that afternoon would have mistaken him for what he was not, a man who had grown old before his time working the mines that ran through the mineral-rich mountains under the town. His shirt was grubby and he smelled unwashed. One suspender held up torn and ragged pants that were stuffed into scuffed and worn boots that should been thrown in the trash gully behind the town long ago.

Snarled and greasy hair straggled to his shoulders and merged with an uncut beard that hung halfway down his protruding stomach. He looked through eyes so dark brown they were nearly black. There was no expression in them; they seemed cold and almost evil. A pair of work gloves covered the hands that had never held a shovel or a pick.

Under one arm, he carried an old gunnysack that appeared empty. Almost whimsically, the dirty burlap had DOUGLAS FEED & GRAIN COMPANY, OMAHA, NEBRASKA stenciled on it.

The old man took a minute and parked on a bench at the corner of Moon Avenue and Tombstone Canyon Road. Behind him was a saloon, mostly empty because it was the middle of the day and its usual patrons were hard at work in the mines. The people walking and shopping in the little mining town paid him no more than a quick, disgusted glance. Whenever they passed, he pulled a whiskey bottle from a pant pocket and drank heavily before recapping it and putting it back. No one could have known it was not whiskey but tea.

It was warm for June; he guessed the temperature to be in the high nineties. He sat back and looked up and down the streets as a trolley car passed, pulled by an aging horse. Electric-motored trolleys had yet to come to Bisbee. Most of the vehicles on the streets were still horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The town had only a handful of automobiles and delivery trucks, and none were in evidence.

He knew enough about the town to know that it was founded in 1880 and named after Judge DeWitt Bisbee, one of the moneymen behind the Copper Queen Mine. A good-sized community, its population of twenty thousand made it the largest city between San Francisco and St. Louis. Despite the many miners’ families that lived in modest little wooden buildings, the main economy was based around saloons and a small army of shady ladies.

The man’s head nodded to his chest; he looked like a drunk who had dozed off. But it was an act. He was conscious of every movement around him. Occasionally, he glanced across the street at the Bisbee National Bank. He watched with interest, through half-closed eyes, as a truck with chain drive and solid-tired wheels rattled up to the bank. There was only one guard, who got out of the truck and carried a large bag of newly printed bills inside. A few minutes later, he was helped by the bank’s teller to lug a heavy chest through the door and onto the truck.

The man knew that it was a shipment of gold, a piece of the three million ounces that had been produced at the local mines. But gold was not what piqued his interest. It was too heavy and too risky for one man to dispose of. It was the cash that brought him to Bisbee, not the prized yellow metal.

He watched as the truck moved away and two men, whom he had identified as security guards at the giant Phelps Dodge Mining Company, walked out of the bank. They had delivered the cash to pay the mining company payroll the following day. He smiled to himself, knowing the assets of the Bisbee National Bank had risen to a new level.

He had watched the people who came and went from the bank for nearly two weeks until he could identify them by sight. He had also noted the time when they came and went. Satisfied now there was no one in the bank except one teller and the owner/manager, he looked at his watch and nodded to himself.

Leisurely, the old derelict rose, stretched, and ambled across the brick street and trolley tracks to the bank, carrying the large, empty gunnysack over one shoulder. Just as he was about to enter, a woman unexpectedly walked past. She gave him a look of loathing, stepped around him, and went inside. She was not in his plan, but he decided to deal with the matter rather than wait. He checked the street and followed her into the bank.

He closed the door. The teller was in the vault and the woman waited until he reappeared. The derelict removed a model 1902 Colt .38 caliber automatic from his boot, struck the woman on the nape of the neck with the barrel, watching with detachment as she slowly folded to the wooden floor. It happened so suddenly and silently that the owner of the bank did not see or hear anything from his office.

Then the drunken miner suddenly turned bank robber leaped sprightfully over the counter, entered the owner’s office, and put the gun barrel to his head. “Resist and you’ll be shot dead,” he said in a low but forbidding tone. “Now, call the teller into your office.”

The bald, fat, shocked bank owner looked at him with brown eyes widened with fright. Without argument, he called out, “Roy, come in here.”

“Be right there, Mr. Castle,” Roy called out from inside the vault.

“Tell him to leave the vault open,” said the bank robber quietly, with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Roy, don’t close the vault door,” Castle complied as ordered, his eyes crossing as they focused on the gun pressing against his forehead.

Roy stepped from the vault, a ledger under one arm. He couldn’t see the unconscious woman lying under the counter. Suspecting nothing, he entered Castle’s office and abruptly stiffened when he saw the robber holding a gun to his boss’s head. The robber pulled the gun barrel away from Castle’s head and motioned with the muzzle toward the vault.

“Both of you,” he said calmly, “into the vault.”

There was no thought of resistance. Castle rose from his desk and led the way into the vault while the robber stepped quickly to the window to check the street for anyone heading for the bank. Except for a few women shopping and a passing beer wagon, the street was quiet.

The interior of the vault was well lit, with an Edison brass lamp hanging from the steel ceiling. Except for the chest containing the gold, stacks of bills, mostly the payroll for the mining companies, covered the shelves. The robber threw the gunnysack at the teller.

“Okay, Roy, fill it with all the greenbacks you have.”

Roy did as he was told. With trembling hands, he began sweeping the piles of bills of various denominations into the sack. By the time he was finished, the sack was stretched to the limit of its burlap fibers and seemed to be the size of a well-filled laundry bag.

“Now, lay down on the floor,” ordered the robber.

Castle and Roy, believing the robber was now about to make his getaway, stretched out flat on the floor, with their hands stretched over their heads. The robber pulled a heavy woolen scarf from one of his pockets and wrapped it around the muzzle of his automatic. Then he systematically shot both men in the head. It sounded more like two loud thumps than the sharp crack of gunfire. Without another second’s hesitation, he heaved the sack over one shoulder and walked from the vault without looking back.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t finished. The woman under the counter moaned and tried to rise to her elbows. With utter indifference, he leaned down, lowered the gun, and shot her in the head like he had the bank owner and teller. There was no remorse, not the slightest hint of emotion. He didn’t care whether any of them left families behind. He had murdered three defenseless people in cold blood with as little interest as he might have shown stepping on a column of ants.

He paused to search for one of the shell casings he thought he’d heard fall to the floor from inside the scarf wrapped around the gun but could not find it. He gave up and walked casually from the bank, noting with satisfaction that no one had heard the muted gunshots.

With the gunnysack bulging with cash slung over his shoulder, the man walked through the alley running behind the bank. Stepping into a small alcove under a stairway where he would not be seen, he took off the grimy clothes, removed the gray wig and beard, and threw everything in a small valise. Now revealed in an expensively tailored suit, he perched a bowler hat at a jaunty angle on his head and its neatly brushed carpet of red hair. He slipped on a necktie and knotted it before also tossing the scuffed boots in the valise. He was a short man, and the soles and heels of the boot had been raised nearly two inches. Next, he pulled on a pair of English-made leather shoes, with lifts in the heel to make him appear taller, before turning his attention to a large leather suitcase he had hidden under a canvas tarp along with a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Glancing up and down the alley every few seconds, he transferred the huge pile of cash from the gunnysack to the suitcase, which he strapped on a rack over the rear wheel of the motorcycle. The valise containing his disguise he tied on a front rack.

At that moment, the man heard shouting coming down the alley from Tombstone Canyon Road. Someone had discovered the bodies in the Bisbee National Bank. Unconcerned, he pushed the motorcycle forward and started the three-horsepower, twenty-five-cubic-inch one-cylinder engine. He threw one leg over the seat and rode deserted back alleys to the railroad yard. He moved unseen along a siding where a freight train had stopped to take on water.

His timing was perfect.

Another five minutes and the freight train would have moved back onto the main line and headed toward Tucson. Without being noticed by the engineer and the brakeman, as they pulled a big pipe down from the wooden tank into the tender for water to make steam, the man took a key from his vest pocket and opened the padlock to the door to a boxcar that was marked with a painted sign that read O’BRIAN FURNITURE COMPANY, DENVER. He slid the door open on its rollers. The presence of the boxcar in this time and place was no coincidence. Acting as a fictitious representative of the equally fictitious O’Brian Furniture Company, he had paid cash for it to be included in the freight train passing through Bisbee, en route from El Paso, Texas, to Tucson, Arizona.

He took a wide plank, attached by brackets to the side of the boxcar, and used it as a ramp to ride the Harley-Davidson aboard. Then he quickly closed the rolling door and reached through a small hinged opening to replace the lock as the whistle on the engine tooted and the train began moving forward from the siding onto the main track.

From the outside, the boxcar looked like any other that had been in use for several years. The paint was faded, and the wooden sides were dented and chipped. But its appearance was deceptive. Even the lock on the door was fake, making it look like the car was buttoned up tight. It was the inside that was the most deceptive, however. Instead of an empty interior or one packed with furniture, it was luxurious, ornately constructed, and furnished as ostentatiously as any private railcar belonging to the president of a railroad. Mahogany paneling spread over the walls and ceiling. The floor was covered by a thick carpet. The décor and furniture were extravagantly magnificent. There was an opulent sitting room, a palatial bedroom, and an efficient kitchen with the latest innovations for preparing gourmet meals.

There were no servants, porters, or cooks.

The man worked alone, without accomplices who might reveal his true name and occupation. No one knew of his clandestine operations as a bank robber and mass murderer. Even the railroad car had been built and decorated in Canada before being secretly transported across the border into the United States.

The robber relaxed in a plush leather settee, uncorked a bottle of 1884 Château La Houringue Bordeaux, chilled in buckets, and poured himself a glass.

He knew the town sheriff would quickly form a posse. But they would be looking for an old mangy miner who murdered while in a drunken fit. The posse would fan out, searching the town, almost certain he was too poor to own a horse. None of the townspeople had ever seen him come and go on horseback or driving a buggy.

Immensely pleased with himself, he sipped the wine from a crystal glass and studied the leather suitcase. Was this his fifteenth, or was it his sixteenth, successful robbery? he mused. The thirty-eight men and women and two children he had killed never entered his mind. He estimated the take of the mining payroll at $325,000 to $330,000. Most robbers wouldn’t have come close to guessing the amount inside the case.

But it was easy for him, since he was a banker himself.

The sheriff, his deputies, and the posse would never find the murdering robber. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air. No one ever thought to connect him with the dapper man riding through town on a motorcycle.

The hideous crime would become one of Bisbee’s most enduring mysteries.

2

SEPTEMBER 15, 1906 THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER BELOW HANNIBAL, MISSOURI

SOON AFTER THE TWENTIETH CENTURY WAS BORN, steamboating on the Mississippi began to fade. Few passenger steamboats still reigned in style. The Saint Peter was one of the last grand passenger boats to have survived the onslaught of the railroads. Two hundred fifty feet long and seventy-five feet wide, she was a splendid example of palatial elegance, with side-curving stairways, plush passenger cabins, and a magnificent main dining room with the finest food to be found anywhere. Ostentatious salons were provided for the ladies while the men smoked their cigars and played cards in handsome rooms adorned with mirrors and paintings.

Card games on steamboats plying the river were notorious for their cardsharp gamblers. Many passengers left steamboats poorer than when they boarded. At one table in the gambling room of the Saint Peter, in a quiet corner away from the main action, two men were enjoying a game of five-card stud.

At first glance, the scene looked like any other in the room, but a closer look revealed that no chips sat on the green felt table.

Joseph Van Dorn calmly studied his hand before laying down two cards. “A good thing we’re not in this for the money,” he said, smiling, “or I would owe you eight thousand dollars.”

Colonel Henry Danzler, director of the United States government’s Criminal Investigation Department, smiled in return. “If you cheated like I do, we’d be even.”

Van Dorn was a congenial man in his early forties. His cheeks and chin were buried under a magnificent red burnsides beard that matched what remained of the hair that circled his bald dome. His face was dominated by a Roman nose, and his brown eyes looked sad and melancholy, but his looks and manner were deceiving.

Irish-born, he bore a name known and respected throughout the country for tenacity in tracking down murderers, robbers, and other desperados. The criminal underworld of the time knew he would chase them to the ends of the earth. Founder and chief of the renowned Van Dorn Detective Agency, he and his agents had prevented political assassinations, hunted down many of the West’s most feared outlaws, and helped organize the country’s first secret service agency.

“You’d still deal yourself more aces than me,” he said affably.

Danzler was an enormous man, tall and mammoth in girth, weighing slightly over three hundred pounds, yet he could move as effortlessly as a tiger. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculately trimmed and brushed, shining under the light that streamed in through the boat’s big windows. His blue-green eyes had a soft glow to them, yet they seemed to analyze and record everything going on about him.

A veteran and hero of the Spanish American War, he had charged up San Juan Hill with Captain John Pershing and his black “Buffalo Soldiers” of the Tenth Cavalry and had served with distinction in the Philippines against the Moros. When the government’s Criminal Investigation Department was authorized by Congress, President Roosevelt asked him to become its first director.

Danzler opened the lid of a large pocket watch and stared at the hands. “Your man is five minutes late.”

“Isaac Bell is my best agent. He always gets his man—and occasionally a woman, too. If he’s late, there’s a good reason.”

“You say he’s the one who apprehended the assassin Ramos Kelly before he could shoot President Roosevelt?”

Van Dorn nodded. “And he rounded up the Barton gang in Missouri. He shot and killed three of them before the other two surrendered to him.”

Danzler stared at the famous detective. “And you think he’s the man to stop our mass murderer and bank robber?”

“If anyone can stop the killer, Isaac can.”

“What is his family background?”

“Very wealthy,” answered Van Dorn. “His father and grandfather were bankers. You’ve heard of the American States Bank of Boston?”

Danzler nodded. “Indeed. I have an account there myself.”

“Isaac is very affluent. His grandfather left him five million dollars in his will, thinking Isaac would take his place as head of the bank one day. It never happened. Isaac preferred detective work to banking. I’m lucky to have him.”

Danzler caught a shadow on his arm. He looked up and found himself looking into soft blue eyes with a slight violet cast, eyes that had looked over horizons to see what was beyond. The effect was almost mesmerizing, as though they were searching deep into Danzler’s inner thoughts.

Danzler could size up a man as precisely as he could a horse. The intruder was tall and lean, stood well over six feet, and weighed no more than one hundred seventy-five pounds. A large flaxen mustache that covered his entire upper lip conformed with the thick mass of neatly barbered blond hair. His hands and fingers were long and nimble and hung loosely, almost casually, at his sides. There was a no-nonsense look about him. The colonel judged that this was a man who dealt with substance and did not endure fools or insignificant and phony candor. He had a determined set to the chin and lips that were spread in a friendly smile. Danzler guessed his age at about thirty.

He was dressed immaculately in a white linen suit without a wrinkle. A heavy gold chain dipped from a left vest pocket that was attached to a large gold watch inside the right pocket. A low-crowned hat with a wide brim sat squarely on his head. Danzler might have pegged him as a dandy, but the look of elegance was betrayed by a pair of worn leather boots that had seen many hours in stirrups. Bell carried a thin valise and set it down beside the table.

“Colonel Danzler,” said Van Dorn, “this is the man I told you about, Isaac Bell.”

Danzler offered his hand but did not rise from his chair. “Joe here tells me that you always get your man.”

Bell grinned slightly. “I’m afraid Mr. Van Dorn has exaggerated. I was ten minutes too late when Butch Cassidy and Harry Longabaugh sailed for Argentina three years ago from New York. Their boat pulled away from the dock before I could apprehend them.”

“How many agents or law enforcement officers were with you?”

Bell shrugged. “I intended to handle the matter on my own.”

“Wasn’t Longabaugh the Sundance Kid?” asked Danzler.

Bell nodded. “He got the nickname when he tried to steal a horse in Sundance, Wyoming. He was caught and spent eighteen months in jail.”

“Surely you didn’t expect to subdue them without a fight.”

“I think it is safe to say that they would have resisted,” said Bell, without explaining how he would have single-handedly captured the former members of the infamous Wild Bunch.

Van Dorn sat back in his chair, made no comment, and gave the colonel a smug look.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Bell, and join our little game?”

Bell looked at the empty table quizzically and then at Danzler. “You appear to have no chips.”

“Just a friendly little game,” said Van Dorn, shuffling the deck of cards and dealing out three hands. “So far, I owe the colonel eight thousand dollars.”

Bell sat down, the quizzical look altered to one of understanding. The game was a pretense. His chief and the colonel were sitting in the corner away from the other gamblers and playing as if they were in a serious game. He laid his hat in his lap, picked up his cards, and acted as if he were deep in thought.

“Are you familiar with the swarm of bank robberies and murders that have occurred around the western states in the past two years?” Danzler inquired.

“Only in conversation,” replied Bell. “Mr. Van Dorn has kept me busy on other cases.”

“What do you actually know about the crimes?”

“Only that the robber murders anyone in the bank during the act, escapes like a spirit, and leaves no evidence behind that might incriminate him.”

“Anything else?” Danzler probed.

“Whoever he is,” answered Bell, “he is very, very good. There have been no leads and no breaks in the investigation.” He paused and stared at Van Dorn. “Is that why I’ve been called here?”

Van Dorn nodded. “I want you to take over the case as chief investigator.”

Bell threw down a card, picked up the card that Danzler dealt, and slipped it in the fan, which he held in his left hand.

“Are you a lefty, Mr. Bell?” asked Danzler out of curiosity.

“No. Actually, I’m right-handed.”

Van Dorn laughed softly. “Isaac can draw the derringer he hides in his hat, cock it, and pull the trigger faster than you can blink.”

Danzler’s respect for Bell grew during the conversation. He drew back his coat and revealed a 1903 Colt .38 caliber hammerless automatic. “I’ll take Joe’s word for it, but it would be interesting to put it to the test—” Danzler had not finished the sentence when he found himself staring into the twin muzzles of a derringer.

“Age has slowed you, Henry,” said Van Dorn. “Either that or your mind wandered.”

“I have to admit, he is very fast,” Danzler said, visibly impressed.

“What office will I work out of?” Bell asked Van Dorn as he slipped the derringer back in his hat, where it fit in a small pocket inside the crown.

“The crimes have occurred from Placerville, California, in the west, to Terlingua, Texas, to the east,” replied Van Dorn. “And from Bisbee, Arizona, in the south, to Bozeman, Montana, in the north. I think it best if you operated in the center.”

“That would be Denver.”

Van Dorn nodded. “As you know, we have an office there with six experienced agents.”

“I’ve worked with two of them three years ago,” said Bell. “Curtis and Irvine are good men.”

“Yes, I forgot,” Van Dorn said, now recalling. “I might add, Colonel, that Isaac was responsible for the apprehension of Jack Ketchum, who was later hung for two murders committed during a train robbery.” He paused and reached under the table and produced an identical valise to the one Bell had carried into the gambling salon. Bell then passed his empty valise to Van Dorn. “Inside, you will find the reports on all the crimes. Every lead so far has led up a blind alley.”

“When do I start?”

“At the next landing, which is Clarksville, you will depart and take the first train to Independence. From there, you will be given a ticket on the Union Pacific express to Denver. You can digest and study what little clues and evidence we’ve gathered. Once you arrive, you’ll take up the hunt for the murdering scum.” A look of anger and frustration clouded Van Dorn’s brown eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t give you a chance to pack when you left Chicago, but I wanted you to start as soon as possible.”

“Not to worry, sir,” Bell said with a faint smile. “Fortunately, I packed two suitcases for the duration.”

Van Dorn’s eyebrows raised. “You knew?”

“Let’s say I made an educated guess.”

“Keep us informed on your manhunt,” said Danzler. “If you need any help from the government, I’ll do all in my power to assist you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bell acknowledged. “I’ll be in contact as soon as I get a firm grip on the situation.”

Van Dorn said, “I’ll be working in our Chicago office. Since transcontinental telephone service has yet to run from St. Louis across the prairie to Denver and beyond to California, you’ll have to telegraph me on your progress.”

“If any,” Danzler muttered sarcastically. “You’re up against the best criminal brain this country has ever known.”

“I promise I won’t rest until I capture the man responsible for these hideous crimes.”

“I wish you good luck,” Van Dorn said sincerely.

“Not to change the subject,” Danzler spoke with satisfaction as he laid his card hand on the green felt, “I have three queens.”

Van Dorn shrugged and threw his cards on the table. “Beats me.”

“And you, Mr. Bell?” said Danzler with a crafty grin.

Isaac Bell slowly laid his cards on the table one by one. “A straight flush,” he said matter-of-factly. Then, without another word, he rose and walked briskly from the salon.

3

LATE IN THE MORNING, A MAN DROVE AN OLD WAGON, hitched to a pair of mules, past the cemetery outside the town of Rhyolite, Nevada. The graves had simple wooden fences around them, with the names of the deceased carved on markers made of wood. Many were children who had died of typhoid or cholera, aggravated by the hard family life of a mining town.

The July heat in the Mojave Desert was unbearable under the direct rays of the sun. The driver of the wagon sat beneath a tattered umbrella attached to the seat. Black hair fell past his neck but just short of the shoulders. His head was protected by a stained Mexican sombrero. His unseen eyes peered through the stained-blue glass of spectacles, and a handkerchief wrapped the lower half of his face, to keep out the dust raised by the mules’ hooves. The manner in which he was hunched over made it difficult, if not impossible, to determine his build.

As he rode by, he stared with interest at a house a miner had built using thousands of cast-off saloon beer bottles embedded in adobe mud. The bottoms of the bottles faced outward with the mouths facing in, the green glass casting the interior in an eerie sort of light.

He came to the railroad tracks and drove the mules along the road next to them. The tops of the rails gleamed like narrow twin mirrors in the blinding sun. These were the tracks of the Las Vegas & Tonopah Railroad, which wound through the middle of the residential district of the town.

The wagon rolled slowly past more than eighty railcars on a siding. They had been unloaded of their incoming freight. The empty cars were now being filled with outgoing ore for the mills. The driver took a brief glance at a boxcar being coupled to a thirty-car train. The lettering on the side said O’BRIAN FURNITURE COMPANY, DENVER. He glanced at the dial of his cheap pocket watch—he carried nothing that might help identify him—and noted that the train was not scheduled to leave for Las Vegas for another forty-four minutes.

A quarter of a mile later, he came to the Rhyolite train station. The substantial building was a mixture of Gothic and early Spanish styles. The ornate depot had been built of stone, cut and hauled from Las Vegas. A passenger train that had steamed in from San Francisco sat alongside the station platform. The passengers had disembarked, and the seats cleaned by porters, and the train was now filling with people heading back toward the coast.

The driver reached the center of town, where the streets were bustling with activity. He turned to stare at a large mercantile establishment, the HD & LD PORTER store. Beneath the sign was a slogan painted on a board that hung above the front entrance. It read We handle all things but Whiskey.

The 1904 gold rush had resulted in a substantial small city of solidly constructed buildings built to last a long time. By 1906, Rhyolite was a thriving community of over six thousand people. It had quickly graduated from a busy tent town to an important city meant to stand far into the distant future.

The main buildings were constructed of stone and concrete, making the small metropolis of Rhyolite the major city of southern Nevada. A four-story bank came into sight, a fine-looking structure that gave it a look of substance and wealth. Half a block away, a three-story stone office building was going up.

There was a post office, an opera house, a twenty-bed hospital, comfortable hotels, two churches, three banks, and a large school. Up-to-date, Rhyolite boasted an efficient telephone system and its own electrical-generating plant. It also had a booming red-light district and forty saloons and eight dance halls.

The man driving the wagon was not interested in anything the town had to offer except some of the assets of the John S. Cook Bank. He knew that the safe inside could hold over a million dollars in silver coins. But it was far easier to carry cash from the payrolls of the mines, and he had yet to take a single silver, or gold, piece. He figured that with eighty-five companies engaged in mining the surrounding hills, the payroll take should be quite considerable.

As usual, he had planned well, living in a boardinghouse for miners while entering the Cook Bank on numerous occasions to make small deposits in an account he had opened under a false name. A brief friendship was struck up with the bank’s manager, who was led into thinking the town newcomer was a mining engineer. The man’s appearance had been altered with a wig of black hair, a mustache, and a Vandyke beard. He also walked with a limp, which he said was the result of a mining accident. It proved to be a flawless disguise with which to study the banking habits of the citizens and the times when the bank was doing little business.

As he drove the wagon and mules into town toward the Cook Bank, however, his image had been changed from that of a mining engineer to that of a small-time freight hauler to the mines. He looked like any one of the town’s haulers, struggling to make a living in the broiling heat of the desert during summer. He reined in the mules at the rear of a stable. When he was certain no one was observing him, he lifted a dummy dressed exactly the same as himself and tied it to the seat of the wagon. Then he led the mules back toward Broadway, the main street running through town. Just before reaching the concrete walkway in front of the bank’s entrance, he slapped the mules on their rumps and sent them off, pulling the wagon down the street through the main part of town, his dummy likeness sitting upright on the seat and holding the reins.

He checked for customers approaching the bank. None of the people milling around the town seemed headed in that direction. He looked up at the four-story building, glancing at the gold paint on the windows of the upper floor advertising a dentist and a doctor. Another sign, with a hand pointing downward, indicated that the town post office was in the basement.

He strolled into the bank and looked around the lobby. It was empty except for a man making a withdrawal. The customer took his money from the teller, turned, and walked from the bank without glancing at the stranger.

There goes a lucky man, the robber thought.

If the customer had bothered to notice him, he would have been shot dead. The robber never left anyone behind to identify the least detail about him. Then there was always the possibility, although slim, that someone might see through his disguise.

He had learned from conversations in the neighboring saloons that the bank was run by a manager for a company of men who were owners of the region’s most productive mines, especially the Montgomery-Shoshone Mine whose original claim had grossed nearly two million dollars.

So far, so good, thought the robber as he leaped over the counter, landing on his feet next to the startled teller. He pulled the automatic from his boot and pressed the muzzle against the teller’s head.

“Do not move, and do not think of stepping on the alarm button under the counter or I’ll splatter your brains on the wall.”

The teller could not believe what was happening. “Is this really a holdup?” he stammered.

“It is that,” replied the robber. “Now, walk into the manager’s office very slowly and act as if nothing is happening.”

The frightened teller moved toward an office with a closed door whose etched glass made it difficult to see in or out. He knocked.

“Yes, come on in,” came a voice from the other side.

The teller Fred pushed open the door and was roughly shoved inside, losing his balance and falling across the manager’s desk. The sign on the desk, HERBERT WILKINS, was knocked to the floor. Wilkins swiftly took in the situation and reached for a revolver under his desk. He was five seconds too late. The robber had learned about the weapon from the manager himself, while talking at a nearby saloon.

“Do not touch that gun,” snapped the robber, as if he were psychic.

Wilkins was not a man who frightened easily. He stared at the robber, taking in every inch of his appearance. “You’ll never get away with it,” he said contemptuously.

The robber spoke in a cold, steady voice. “I have before and I will do so again.” He motioned toward the imposing safe that stood nearly eight feet high. “Open it!”

Wilkins looked the robber square in the eye. “No, I don’t think I will.”

The robber wasted no time. He wrapped the muzzle of his automatic in a heavy towel and shot the teller between the eyes. Then he turned to Wilkins. “I may leave here without a dime, but you won’t live to see it.”

Wilkins stood, horrified, staring down at the spreading pool of blood around Fred’s head. He looked at the smoldering towel where the bullet had passed through, well knowing it was unlikely that anyone in the building had heard the gunshot. As if in a trance, he walked to the safe and began turning the combination lock to the required numbers. After half a minute, he pulled down on the latch and the massive steel door swung open.

“Take it and be damned!” he hissed.

The robber merely smiled and shot Wilkins in the temple. The bank manager had barely struck the floor when the robber strode quickly to the front door, slammed it shut, hung a CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled down the shades. Then he methodically cleaned out the safe of all bills, transferring them into a laundry bag he carried tied around his waist under his shirt. When the sack was filled until it bulged in every seam, he stuffed the remaining bills in his pant pockets and boots. The safe cleaned of all money, the robber stared briefly at the gold and silver coins inside and took just one gold souvenir.

There was a heavy iron rear door to the bank that opened onto a narrow street. The robber unlocked the door’s inside latch, cracked the door open, and scanned the street. It was lined on the opposite side with residential houses.

A group of young boys were playing baseball a block from the bank. Not good. This was entirely unexpected by the robber. In his many hours of observing the streets around the Cook Bank, this was the first time he had found children playing in the street behind the bank. He was on a time schedule and had to reach the railyard and his secret boxcar in twelve minutes. Shouldering the bag so his face was shielded on the right side, he walked around the ball game in progress and continued up the street, where he ducked into an alley.

For the most part, the boys ignored him. Only one stared at the poorly dressed man toting a big sack over his right shoulder. What struck the boy as odd was that the man wore a Mexican sombrero, a style that was seldom seen around Rhyolite. Most men in town wore fedoras, derbies, or miner’s caps. There was also something else about the raggedy man…Then another boy yelled, and the boy turned back to the game, barely in time to catch a pop fly.

The robber tied the sack around his shoulders so that it hung on his back. The bicycle he’d parked earlier behind a dentist’s office was sitting there behind a barrel that had been placed to catch runoff water from the building’s drainpipe. He mounted the seat and began pedaling along Armagosa Street, past the red-light district, until he came to the railyard.

A brakeman was walking along the track toward the caboose at the end of the train. The robber couldn’t believe his bad luck. Despite his meticulous planning, fate had dealt him a bad hand. Unlike with his other robberies and murders, this time he had been noticed by a stupid young boy. And now this brakeman. Never had he encountered so many eyes that might have observed him during his escape. There was nothing he could do but see it through.

Luckily, the brakeman did not look in the robber’s direction. He was going from car to car checking the grease in the axle boxes of the trucks and wheels the boxcars rode on. If the brass sleeve that rotated inside the box did not receive enough lubricant, the friction would heat the end of the axle to a dangerous level. The weight of the car could break the axle off and cause a disastrous crash.

As the robber cycled past, the brakeman did not bother to look up. He instead went about his business, trying to complete his inspection before the train departed for Tonopah and then on to Sacramento.

Already, the engineer was looking at his gauges to make sure he had enough steam to move the heavy train. The robber hoped the brakeman would not turn back and witness him entering his private boxcar. Quickly, he unlocked and slid open the door. He threw the bicycle inside and then climbed a small ladder up to the door, dragging the heavy money sack over the threshold.

Once inside the boxcar, the robber peered down the length of the train. The brakeman was climbing aboard the caboose, which housed the train crew. There was no sign he’d witnessed the robber enter the boxcar.

Secure inside his palatial car, the robber relaxed and read a copy of the Rhyolite Herald. He could not help but wonder what the paper would print the following day about the bank robbery and the killing of its manager and teller. Again, as he had so many times earlier, he felt no remorse. The deaths never entered his mind again.

Later, besides the mystery of how the robber/killer had escaped without a trace, the other puzzle was the wagon found outside of town on the road toward Bullfrog. The wagon was empty and appeared to have been driven by a dummy. The posse that chased it down was mystified.

Sheriff Josh Miller did put two and two together, but his speculation went nowhere. Nothing made sense. The desperado left no clues.

The robbery and murders in Rhyolite became another enigma that went unsolved.

4

THE SUMMER SUNLIGHT HEIGHTENED THE CONTRAST of colors in the mile-high altitude of Colorado. The sky was free of clouds, a vivid blue that spread over the city of Denver like a quilt. The temperature was a comfortable eighty-one degrees.

Isaac Bell closed the door to his stateroom and left the train by stepping off the observation platform at the rear of the Pullman car. He paused to look up at the clock tower of the Gothic-style Union Station. Built of stone hauled down from the Rocky Mountains, the imposing three-story structure stretched a quarter of a mile.

The arrowhead-tipped hands of the huge clock read 11:40. Bell lifted his large gold watch from the vest pocket of his tailored linen suit and glanced at the hands that pointed to Roman numerals. His time was 11:43. He smiled at himself with satisfaction, knowing for certain that the big clock-tower clock was three minutes slow.

He walked down the redbrick platform to the baggage car, identified his trunks, and hailed a porter. “My name is Bell. Could you please see that my trunks are sent to the Brown Palace Hotel?”

The porter smiled broadly at the gold coin Bell laid in his hand and rubbed it almost reverently. “Yes, sir, I’ll deliver them myself.”

“I’m also expecting a large wooden crate on a later train. Can I count on you to make sure it is delivered to the Union Pacific freight warehouse?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it.” Still rubbing the gold piece, the porter grinned broadly.

“I’d be grateful.”

“May I take that for you?” said the porter, nodding at the valise in Bell’s hand.

“I’ll keep it with me, thank you.”

“Can I hail you a taxi?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take the tram.”

Bell strolled through the high-ceilinged grand lobby of the depot, with its majestic hanging chandeliers, past the rows of high-backed oak waiting benches and out the main entrance, flanked by twin Grecian columns. He crossed Wyncoop Street onto 17th Street and passed under the newly erected Mizpah Arch, a gatelike structure with a pair of American flags flying on top that was built to welcome, and bid farewell to, train travelers. Mizpah, Bell knew, meant watchtower in ancient Hebrew.

Two ladies wearing light summer dresses, gloves, and ornate hats decorated with flowers drove by in an electric battery–powered car. Bell doffed his hat, and with nods and smiles they acknowledged the attention of the attractive man as they motored up 17th Street toward the state capitol building.

Horse-drawn wagons and carriages still outnumbered the few automobiles that chugged up and down the streets of the city. A Denver Tramway Company trolley car clanged around the corner off Wazee Street and approached the end of the block, where it stopped to let off and take on passengers. The horse-drawn railways were a thing of the past and electric trolleys ruled the streets, reaching every neighborhood in Denver.

Bell climbed the steps and gave ten cents to the motorman. The bell was clanged and the big red trolley clattered up 17th Street. Three-and four-story brick buildings filled the next fourteen blocks. The sidewalks were crowded with people on a typical business day. The men wore black or gray suits and ties, while the women strolled in the long dresses whose skirts rose just above the ankles. Most of the women wore flamboyant hats and carried parasols.

He observed with interest a store that was selling Cadillac motorcars. The awnings were rolled out, shadowing the windows and revealing the vehicles inside. He glanced at the street signs so he could recall the location. An enthusiast of motorcars, he owned a Locomobile race car that had been driven by Joe Tracy in the 1905 Vanderbilt Cup road race on Long Island, in New York, placing third. Bell had converted it to street driving by adding fenders and headlamps.

He also owned a bright red motorcycle. The newest racing model, its V-Twin engine put out three and a half horsepower. It had an innovative twist grip throttle, weighed only one hundred twenty pounds, and could whip over the roads at nearly sixty miles an hour.

When the trolley rattled to a stop at California and 17th Streets, Bell stepped down the stair to the pavement and sauntered over to the sidewalk. It had been three years since he had set foot in Denver. Tall buildings stood on almost every corner, and the construction never stopped. He walked a block to the Colorado Building, a brown stone structure that rose eight stories on 16th and California Streets.

The windows were high and shielded by awnings that matched the brown exterior of the walls. The overhang above the top floor stretched nearly ten feet over the sidewalk far below. Hedgecock & Jones and the Braman Clothing Company occupied the street level. Above them were several different businesses, including the Fireman’s Fund Insurance Company and the Van Dorn Detective Agency.

Bell turned into the lobby and moved through a group of office workers who were streaming out of the building on their lunch break. The floor, walls, and ceiling were beautifully constructed of green Italian marble the color of jade. He entered an Otis elevator behind two pretty young ladies and moved to the rear of the car as the operator closed the steel scissor-gate door. As was the custom, Bell played the gentleman and removed his wide-brimmed hat.

The elevator operator pivoted the handle on the curved throttle housing, sending the elevator toward the upper floors at a leisurely pace. The women exited at the fifth floor, chatting gaily. They both turned and gave Bell a bashful glance before disappearing down the hallway.

The operator stopped the elevator and opened the door. “Eighth floor, and a good afternoon to you, sir,” he said cheerily.

“Same to you,” replied Bell.

He exited into a hallway painted a muted Mexican red above with walnut wainscot halfway up the wall below. He turned right and came to a door with etched lettering on the upper glass that advertised THE VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY. Beneath was the agency’s slogan: We never give up, never.

The antechamber was painted white, with two padded wooden chairs and a desk, behind which a young woman sat primly in a swivel chair. Van Dorn was not a man to waste money on ostentatious décor. The only embellishment was a photo of the head man hanging on the wall behind the secretary.

She looked up and smiled sweetly, admiring the well-dressed man standing opposite her. She was a pretty woman, with soft brown eyes and wide shoulders. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I’d like to see Arthur Curtis and Glenn Irvine.”

“Are they expecting you?”

“Please tell them Isaac Bell is here.”

She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Mr. Bell. I should have known. Mr. Curtis and Mr. Irvine did not expect you until tomorrow.”

“I managed to catch an earlier train out of Independence, Missouri.” Bell looked at the sign on her desk. “You’re Miss Agnes Murphy?”

She held up her left hand, displaying a wedding band. “Mrs. Murphy.”

Bell smiled his beguiling smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I simply call you Agnes, since I’ll be working here for a time.”

“Not at all.”

She rose from her desk, and he could see she wore a pleated blue cotton skirt with her white fluffy blouse. Her hair was piled atop her head in the fashion of the Gibson girl, which was so popular then. Her petticoats rustled as she went through the door to the inner offices.

Always curious, Bell moved around the desk and looked down at the letter Mrs. Murphy had been typing on a Remington typewriter. It was addressed to Van Dorn, and spelled out the superintendent of the western states’ displeasure at having Bell come in and take over the unsolved case. Bell had never met Nicholas Alexander, who headed the Denver office, but he was determined to be courteous and polite to the man despite any antagonism.

Bell moved away from Mrs. Murphy’s desk and stood looking out the window over the rooftops of the city when Alexander walked into the anteroom. He looked more like the bookkeeper of a funeral parlor than the chief investigator who had unraveled many crimes and brought the offenders to full justice. He was a short man, his head barely coming up even with Bell’s shoulders. He wore a coat that was too large and his trousers were baggy. The high collar of his shirt showed wear and sweat stains. His head was devoid of hair except around the temples and at the rear; the eyebrows were trimmed as neatly as his hair. A pair of pince-nez glasses were clipped to the bridge of his nose in front of almost-sad-looking gray-green eyes.

Alexander held out his hand as his lips spread into a smile that was completely lacking in humor. “Mr. Bell, I’m honored to meet Van Dorn’s finest agent.”

Bell didn’t buy the compliment since there was no hint of warmth about it. “The honor is mine in meeting you,” Bell replied, nearly biting his tongue. It was obvious Alexander simply thought of Bell as an interloper into his private territory.

“Please come on back. Before I show you to your new office, we’ll have a talk.”

Alexander abruptly turned and strode stiffly through the door into the inner offices. Mrs. Murphy stood aside and smiled sweetly as they passed.

Alexander’s office was positioned in the only corner with a panoramic view of the mountains; the other offices were small and windowless. Bell observed that they were also doorless, offering almost no privacy. Alexander’s domain was embellished with cowhide sofas and chairs. His aspen desk was expansive and completely barren of paperwork. Though Alexander’s suit was a poor fit and bore wrinkles, he was fastidious about his working habits.

He seated himself in a high-backed chair behind his desk and motioned Bell to sit in an uncushioned wooden chair on the opposite side. The only thing missing for intimidation, Bell thought, was a platform under Alexander’s work space so he could look down on his employees and visitors like a minor god on Mount Olympus.

“No, thank you,” Bell said quietly. “After sitting on a train for two days, I’d prefer a softer seat.” He lowered his long frame onto one of the sofas.

“As you wish,” said Alexander, not pleased with Bell’s superior demeanor.

“You were not here when I worked on a case three years ago.”

“No, I came six months later when I was promoted from our Seattle office.”

“Mr. Van Dorn spoke very highly of you,” Bell lied. Van Dorn had not mentioned him.

Alexander folded his hands and leaned across the empty wasteland of his desk. “I trust he briefed you on the murderer and his operations.”

“Not in conversation.” Bell paused to hold up the valise. “But he gave me several reports that I examined while riding on the train. I can see why the felon responsible for the robberies and murders is so difficult to pin down. He plans his criminal ventures with extreme care and his techniques appear to be flawless.”

“All reasons why he eludes capture.”

“After absorbing the material, I do believe his fetish for detail will be his undoing,” said Bell thoughtfully.

Alexander looked at him suspiciously. “What, may I ask, brought you to that conclusion?”

“His jobs are too perfect, too well timed. One small miscalculation could prove his last.”

“I hope we can have a close relationship,” Alexander said with veiled animosity.

“I agree,” said Bell. “Mr. Van Dorn said I could have Art Curtis and Glenn Irvine on my team, if it is all right with you.”

“Not a problem. I wouldn’t go against Mr. Van Dorn’s wishes. Besides, they told me they worked with you a few years ago.”

“Yes, I found them to be dedicated agents.” Bell came to his feet. “May I see my office?”

“Of course.”

Alexander came from behind his desk and stepped into the hallway.

Bell saw that all the offices were quite small and quite plain. The furniture was sparse and there were no pictures on the walls. Only one other agent was present in the office, a stranger to Bell whom Alexander did not bother to introduce.

Before Alexander could point out a closet office, Bell asked innocently, “Do you have a conference room?”

Alexander nodded. “Yes, on the opposite side of the hallway from the offices.” He stopped, opened a door, and stood aside as Bell walked in.

The conference room stretched nearly thirty feet and flowed fifteen feet to the side. A long pine table, stained dark and with a polished surface, sat beneath two massive, circular chandeliers. Eighteen leather captain’s chairs were spaced evenly around it. The room was paneled in pine that matched the table, the floor carpeted with deep red pile. High windows rose on one wall, allowing the early-afternoon sunlight to illuminate every corner of the room.

“Very nice,” said Bell, impressed. “Very nice.”

“Yes,” said Alexander with pride showing in his bloodhound eyes. “I use it frequently for meetings with politicians and influential people in the city. It gives the Van Dorn Detective Agency significant respect and an image of importance.”

“It will do nicely,” Bell said matter-of-factly. “I’ll work in here.”

Alexander looked directly at Bell, a fiery look in his eyes that suddenly glowed with anger. “That’s not possible. I won’t permit it.”

“Where is the nearest telegraph office?”

Alexander seemed taken back. “Two blocks south on Sixteenth Street and Champa. Why?”

“I’ll send a message to Mr. Van Dorn requesting the use of your conference room as an operations center. Considering the importance of the case, I’m sure he will give it his blessing.”

Alexander knew when he was licked. “I wish you well, Mr. Bell,” he conceded. “I will cooperate with you any way I can.” He then turned and left Bell to return to his suite in the corner. He paused in the doorway. “Oh, by the way, I’ve reserved a room for you at the Albany Hotel.”

Bell smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve booked a suite at the Brown Palace.”

Alexander appeared confused. “I can’t believe Mr. Van Dorn would allow that on your expense account.”

“He didn’t. I’m paying for it out of my own funds.”

Not aware of Bell’s prosperous situation, the superintendent of the western states looked completely bewildered. Unable to comprehend, but not wanting to ask questions, he returned to his office in a daze and closed the door, utterly defeated.

Bell smiled again and began spreading out the papers he’d carried in the valise on the conference table. Then he stepped into the anteroom and approached Agnes Murphy. “Agnes, could you let me know when Curtis and Irvine show up?”

“I don’t expect them back until tomorrow morning. They went up to Boulder on a bank fraud case.”

“All right, then. And would you call the building maintenance superintendent and have him come up? I have some alterations to make in the conference room.”

She looked at him questioningly. “Did you say the conference room? Mr. Alexander seldom allows the help to step inside. He keeps it mostly to entertain the town bigwigs.”

“While I’m here, it will be my office.”

Agnes looked at Bell with newly found respect. “Will you be staying at the Albany Hotel? That’s where most all visiting agents stay.”

“No, the Brown Palace.”

“Mr. Alexander consented to the extra expenditure?” she asked warily.

“He had no say in the matter.”

Agnes Murphy stared after him as if she had just seen the Messiah.

Isaac Bell returned to his office and rearranged the chairs to the conference table so he could have a large work space at one end. After a few minutes, the building superintendent arrived. Bell explained the alterations he wished to make in the room. The end wall was to have a layer of soft material so a map of the western states and towns the killer had hit could be pinned to it. Another layer was to be installed on the inside wall for information, photos, and drawings. The superintendent, after Bell had offered him a twenty-dollar gold piece, promised to have the installation accomplished by noon the next day.

Bell spent the rest of the afternoon organizing and planning his hunt for the bank killer.

At precisely five o’clock, Alexander stuck his head in the door on his way home. “Are you settling in all right?” he asked icily.

Bell did not bother to look up. “Yes, thank you.” He finally looked into Alexander’s angry eyes. “By the way, I’m making some changes in the room. I hope you don’t mind. I promise to put it back exactly the way it was when the case is closed.”

“Please see that you do.” Alexander swung his head in a gesture of dismissal and left the office.

Bell was not happy that things were not going well between Alexander and him. He had not planned to get in a game of quarrelsome loggerheads with the head of the agency’s office, but if he hadn’t gone on the attack he knew that Alexander would have walked all over him.

5

BUILT IN 1892 BY HENRY C. BROWN ON THE SPOT where he used to pasture his cow before he struck it rich, the hotel was fittingly named the Brown Palace, for the “Queen City of the Plains,” as Denver was called. Constructed of red granite and sandstone, the building was in the shape of a ship’s bow. The men who made their fortunes in gold and silver stayed there with their wives, who took afternoon tea, and their daughters, who danced away the nights at opulent balls. Presidents McKinley and Roosevelt had stayed there, as well as a few emperors and kings and other members of foreign royalty, not to mention the celebrities of the time, particularly famous stage actors and actresses. The Brown Palace was also embraced by locals and visitors alike because it was the anchor to the busy financial and cultural district of the city.

It was nearly dark when Bell walked through the 17th Street entrance of the Brown Palace Hotel. He checked in at the desk and looked around the magnificent lobby, which was situated in an atrium that reached up to the ninth floor. The pillars and wainscoting, freighted in by railroad from Mexico and carved from golden onyx, reflected the pastel light that filtered down from the massive stained-glass ceiling. Over seven hundred wrought-iron panels graced the balcony railings, ringing the lobby from the upper floors.

What was not generally known was that the owner of the Navarre Hotel and restaurant across the street had had an underground rail system dug from the Brown Palace to his own establishment in order to accommodate gentlemen wishing to enjoy the ladies of an upstairs brothel without being seen entering or leaving.

Bell was given his key and entered the elevator, telling the operator which floor his suite was on. A woman stepped in behind him. She stopped at the mirrored wall, turned, and faced the door. She was dressed in a long blue silk gown with a large bow in the back. Her fire opal red hair was fine and silken, pulled back in a bun with curls streaming from it. There were two large feathers rising from the hair. She had an engaging charm about her. She stood tall and erect and nubile, Bell guessed probably between twenty-five and twenty-seven, perhaps younger, judging by her swan neck and face as smooth as alabaster. Her eyes were a golden brown. She was, in Bell’s mind, unusually attractive—not quite beautiful, maybe, but very lovely by any standard. He also noticed she wore no wedding ring.

The woman was dressed as if she meant to attend a party in one of the hotel’s ballrooms, Bell reasoned. He was right as usual. The elevator stopped on the second floor, which held the ballrooms and dance floors. He stood aside, hat in hand, and made a slight bow as she exited onto the landing.

She threw him a smile with surprising warmth and nodded, and said, in a mellow yet husky tone, “Thank you, Mr. Bell.”

At first, it slipped by Bell. Then it hit him like a hammer on a thumb. He was stunned that she knew him, and positive he’d never seen her before. Bell gripped the arm of the elevator operator. “Hold the door open a moment.”

By now, she had mingled in with a crowd that was funneling through the arched doorway of the hotel’s grand ballroom. The women wore ravishing gowns in extravagant colors—crimson, peacock blue, emerald green—with ribbons, sprigs, and feathers in their hair. The men were dressed in their finest evening clothes. A banner over the doorway read BENEFIT FOR ST. JOHN’S ORPHANS.

Bell stepped back, nodding at the elevator operator. “Thank you. Please take me up.”

Bell unlocked the door to his suite and found a study, living room, ornate bath, and bedroom with a canopied bed, all furnished in Victorian elegance. His trunks had been opened and his clothes packed in the dresser and hung in the closet by a maid, a service provided to those who reserved suites. The trunks were not in sight. They had been moved from the room and stored in the basement storage area. Bell lost no time in taking a quick bath and shaving.

He opened his watch and read the time. Thirty minutes had elapsed since he stepped from the elevator. Another fifteen minutes were taken to tie his black tie and insert the shirt studs and cuff links, usually a job that took four hands. It was one of the few times he wished he had a wife to help. Black socks and shoes came next. He did not wear a cummerbund but a black vest instead, with a gold chain running from the left pocket through a buttonhole to the big gold watch in the right pocket. Last, he slipped on a single-breasted black jacket with satin lapels.

One final view of his reflection in a full seven-foot mirror and he was ready for the evening, whatever it would bring.

The charity ball was in full swing when he walked inside the grand ballroom and stood unobtrusively behind a tall potted palm. The ballroom was spacious and majestic. The parquet dance floor was laid in an intricate sunburst design and colorful murals adorned the ceiling. He spied the mysterious woman, seated with her back to him, with three couples at table six. She appeared to be alone, without an escort. He sidled up to the hotel director in charge of the evening’s event.

“Pardon me,” said Bell with a friendly smile, “but could you tell me the name of the lady in the blue dress at table six?”

The director straightened with a haughty look. “I’m sorry, sir, but we frown on giving information on our guests. Besides, I can’t know everybody who comes to the ball.”

Bell passed him a ten-dollar gold certificate. “Will this jog your memory?”

Without a word, the director held up a thin leather book and ran his eyes over the entries. “The single lady at the table is Miss Rose Manteca, a very wealthy lady from Los Angeles whose family owns a vast ranch. That’s all I can tell you.”

Bell patted the director on the shoulder. “I’m grateful.”

The director grinned. “Good luck.”

An orchestra was playing a medley of ragtime and modern dance tunes. Couples were dancing to a song called “Won’t You Come Over to My House.”

Bell walked up behind Rose Manteca and whispered in her ear. “Would you please consent to dance with me, Miss Manteca?”

She turned from the table and looked up. Golden brown eyes looked into a pair of mesmeric violet eyes. She was smooth, Bell thought, but his sudden appearance in evening dress completely stunned her. She lowered her eyes and recovered quickly, but not before her face blushed red.

“Forgive me, Mr. Bell. I did not expect you so soon.”

“So soon?” he asked. What an odd thing to say, he thought.

She excused herself to the people at the table and stood up. Gently, he took her by the arm and led her to the dance floor. He slipped his arm around her narrow waist, took her hand, and stepped off smartly with the music.

“You’re a very good dancer,” she said after he swept her around the floor.

“Comes from all those years my mother forced me to take lessons so I could impress the debutantes in our city.”

“You also dress very well for a detective.”

“I grew up in a city where the affluent men lived in tuxedos.”

“That would be Boston, would it not?”

For once, in his years of investigation, Bell was at a loss, but he recovered and came back. “And you’re from Los Angeles.”

She was good, he thought. She didn’t bat an eye.

“You’re very knowledgeable,” she said, unable to fathom his eyes.

“Not half as knowledgeable as you. What is your interest? How do you know so much about me? Better yet, I should ask why?”

“I was under the impression you like to solve mysteries.” She tried consciously to look past him over his tall shoulder, but she was drawn into those incredible eyes. This was a sensation, a stirring she had not counted on.

The photographs she had been shown did not do him justice face-to-face. He was far more attractive that she had imagined. He also came off as highly intelligent. This she’d expected, though, and could understand why he was so famous for his intuition. It was as though he was stalking her as she was stalking him.

The music ended and they stood together on the dance floor waiting for the orchestra to begin the next musical arrangement. He stepped back and ran his eyes from her shoes to the top of her beautifully styled hair. “You are a very lovely lady. What prompted your interest in me?”

“You’re an attractive man. I wanted to know you better.”

“You knew my name and where I came from before you met me in the elevator. Our meeting was obviously premeditated.”

Before she could reply, the orchestra began playing “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” and Bell led her around the floor in a foxtrot. He held her against him and gripped her hand tightly in his. Her waist was small, made even smaller by a corset. The top of her head came up even with his chin. He was tempted to press his lips against hers but thought better of it. This was neither the time nor the place. Nor were his thoughts on romance. She was spying on him. That was a given. His mind was trying to formulate a motive. What interest could a total stranger have in him? The only possibilities he could conjure up were that she’d been hired by one of the many criminals he had put behind bars, shot, or seen hanged. A relative or friend out for revenge? She didn’t fit the image of someone who associated with the scum he had apprehended over the last ten years.

The music ended, and she released his hand and stood back. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Bell, but I must return to my friends.”

“Can we meet again?” he asked with a warm smile.

She slightly shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He ignored her negative reply. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” she answered, with a haughtiness in her voice. “And even in your fancy tuxedo you couldn’t bluff your way into the Western Bankers’ Ball at the Denver Country Club like you did tonight at the benefit for St. John’s Orphans.” Then she threw out her chin, swept up her long skirt, and walked back to her table.

Once seated, she stole a glance back at Bell, but he was nowhere to be seen among the crowd. He had completely disappeared.

6

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BELL WAS THE FIRST ONE in the office, using a skeleton key that could open ninety doors out of a hundred. He was sorting through bank robbery reports at the end of the long table when Arthur Curtis and Glenn Irvine entered the conference room. Bell rose to greet them and shook hands. “Art, Glenn, good to see you both again.”

Curtis stood short and rotund, with a rounded stomach neatly encased in a vest whose buttons were stretched to their limit. He had thinning sandy hair, wide megaphone ears, blue eyes, and a smile that showed a maze of teeth that lit up the room. “We haven’t seen you since we tracked down Big Foot Cussler after he robbed that bank in Golden.”

Irvine placed his hat on a coat stand, revealing a thick head of uncombed brown hair. “As I remember,” he said, standing as tall and as scrawny as a scarecrow, “you led us directly to the cave where he was hiding out.”

“A simple matter of deduction,” Bell said with a tight smile. “I asked a pair of young boys if they knew of a place where they liked to hide out from their folks for a few days. The cave was the only location within twenty miles, close enough to town so Cussler could sneak in for supplies.”

Curtis stood in front of the large map of the western United States and thoughtfully studied the little flags signifying the killer’s spree. There were sixteen of them. “Got any intuition on the Butcher Bandit?”

Bell looked at him. “Butcher Bandit? Is that what they’re calling him?”

“A reporter from the Bisbee Bugle came up with it. Other newspapers have picked it up and spread the term across the territory.”

“It won’t help our cause,” said Bell. “With that name on everyone’s lips, the law-abiding citizens will come down hard on the Van Dorn Detective Agency for not apprehending him.”

“That’s already started,” Curtis said, laying the Rocky Mountain News on the table in front of Bell. He stared down at it.

The lead column was on the robbery and murders in Rhyolite. Half the column was devoted to the question “Why haven’t law enforcement agencies made any progress in the case and captured the Butcher Bandit?”

“The heat is on,” Bell said simply.

“The heat is on us,” Irvine added.

“So what have we got?” asked Bell, pointing to a stack of files two feet high on the bank crimes piled on the desk in front of him. “I’ve studied the reports while coming west on the train. It appears that all we have is that we’re not dealing with the typical cowboy turned bank robber.”

“He works alone,” said Curtis, “and he’s devilish clever and evil. But what is most frustrating is that he never leaves a trail for a posse to follow.”

Irvine nodded his head in agreement. “It’s as though he disappears into the hell he came from before he leaves town.”

“No tracks are ever found leading into the surrounding countryside?” asked Bell.

Curtis shook his head. “The best trackers in the business have come up dry every time.”

“Any evidence he might have holed up in town until the excitement died down?”

“None that’s ever turned up,” replied Curtis. “After the robberies, he was never seen again.”

“A ghost,” murmured Irvine. “We’re dealing with a ghost.”

Bell smiled. “No, he’s human, but a damned smart human.” He paused and fanned out the files on the conference table. He selected one and opened it, the report on the robbery in Rhyolite, Nevada. “Our man has a very rigid modus operandi that he sticks with on every bank job. We believe he hangs around for a few days studying the town and its people before robbing the bank.”

“He’s either a gambler or a risk taker,” said Curtis.

“Wrong on both counts,” Bell corrected him. “Our man is bold and he’s shrewd. We can assume he does his dirty work using disguises, since the people of all the towns he’s struck never agree on the appearance of suspicious-looking strangers.”

Irvine began pacing the conference room, occasionally examining a flag pinned on the map. “Citizens of the towns recall seeing a drunken bum, a uniformed soldier, a well-to-do merchant, and a small-time freight hauler. But none could tie them to the murders.”

Curtis looked at the carpeted floor and shrugged. “How odd there are no witnesses who can give a credible identification.”

“Nothing odd about it,” said Irvine. “He murders them all. The dead can’t speak.”

Bell seemed to ignore the conversation as if he was lost in thought. Then his eyes focused on the map and he said slowly, “The big question in my mind is why he always kills everyone in the bank during the theft. Even women and children. What does he gain by the slaughter? It can’t be that he simply doesn’t want to leave witnesses to the robberies, not when he’s already been seen around town in disguise…unless…” He paused. “There is a new definition created by psychologists for murderers who kill as easily as they brush their teeth. They call them sociopaths. Our man can kill without remorse. He has no emotions, does not know how to laugh or love, and has a heart that is as cold as an iceberg. To him, shooting down a small child holds the same sensitivity as shooting a pigeon.”

“Hard to believe there are people that cruel and ruthless,” muttered Irvine in revulsion.

“Many of the bandits and gunfighters of the past were sociopaths,” said Bell. “They shot other men as easily as if they sneezed. John Wesley Hardin, the famous Texas badman, once shot and killed a man for snoring.”

Curtis looked steadily at Bell. “Do you really think he murders everyone in a bank because he enjoys it?”

“I do,” Bell said quietly. “The bandit gets a weird satisfaction from committing his blood crimes. Another peculiar factor. He makes his escape before the people of the town, including the town sheriff, realized what happened.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Irvine. “What avenues do we search?”

Bell looked at him. “Another of his routine habits is to ignore any gold and take only currency. Glenn, your job is to check out the banks that were robbed and study their records of the serial numbers on the stolen bills. Start in Bozeman, Montana.”

“Banks in mining towns aren’t in the habit of recording the identifying number of every bill that passes through their hands.”

“You might get lucky and find a bank that recorded the numbers of the currency sent from large city banks to make the miners’ payroll. If you do, we can trace them. The robber had to either spend the money or exchange the currency through bank deposits and withdrawals. A trail he can’t cover up.”

“He could have exchanged through foreign financial institutions.”

“Maybe, but he would have to spend it overseas. The risk would be too great for him to bring it back into the U.S. I’m betting he kept his loot in the country.”

Then Bell turned to Curtis. “Art, you check out all stagecoach and train schedules for any that departed the towns on the same day the robberies took place. If our man couldn’t be tracked by a posse, he might easily have taken a train or stage for his getaway. You can begin in Placerville, California.”

“Consider it done,” said Curtis firmly.

“Are you going to remain here and act as a command post?” asked Irvine.

Bell shook his head and grinned. “No, I’m going out in the field, beginning with Rhyolite, and retrace the robberies. No matter how good the murderer is or how well he planned his crimes, there has to be a stone he left unturned. There must be evidence that’s been overlooked. I’m going to question the mining town citizens who might have seen something, however insignificant, and failed to report it to the local sheriff or marshal.”

“You’ll give us your schedule so we can get in touch by telegraph if we come onto something?” said Curtis.

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” replied Bell. “I’m also going to travel through the mining towns that have large payrolls our man has yet to rob. Maybe, just maybe I can second-guess our butcher, set up a trap, and entice him to strike another bank on our turf.” Then he pulled open a drawer and passed out two envelopes. “Here’s enough cash to cover your travel expenses.”

Both Curtis and Irvine looked surprised. “Before now, we always had to travel third class, use our own money, and turn in bills and receipts,” said Curtis. “Alexander always demanded we stay in sleazy hotels and eat cheap meals.”

“This case is too important to cut corners. Trust me, Mr. Van Dorn will okay any monies I request, but only if we show results. The bandit may have everyone believing he’s invincible and can’t be caught, but he’s not faultless. He has flaws just like the rest of us. He will be trapped by a small insignificant mistake he neglected. And that, gentlemen, is our job, to find that insignificant mistake.”

“We’ll do our best,” Irvine assured him.

Curtis nodded in agreement. “Speaking for both of us, permit me to say that it is a real privilege to be working with you again.”

“The privilege is mine,” said Bell sincerely. He felt lucky to work with such intelligent and experienced operatives who knew the people and country of the West.

THE SUN was falling over the Rockies to the west when Bell left the conference room. Always cautious, he closed and locked the door. As he passed through the outer office, he ran into Nicholas Alexander, who looked like he’d just stepped out of an expensive tailor’s shop. The usual shabby suit was gone and replaced by an elegant tuxedo. It was a new image of respectability that he didn’t quite pull off. The inner polish simply was not there.

“You look quite the bon vivant, Mr. Alexander,” Bell said graciously.

“Yes, I’m taking the wife to a fancy soiree at the Denver Country Club later this evening. I have many influential friends here in Denver, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“A pity you can’t come, but it’s only for members of the club in good standing.”

“I understand perfectly,” Bell said, masking his sarcasm.

As soon as they parted, Bell went down the street to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Van Dorn.

Have set up a schedule of investigations by myself, Curtis, and Irvine. Please be informed that we have a spy in our midst. A woman, a stranger who approached me at the hotel, identified me by name, knew my past, and seemed to know why I was in Denver. Her name is Rose Manteca and she supposedly comes from a wealthy family of ranchers in Los Angeles. Please ask our Los Angeles office to investigate. Will keep you advised of our progress on this end.

Bell

After he sent the telegram to his superior, Bell walked down the busy sidewalk to the Brown Palace Hotel. After a few words with the concierge, who provided him with a map of the city, he was escorted down to the storeroom and the boiler room beneath the lobby, where he was greeted by the hotel maintenance man. An affable fellow in stained coveralls, he led Bell to a wooden crate that had been dismantled. Under a single, bright lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, the maintenance man pointed at a motorcycle that sat on a stand beside the crate and gleamed a dazzling red.

“There she is, Mr. Bell,” he said with satisfaction. “All ready to go. I personally polished her up for you.”

“I’m grateful, Mr….”

“Bomberger. John Bomberger.”

“I’ll take care of your services when I leave the hotel,” Bell promised him.

“Glad to be of help.”

Bell went up to his room and found hanging in the closet the tuxedo that had been cleaned by the hotel during the day. After a quick bath, he dressed and removed a long linen coat from the closet and slipped it on, the bottom hem dropping to the tops of his highly shined shoes. Next, he slipped on a pair of leggings to save his tux trousers from the oily liquid that often came out of the engine. Finally, he donned a cap with goggles.

Bell took a back stairway down to the storeroom. The red cycle, with its white rubber tires, stood as if it was a steed waiting to carry him into battle. He kicked the stand up to the rear fender, took hold of it by the handlebars, and pushed all one hundred twenty pounds of it up a ramp used by wagons to remove the hotel bedding for cleaning and to allow merchants to bring in food for the restaurant and room service kitchens.

Bell exited the ramp and found himself on Broadway, the street that ran past the state capitol building with its golden dome. He mounted the hard, narrow saddle that perched over the camelback fuel tank above the rear wheel. Because it was built for racing, the seat was level with the handlebars and he had to lean almost horizontal to ride the machine.

He pulled the goggles over his eyes, then reached down and twisted open the valve that allowed fuel to fall by gravity from the tank to the carburetor. Then he placed his feet in the bicycle-style pedals and pumped down the street, allowing the electrical current from the three dry-cell batteries to flow to the coil, producing a high-voltage spark that ignited the fuel in the cylinders. He’d only gone about ten feet when the V-Twin engine popped into life, the exhaust rattling in a high-pitched snarl.

Bell curled his right hand around the grip throttle and twisted it less than half its rotation, and the racing bike lurched forward by its single-speed chain drive and he soon found himself cruising down Broadway around the horse-drawn carriages and occasional automobiles at thirty miles an hour.

Because it was built for racing, the bike had no headlight, but a half-moon lit the sky, and the street was lined with electric lights, providing enough illumination for him to see a pile of horse dung in time to dodge around it.

After about two miles, he stopped under a streetlamp and consulted his map. Satisfied he was traveling in the right direction, he continued until he reached Speer Avenue, before turning west. Another two miles and the Denver Country Club came into view.

The big, high-peaked building was ablaze with lights that streamed from the numerous huge square windows that encircled the building. The drive in front of the main entrance was packed with parked carriages and automobiles whose drivers and chauffeurs stood in groups, conversing and smoking. Two men in white tie and tails could be seen checking the invitations of the people who entered.

Bell was certain he would cause too much attention by riding up to the entrance on his motorcycle. And, without an invitation, there was little chance of bluffing his way inside even though he was dressed for the occasion. Under the partial light from the half-moon, he turned the handlebars and rode through the night onto the golf course. Careful to stay off the greens and out of the sand traps, he made a wide circular detour and approached the caddy shack that sat behind the main building near the first tee. The interior was dark and the shack was deserted.

He shut off the ignition and coasted into a clump of bushes beside it. He raised the motorcycle onto its kickstand and removed the long linen coat, draping it over the handlebars. Then he took off the leggings, cap, and goggles. Smoothing back his blond hair, Bell stepped into the light and began strolling up the path leading from the caddy shack to the stately clubhouse. The whole area was illuminated by lustrous electric lights through the windows and tall lamps beside a narrow road that ran from the street to the rear of the country club. Several trucks stood below a wide stairway rising to the rear entrance. Caterers in blue, military-tailored uniforms carried trays of dishes and utensils from the trucks into the kitchen.

Up the stairs, Bell went between two of the caterers, moving into the kitchen as though he owned it. None of the waiters rushing in and out of the dining-room doors carrying trays of food, or the chefs, paid him the slightest attention. For all they knew, the tall man in the tuxedo was one of the reigning managers of the country club. If he had a problem gaining entry into the dining room, it was thankfully eliminated. He simply pushed open one of the kitchen’s swinging door, and stepped into the crowd of refined members of the club, walking between the tables, his eyes searching for Rose Manteca.

After only two minutes scanning the tables, he spotted her on the dance floor.

Bell stiffened.

Rose was dancing with Nicholas Alexander.

He thought fleetingly of enjoying the expressions on their faces when he walked up and asked to cut in. But discretion was a wiser choice than ego. He had seen more than he had bargained for. Now he knew the spy’s identity. But Bell was certain that Alexander was not a paid agent for the Butcher Bandit and his female snoop. He was merely a fool and a dupe for a pretty face. He was pleased that they had not noticed him.

Bell placed a napkin over his arm and took hold of a coffeepot as though he was waiting on a table. He could hold up the pot in front of his face, should either Rose or Alexander look in his direction. The music stopped, and he watched as they walked back to a table. They were seated together, with Alexander between Rose and an older, heavily jowled woman Bell took to be the agent’s wife. If it proved nothing else, it proved that they hadn’t met casually for a dance. Seated together meant that their table was reserved in advance. They were no strangers.

Bell stared openly at Rose. She wore a red silk dress that nearly matched her flaming hair. This night it was a combination of a bun in the back and curls along the sides and front. Her breasts were pressed against silk fringe that edged the bodice of her dress and swelled into twin, white mounds. She was a beautiful woman from toes to hair.

Her lips were parted in a delightful laugh and her golden brown eyes twinkled in mirth. Her hand fell on Alexander’s arm, indicating to Bell that she liked to be physical. A sense of excitement surrounded her that was contagious to those at the table. She was a charmer, gorgeous and ravishing, but her aura did not penetrate Bell. He felt no fire, no passion of arousal toward her. In his analytical mind, she was the enemy, not an object of desire. He saw through the transparent veneer of her loveliness to the cunning and guile beneath.

He decided he had seen enough. Quickly, he ducked behind a waiter who was heading back to the kitchen and walked beside him until they passed through the swinging doors.

As Bell put on the gear he’d left hanging on the motorcycle, he considered himself lucky. He had stumbled on a situation he had not fully expected but one he could profit from. As he rode back to the Brown Palace, he knew the only information that he’d feed to Alexander would be false and misleading. He might even conjure up a bit of trickery to beguile Rose Manteca.

That part of his plan intrigued him. Already, he felt as if he had a head start in tracking a cagey lioness.

7

SHORTLY AFTER BELL RETURNED TO THE OFFICE THE next morning, a runner from the telegraph office brought him a telegram from Van Dorn.

My chief agent in Los Angeles reports that he can find no trace of a Rose Manteca. There is no family by that name owning a ranch within two hundred miles of the city. It looks to me as if the lady has pulled the wool over your eyes. Was she pretty?

Van Dorn

Bell smiled to himself. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket, walked to Alexander’s office, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Alexander said softly, as if talking to somebody in the same room.

Barely hearing the words, Bell stepped inside.

“You’re here to report, I assume,” said Denver’s head agent without prelude.

Bell nodded. “I wanted to bring you up to date on our activities.”

“I’m listening,” Alexander said without looking up from the papers on his desk or offering Bell a chair.

“I’ve sent Curtis and Irvine out into the field to question the law enforcement officers and any witness to the robberies and killings,” Bell lied.

“It’s not likely they will dig up anything the local law officials haven’t already provided us.”

“I intend to leave myself on the next train to Los Angeles.”

Alexander looked up, a suspicious expression in his eyes. “Los Angeles? Why would you go there?”

“I’m not,” Bell answered. “I’m getting off in Las Vegas and taking the spur line to Rhyolite, where I plan to talk to witnesses, if any, on my own.”

“A wise plan.” Alexander almost looked relieved. “I thought for a moment that you were going to Los Angeles because of Miss Manteca.”

Bell feigned surprise. “You know her?”

“She sat at my table with my wife and me at the country club party and dance. We’ve met on other occasions. She said you two had met at the Orphans Ball, and she seemed very interested in your work and background. She was especially fascinated by the bank robber/ murderer.”

I’ll bet she was interested in my work, Bell thought. But he said, “I didn’t know I made an impression on her. She did a pretty good job of brushing me off.”

“My wife thought Miss Manteca was smitten with you.”

“Hardly. All I learned about her was that she came from a wealthy family in Los Angeles.”

“That’s true,” Alexander replied out of ignorance. “Her father owns a huge spread outside the city.”

It was obvious to Bell that Alexander had neither investigated Rose nor bothered to be suspicious of her questions about him and the Butcher Bandit case.

“When do you expect to return?” asked Alexander.

“I should wind up the Rhyolite investigation and be back within five days.”

“And Curtis and Irvine?”

“Ten days to two weeks.”

Alexander refocused his attention on the papers atop his desk. “Good luck,” he said briefly, dismissing Bell.

Returning to the conference room, Bell relaxed in a swivel chair and propped his feet on the long table. He sipped coffee from a cup Mrs. Murphy had brought earlier. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling, as if seeing something on the floor above.

So his suspicions about Rose Manteca were right on the money. She was not only a fraud but perhaps somehow connected to the Butcher Bandit, and sent to learn what she could of the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s investigation. Bell’s quarry could never be overestimated. He was no ordinary bandit. Hiring the services of a lovely spy was the work of a man who carefully thought out his operation. Rose, or whatever her true identity was, was good. She had no problem burrowing into the confidence of the Denver office director. The groundwork had been carefully laid. It was clearly the work of a professional. Employing a counterfeit meant the bandit had first-rate resources and a network of tentacles that could delve into government and the business community.

WHEN BELL returned to the Brown Palace, he went to the desk and asked for Rose Manteca’s room number. The clerk looked very official when he said, “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t give out our guests’ room numbers.” Then a smug look came across his face. “But I can tell you that Miss Manteca checked out at noon.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, but her luggage was taken to the Union Station and placed on the one o’clock train for Phoenix and Los Angeles.”

This was not what Bell had expected. He cursed himself for letting her slip through his fingers.

Who really was Rose Manteca? Why would she take the train for Los Angeles when there was no record of her living there?

Then another thought began to tug on Bell’s mind. Where would his nemesis strike next? He couldn’t even begin to guess and he found it frustrating. He had always felt as if he was in control of his earlier cases. This one was different, too different.

8

THE BLOND-HAIRED MAN WITH A THICK, YELLOW-BROWN, pomaded handlebar mustache had a prosperous appearance about him. After walking through the train depot, he settled into the backseat of the Model N Ford taxicab and enjoyed a beautiful, cloudless day as he viewed the sights of Salt Lake City nestled beneath the Wasatch Mountains. He was dressed in the neat, dandified fashion of the day, but with a sophisticated business look. He wore a silk top hat, a black, three-button cutaway frock coat with vest and high rounded collar, and an elegant tie. His hands were encased in pearl gray kid gloves, and matching spats covered his midstep to just above the ankle over his shoes.

He leaned slightly forward as he stared from window to window, his hands gripping the handle of a sterling silver cane adorned with an eagle’s head with a large beak on the end. Though it was innocent-looking, this cane was a gun with a long barrel and a trigger that folded out when a button was pressed. It held a .44 caliber bullet whose shell could be ejected and a new cartridge inserted in the barrel from a small clip in the eagle’s tail.

The cab passed the church of the Latter-Day Saints—the Temple, Tabernacle, and Assembly Hall. Built between 1853 and 1893, the six-foot-thick gray granite walls were topped by six spires, the highest bearing a copper statue of the angel Moroni.

After leaving Temple Square, the cab turned down 300 South Street and came to a stop in front of the Peery Hotel. Designed with European architecture only a short time earlier during the mining boom, it was Salt Lake City’s premier hostelry. As the doorman retrieved the luggage from the rear of the cab, the man ordered the driver to wait. Then he entered through the cut-glass double doors into the stately lobby.

The desk clerk smiled and nodded. Then he glanced at a large clock standing in the lobby and said, “Mr. Eliah Ruskin, I presume.”

“You presume right,” answered the man.

“Two-fifteen. You’re right on time, sir.”

“For once, my train was punctual.”

“If you will please sign the register.”

“I have to leave for an appointment. Will you see my luggage is taken to my room and my clothing placed in the closet and drawers?”

“Yes, Mr. Ruskin. I will personally see to it.” The clerk leaned over the registry desk and nodded at a large leather suitcase set securely between Ruskin’s legs. “Would you like me to send your bag up to your room?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be taking it with me.”

Ruskin turned and walked out to the curb, cane in one hand, the other clutching the handle of the suitcase, the weight of its contents tilting his right shoulder downward. He pushed it through the cab’s door and reentered the backseat.

The desk clerk thought it odd that Ruskin hadn’t left the bag in the cab. He wondered why Ruskin would lug such a heavy case into the lobby and then carry it outside again. He speculated that something of value must be inside. His thought soon faded when another guest showed up to register.

Eight minutes later, Ruskin stepped from the cab, paid the driver, and entered the Salt Lake Bank & Trust lobby. He walked to the security guard who was seated in a chair near the door.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”

The guard rose to his feet and motioned toward a frosted-glass door. “You’ll find Mr. Cardoza in there.”

There had been no reason for Ruskin to ask the guard where to go. He could just as easily have seen the bank manager’s office door. The guard did not notice that Ruskin had observed him closely, how he moved, his age, and how he placed the holster, containing a new .45 caliber Model 1905 Colt Browning automatic pistol, at his hip. The brief study also revealed the guard was not particularly alert and watchful. Day after day of seeing customers come and go without the slightest disturbance had made him listless and indifferent. He didn’t appear to find anything unusual about Ruskin’s big case.

The bank had two tellers behind the counter in their cages. The only other employees except for the guard were Cardoza and his secretary. Ruskin studied the big steel door to the vault that was open to the lobby to impress the customers and suggest that their savings were in solid, protective hands.

He approached the secretary. “Hello, my name is Eliah Ruskin. I have a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”

An older woman in her fifties with graying hair smiled and stood up without speaking. She walked to a door with ALBERT CARDOZA, MANAGER painted on the upper part of the frosted-glass pane, knocked, and leaned in. “A Mr. Eliah Ruskin to see you.”

Cardoza quickly came to his feet and rushed around his desk. He shoved out a hand and shook Ruskin’s palm and fingers vigorously. “A pleasure, sir. I’ve looked forward to your arrival. It’s not every day we greet a representative from a New York bank that is making such a substantial deposit.”

Ruskin lifted the suitcase onto Cardoza’s desk, unlocked the catches, and opened the lid. “Here you are, half a million dollars in cash to be deposited, until such time we decide to withdraw it.”

Cardoza reverently stared at the neatly packed and bundled fifty-dollar gold certificate bills as though they were his passport to a banker’s promised land. Then he looked up in growing surprise. “I don’t understand. Why not carry a cashier’s check instead of five hundred thousand dollars in currency?”

“The directors of the Hudson River Bank of New York prefer to deal in cash. As you know from our correspondence, we are going to open branch banks throughout the West in towns that we think have potential for growth. We feel it is expedient to have currency on hand when we open our doors.”

Cardoza looked at Ruskin somberly. “I hope your directors do not intend to open a competing bank in Salt Lake City.”

Ruskin grinned and shook his head. “Phoenix, Arizona, and Reno, Nevada, are the first of the Hudson River branch banks to open in the West.”

Cardoza looked relieved. “Phoenix and Reno are certainly booming.”

“Ever have a bank robbery in Salt Lake?” Ruskin asked casually while looking at the vault.

Cardoza looked at him quizzically. “Not in this city. The citizens would not allow it. Salt Lake is one of the most crime-free cities in the country. The Latter-Day Saints are upstanding and religious people. Trust me, Mr. Ruskin, no bandit would dare to attempt a robbery of this bank. Your money will be absolutely and one hundred percent safe once it’s locked up in our vault.”

“I’ve read of some fellow called the Butcher Bandit who robs and murders throughout the western states.”

“Not to worry, he only strikes in small mining towns and robs payrolls. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try robbing a bank in a city the size of Salt Lake. He wouldn’t get past the city limits before the police shot him down.”

Ruskin nodded toward the vault. “Very impressive repository.”

“The very finest vault west of the Mississippi, built especially for us in Philadelphia,” Ruskin said proudly. “An entire regiment armed with cannons couldn’t break inside.”

“I see it is open during business hours?”

“And why not. Our customers enjoy seeing how well their deposits are protected. And as I’ve mentioned, no bank has ever been robbed in Salt Lake City.”

“What is your slowest time of day?”

Cardoza looked puzzled. “Slowest time of day?”

“When you have the least customer transactions?”

“Between one-thirty and two o’clock is our slowest time. Most of our customers have gone back to their offices after their lunch hour. And, because we close at three, a number of customers come in for late transactions. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious as to how the traffic compares with our bank in New York, which seems to be about the same.” He patted the suitcase. “I’ll leave the money in the case and pick it up tomorrow.”

“We’ll close shortly, but I’ll have my head clerk count it first thing in the morning.”

Cardoza pulled open a drawer of his desk, retrieved a leather book, and wrote out a deposit slip for the half-million dollars. He handed it to Ruskin, who inserted it into a large wallet he carried in the breast pocket of his coat.

“May I ask a favor?” Ruskin inquired.

“Certainly. Anything you wish.”

“I would like to be on hand when your clerk does the count.”

“That’s very gracious of you, but I’m sure your bank has accounted for every dollar.”

“I’m grateful for your trust, but I would like to be present just to be on the safe side.”

Cardoza shrugged. “As you wish.”

“There is one other request.”

“You have but to name it.”

“I have other business to conduct in the morning and cannot return until one-thirty tomorrow. And, since your business is slowest then, it should be a good time for the count.”

Cardoza nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right.” He stood and extended his hand. “Until tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to seeing you.”

Ruskin held up his cane as a good-bye gesture, dismissed Cardoza, and left the office. He walked past the security guard, who didn’t give him a glance, and swung his cane like a baton as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

He smiled to himself, knowing that he had no intention of returning to the bank merely to count the contents of the suitcase.

9

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, RUSKIN WALKED TO THE BANK, making sure he was seen on the street by the passing crowd and stopping in shops to browse, making small talk with the merchants. He carried his gun cane more as a prop than for protection.

Reaching the Salt Lake Bank & Trust at one-thirty, he entered and ignored the guard as he turned the key in the front entrance door, locking it. Then he turned the sign around in the window so that it read CLOSED from the street and pulled down the window shades, as the guard sat there in his bored stupor, not realizing that the bank was about to be robbed. Neither Albert Cardoza’s secretary and the tellers nor the female depositor standing at the counter took notice of the intruder’s unusual behavior.

The guard finally came alert and realized that Ruskin was not acting like a normal bank customer and might be up to no good. He came to his feet, his hand dropping to the holster holding his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and asked blankly, “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Then his eyes widened in alarm as he found himself staring into the muzzle of Ruskin’s .38 Colt.

“Make no resistance, and walk slowly behind the counter!” Ruskin ordered as he wrapped his gun in a battered, old heavy woolen scarf with burn holes in it. He quickly moved behind the counter before the clerks in their cages became alert and could make a grab for the shotguns at their feet. Never expecting their bank to be robbed, they hesitated in confusion.

“Don’t even think about going for your guns!” Ruskin snapped. “Lay flat on the floor or you’ll get a bullet in your brain.” He motioned his cane at the frightened woman at the counter. “Come around the counter and lay down on the floor with the tellers and you won’t get hurt,” he said in a cold tone. Then he motioned the gun at Cardoza’s secretary. “You, too! Down on the floor!”

When all were lying on the highly polished mahogany floor facedown, he rapped on Cardoza’s door. Unable to distinguish voices outside his office, the bank’s manager was not aware of the macabre event unfolding within his bank. He waited out of habit for his secretary to enter, but she did not appear. Finally, irritated at being interrupted, he stepped from his desk and opened the door. It took him a full ten seconds to comprehend what was happening. He stared at Ruskin and the gun in his hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. Then he saw the people lying on the floor and looked back at Ruskin in utter confusion. “I don’t understand. What is going on?”

“The first bank robbery of Salt Lake City,” said Ruskin, as if amused.

Cardoza did not move. He was frozen in shock. “You’re a director of a respectable New York bank. Why are you doing this? It makes no sense. What do you hope to gain by it?”

“I have my motives,” Ruskin answered, his voice cold and toneless. “I want you to make out a bank draft for four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.”

Cardoza stared at him as if he was crazy. “A bank draft to whom?”

“Eliah Ruskin, who else?” answered Ruskin. “And be quick about it.”

Mired in confusion, Cardoza pulled open a drawer, retrieved a book containing bank drafts, and hurriedly scribbled out one for the amount Ruskin demanded. When finished, he passed it across the desk to Ruskin, who slipped it into his breast pocket.

“Now, down on the floor with the others.”

As if in the throes of a nightmare, Cardoza slowly lowered himself onto the floor next to his trembling secretary.

“Now, then, none of you move, or even twitch, until I tell you to.”

Without saying more, Ruskin walked inside the vault and began stuffing the bank’s currency into leather money sacks he’d seen earlier stacked on a shelf inside the huge five-ton door. He filled two of them, estimating the take at roughly two hundred thirty thousand dollars in larger denominations, none under ten dollars. He had planned well. From inside banking information, he knew that the Salt Lake Bank & Trust had received a large shipment of currency issued from the Continental & Commercial National Bank of Chicago for their reserves. The suitcase with his own money he left on another shelf of the vault.

Laying aside the sacks, he closed the vault door. It swung shut as easily as a door on a cupboard. Then he turned the bog wheel that activated the inside latches and set the timer for nine o’clock the next morning.

Unhurriedly, as if he was strolling through a park, he stepped behind the counter and ruthlessly shot the people lying on the floor in the back of the head. The muffled shots came so quickly, none had time to know what was happening and cry out. Then he raised the bank’s window shades, so people passing on the sidewalk could see that the vault was shut and would assume the bank was closed. The bodies were conveniently out of sight behind the counter.

Ruskin waited until the sidewalk was clear of foot traffic and vehicles before he nonchalantly exited the bank, locked the door, and strolled leisurely from the building, swinging his cane. By four o’clock, he had returned to the Peery Hotel, had a bath, and come down to the restaurant, where he enjoyed a large smoked-salmon plate with dill cream and caviar accompanied by a bottle of French Clos de la Roche Burgundy 1899. Then he read in the lobby for an hour before going to bed and slept like a rock.

LATE IN the morning, Ruskin took a taxi to the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. A crowd of people were clustered around the front door as an ambulance pulled away from the bank. Police in uniforms were in abundance. He pushed his way through the crowd, saw a man who was dressed like a detective, and addressed him.

“What happened here?” he asked courteously.

“The bank has been robbed and five people murdered.”

“Robbed, murdered, you say? This is disastrous. I deposited half a million dollars in cash here yesterday from my bank in New York.”

The detective looked at him in surprise. “Half a million dollars, you say? In cash?”

“Yes, I have my receipt right here.” Ruskin flashed the receipt in the detective’s face. The detective studied it for a few moments and then said, “You are Eliah Ruskin?”

“Yes, I’m Ruskin. I represent the Hudson River Bank of New York.”

“A half million dollars in cash!” the detective gasped. “No wonder the bank was robbed. You better come inside, Mr. Ruskin, and meet with Mr. Ramsdell, one of the bank’s directors. I’m Captain John Casale, with the Salt Lake Police Department.”

The bodies had been removed, but large areas of the mahogany floor were layered in dried blood. Captain Casale led the way to a man—a huge, fat man with a large protruding stomach behind a vest and massive watch chain. The man was sitting at Cardoza’s desk, examining the bank’s deposits. His brown eyes appeared dazed beneath the bald head. He looked up and stared at Ruskin, annoyed at the intrusion.

“This is Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” announced Casale. “He says he deposited half a million dollars with Mr. Cardoza yesterday.”

“Sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I am Ezra Ramsdell, the bank’s managing director.” Ramsdell rose and shook Ruskin’s hand. “A terrible, terrible business,” he muttered. “Five people dead. Nothing like this has ever happened in Salt Lake City before.”

“Were you aware of the money Mr. Cardoza was holding for my bank?” asked Ruskin flatly.

Ramsdell nodded. “Yes, he called me on the telephone and reported that you had come in and placed your bank’s currency in the vault.”

“Since Mr. Cardoza, God rest his soul, wrote me out a receipt, my directors will assume your bank will make good on the loss.”

“Tell your directors not to worry.”

“How much cash did the robber take?” Ruskin asked.

“Two hundred forty-five thousand dollars.”

“Plus my half million,” he said, as if agitated.

Ramsdell looked at him queerly. “For some inexplicable reason, the robber didn’t take your money.”

Ruskin simulated a stunned expression. “What are you telling me?”

“The bills in a large, brown leather suitcase,” said Captain Casale. “Are those yours?”

“The gold certificates? Yes, they are from the bank I represent in New York.”

Ramsdell and Casale exchanged odd looks. Then Ramsdell said, “The case you and Mr. Cardoza placed in the vault still contains your currency.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It hasn’t been touched. I opened and checked it myself. Your gold certificates are safe and sound.”

Ruskin made a show of acting perplexed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take your money and leave mine?”

Casale scratched one ear. “My guess is, he was in a hurry and simply ignored the suitcase, not realizing it was filled with a king’s fortune in cash.”

“That’s a relief,” said Ruskin, taking off his silk top hat and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Assuming the robber won’t return, I’ll leave it in your vault until such time as we require it to open our new branch banks in Phoenix and Reno.”

“We are most grateful. Especially now that our currency on hand has been wiped out.”

Ruskin looked around at the spread of dried blood on the floor. “I should leave you to your investigation.” He nodded at Casale. “I trust you will catch the killer so he can be hung.”

“I swear we’ll track him down,” Casale said confidently. “Every road out of Salt Lake and all the train depots are covered by a network of police officers. He can’t travel beyond the city limits without being caught.”

“Good luck to you,” said Ruskin. “I pray you will apprehend the fiend.” He turned to Ramsdell. “I will be at the Peery Hotel until tomorrow afternoon, should you require my services. At four o’clock, I will board a train, to oversee the establishment of our new bank in Phoenix.”

“You are most generous, sir,” said Ramsdell. “I will be in touch as soon as we resume operations.”

“Not at all.” Ruskin turned to leave. “Good luck to you, Captain,” Ruskin said to Casale as he made for the front entrance of the bank.

Casale stared out the window as Ruskin walked across the street toward a taxi. “Most strange,” he said slowly. “If I know my train schedules, the next train for Phoenix doesn’t leave for another three days.”

Ramsdell shrugged. “He was probably misinformed.”

“Still, there is something about him that bothers me.”

“What is that?”

“He didn’t look overjoyed that his bank’s money was not taken by the robber. It was almost as if he knew it was safe before he walked in the door.”

“Does it matter?” asked Ramsdell. “Mr. Ruskin should be glad his half a million dollars was overlooked by the robber.”

The detective looked thoughtful. “How do you know it’s a half a million dollars? Did you count it?”

“Mr. Cardoza must have counted it.”

“Are you certain?”

Ramsdell began walking from the office toward the vault. “Now is as good a time as any to make a quick tally.”

He opened the case and started to lay the first layer of stacked bills on a nearby shelf. The top layer consisted of twenty thousand dollars in gold certificate bills. Underneath, the rest of the case was filled with neatly cut and banded newspaper.

“Good God!” Ramsdell gasped. Then, as if struck by a revelation, he rushed back to the bank manager’s office and opened a book that lay on the surface of the desk. The book contained bank drafts—but the final draft was missing and unrecorded. His face went ashen. “The murdering scum must have forced Cardoza to write a bank draft for the half million. Whatever bank he deposits it in will assume we authorized it and demand payment from Salt Lake Bank and Trust. Under federal law, we are bound to honor it. If not, the lawsuits, the prosecution from United States Treasury agents—we’d be forced to close.”

“Ruskin was not only a fraud,” Casale said firmly, “he was the one who robbed your bank and murdered your employees and customer.”

“I can’t believe it,” muttered Ramsdell incredulously. Then he demanded, “You’ve got to stop him. Catch him before he checks out of his hotel.”

“I’ll send a squad to the Peery,” said Casale. “But this guy is no buffoon. He probably went on the run as soon as he walked out the door.”

“You can’t let him get away with this foul deed.”

“If he’s the notorious Butcher Bandit, he’s a shrewd devil who vanishes like a ghost.”

Ezra Ramsdell’s eyes took on an astute glint. “He has to deposit the draft at a bank somewhere. I’ll telegraph the managers of every bank in the nation to be on the lookout for him and contact the police before they honor a draft made out to Eliah Ruskin for half a million dollars. He won’t get away with it.”

“I’m not so sure,” John Casale said softly under his breath. “I’m not so sure at all.”

10

THE BUTCHER BANDIT WAS A COUNTRY MILE AHEAD of him, Bell thought as the train he was riding slowed and stopped at the station in Rhyolite. He had received a lengthy telegram from Van Dorn telling of the Salt Lake massacre, as it had become known. A bank in a major city like Salt Lake was the last place he or anyone else expected the Butcher to strike. That was his next stop after Rhyolite.

He stepped from the train with a leather bag that held the bare essentials he carried while traveling. The heat of the desert struck him like a blast furnace, but because of the absence of humidity in the desert it did not soak his shirt with sweat.

After getting directions from the stationmaster, he walked to the sheriff’s office and jail. Sheriff Marvin Huey was a medium-sized man with a head of tousled gray hair. He looked up from a stack of wanted posters and stared at Bell with soft olive brown eyes as the Van Dorn agent entered the office.

“Sheriff Huey, I’m Isaac Bell from the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Huey did not rise from his desk nor offer his hand; instead, he spit a wad of chewing tobacco juice into a cuspidor. “Yes, Mr. Bell, I was told you’d be on the ten o’clock train. How do you like our warm weather?”

Bell took a chair across from Huey without it being offered and sat down. “I prefer the high-altitude cool air of Denver.”

The sheriff grinned slightly at seeing Bell’s discomfort. “If you lived here long enough, you might get to like it.”

“I wired you concerning my investigation,” Bell said without preamble. “I want to obtain any information I can that would be helpful in tracking down the Butcher Bandit.”

“I hope you have better luck than I did. After the murders, all we found was a dilapidated, abandoned freight wagon and team of horses that he had driven into town.”

“Did anyone get a good look at him?”

Huey shook his head. “No one gave him the slightest notice. Three people gave different descriptions. None matched. All I know is, my posse found no tracks from wagon, horse, or automobile leading out of town.”

“What about the railroad?”

Huey shook his head. “No train left town for eight hours. I posted men at the depot who searched the passenger cars before it left, but they found no one that looked suspicious.”

“How about freight trains?”

“My deputies ran a search of the only freight train that left town that day. Neither they nor the train engineer, fireman, or brakemen saw anyone hiding on or around the boxcars.”

“What is your theory on the bandit?” asked Bell. “How do you think he made a clean getaway?”

Huey paused to shoot another wad of tobacco saliva into the brass cuspidor. “I gave up. It pains me to say so, but I have no idea how he managed to elude me and my deputies. Frankly, I’m put out by it. In thirty years as a lawman, I’ve never lost my man.”

“You can take consolation in knowing you’re not the only sheriff or marshal who lost him after he robbed their town banks.”

“It still isn’t anything I can be proud of,” muttered Huey.

“With your permission, I would like to question the three witnesses.”

“You’ll be wasting your time.”

“May I have their names?” Bell persisted. “I have to do my job.”

Huey shrugged and wrote out three names on the back of a wanted poster, and where they could be found, handing it to Bell. “I know all these people. They’re good, honest citizens who believe what they saw even if it don’t match up.”

“Thank you, Sheriff, but it is my job to investigate every lead, no matter how insignificant.”

“Let me know if I can be of further help,” said Huey, warming up.

“If need be,” said Bell, “I will.”

BELL SPENT most of the next morning locating and questioning the people on the list given him by Sheriff Huey. Bell was considered an expert at drawing on witnesses’ descriptions, but this time around he drew a blank. None of the people, two men and one woman, gave correlating accounts. Sheriff Huey was right. He accepted defeat and headed back to his hotel and prepared to leave for the next town on his schedule that had suffered a similar tragedy: Bozeman, Montana.

He was sitting in the hotel restaurant, eating an early dinner of lamb stew, when the sheriff walked in and sat down at his table.

“Can I order you anything?” Bell asked graciously.

“No thanks. I came looking for you because I thought of Jackie Ruggles.”

“And who might that be?”

“He’s a young boy of about ten. His father works in the mine and his mother takes in laundry. He said he saw a funny-looking man the day of the robbery, but I dismissed his description. He’s not the brightest kid in town. I figured he wanted to impress the other boys by claiming he’d seen the bandit.”

“I’d like to question him.”

“Go up Third Street to Menlo. Then turn right. He lives in the second house on the left, a ramshackle affair that looks like it may fall down any minute, like most of the houses in that area of town.”

“I’m obliged.”

“You won’t get any more out of Jackie than you did from the others, probably less.”

“I have to look on the bright side,” said Bell. “As I said, we have to check out every lead, no matter how trivial. The Van Dorn Detective Agency wants the killer as much as you.”

“You might stop by the general store and pick up some gumdrops,” Sheriff Huey said. “Jackie has a sweet tooth for gumdrops.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

BELL FOUND the Ruggles house just as Huey described. The entire wooden structure was leaning to one side. Another two inches, Bell thought, and it would crash into the street. He started up the rickety stairs just as a young boy dashed out of the front door and ran toward the street.

“Are you Jackie Ruggles?” Bell asked, grabbing the boy by the arm before he dashed off.

The boy wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Who wants to know?” he demanded.

“My name is Bell. I’m with the Van Dorn Detective Agency. I’d like to ask you about what you saw the day of the bank robbery.”

“Van Dorn,” Jackie said in awe. “Gosh, you guys are famous. A detective from Van Dorn wants to talk to me?”

“That’s right,” said Bell, swooping in for the kill. “Would you like some gumdrops?” He held out a small sack that he had just purchased at the general store.

“Gee, thanks, mister.” Jackie Ruggles wasted no time in snatching the sack and savoring a green gumdrop. He was dressed in a cotton shirt, pants that were cut off above the knee, and worn-leather shoes that Bell guessed were handed down by an older brother. The clothes were quite clean, as befitting a mother who was a laundress. He was thin as a broomstick, with boyish facial features that were covered with freckles, and topped by a thicket of uncombed curly light brown hair.

“I was told by Sheriff Huey that you saw the bank robber.”

The boy answered while chewing on the gumdrop. “Sure did. The only trouble is, nobody believes me.”

“I do,” Bell assured him. “Tell me what you saw.”

Jackie was about to reach in the sack for another gumdrop, but Bell stopped him. “You can have them after you’ve told me what you know.”

The boy looked peeved but shrugged. “I was playing baseball in the street with my friends when this old guy—”

“How old?”

Jackie studied Bell. “About your age.”

Bell never considered thirty as old, but to a young boy of ten he must have appeared ancient. “Go on.”

“He was dressed like most of the miners who live here, but he wore a big hat like the Mexicans.”

“A sombrero.”

“I think that’s what it’s called.”

“And he was toting a heavy sack over his shoulder. It looked like it was plumb full of something.”

“What else did you notice?”

“One of his hands was missing the little finger.”

Bell stiffened. This was the first clue to identifying the killer. “Are you sure he was missing a little finger?”

“As sure as I’m standing here,” answered Jackie.

“Which hand?” Bell asked, containing his mounting excitement.

“The left.”

“You’ve no doubt it was the left hand?”

Jackie merely nodded while staring longingly at the gumdrop sack. “He looked at me like he was really mad when he saw I was looking back.”

“Then what happened?”

“I had to catch a fly ball. When I turned around, he was gone.”

Bell patted Jackie on the head, almost losing his hand in a sea of unruly red hair. He smiled. “Go ahead and eat your gumdrops, but, if I were you, I’d chew slowly so they last longer.”

AFTER HE checked out of the Rhyolite Hotel and before he boarded the train, Bell paid the telegraph operator at the depot to send a wire to Van Dorn describing the Butcher Bandit as missing the little finger on his left hand. He knew that Van Dorn would quickly send out the news to his army of agents to watch out for and report any man with that disfigurement.

Instead of traveling back to Denver, he decided on the spur of the moment to go to Bisbee. Maybe—just maybe—he might get lucky again and find another clue to the bandit’s identity. He leaned back in his seat, as the torrid heat of the desert grilled the interior of the Pullman car. Bell hardly noticed it.

The first solid clue, provided by a scrawny young boy, wasn’t exactly a breakthrough, but it was a start, thought Bell. He felt pleased with himself for the discovery and began to daydream of the day he confronted the bandit and identified him by the missing finger.