“Which leaves loaded boxcars as the only means of transportation that was not examined,” Culhane persisted.
“You may be onto something,” said Curtis thoughtfully.
A peculiar expression crossed Curtis’s face as he began to envision a new scenario. “That leaves a whole new avenue to follow. Now I have to go through freight car records to study the cars that made up those specific trains, who owned them, their manifest, and their ultimate destination.”
“Not an easy chore,” said Culhane. “You’ll have to check out hundreds of freight cars from a dozen trains.”
“Like a piece of a puzzle. Find the boxcar that was parked on a nearby siding in all of the robbed towns on the days of the robberies.”
“I’ll be happy to help you with the Union Pacific freight records.”
“Thank you, Mr. Culhane. Two of the freight trains in question were hauled by Union Pacific.”
“Just tell me which towns they were at and I’ll dig out the records that give the car’s serial numbers, their ownership, and the agent who arranged and paid for their transportation.”
“You’ve been a great help to me and I’m grateful,” Curtis said sincerely.
“I’m the one who is grateful, Mr. Curtis. I never thought I would be instrumental in bringing the Butcher Bandit, the killer of my cousin and her child, to justice.”
Four hours later, with Culhane’s able assistance, Curtis had the information that gave him a solid direction to investigate. Now all he had to do was research the archives of the Southern Pacific, the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, and the Denver & Rio Grande railroads to confirm Culhane’s theory.
By nightfall, he was on a train to Los Angeles and the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe archives. Too inspired to sleep, he stared at his reflection in the window since it was too dark to see the landscape roll by outside. He was optimistic that the end of the trail seemed to be over the next hill and around the next bend.
14
THE EARLY EVENING CAME WITH A LIGHT RAIN THAT dampened the dirt street through town as Bell stepped off the train. In the fading light, he could see that Bisbee, Arizona, was a vertical town, with sharply rising hills occupied by many houses that could be reached only by steep stairways. On his way to the Copper Queen Hotel, he walked through the narrow, twisting streets, a maze flanked by new, substantial brick buildings.
It was a Saturday, and Bell found a deputy holding down the sheriff’s office and jail. The deputy said the sheriff was taking a few days off, to make repairs to his house that had been damaged in a flood that had swept down the hills, and would not return to work until Thursday. When Bell asked him for directions to the sheriff’s house, the deputy refused to give them, claiming that the sheriff was not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.
Bell checked into the Copper Queen, ate a light dinner in the hotel dining room, and then went out on the town. He skipped having a drink in the Copper Queen Saloon and walked up to the infamous Brewery Gulch, lined with fifty saloons, known throughout the territory as the wildest, bawdiest, and best drinking street in the West.
He checked out four of the saloons, stepping into each and studying the action, before going on to the next one. Finally, he settled into a large, wooden-walled hall with a stage and a small band playing a ragtime tune while four dancing girls hoofed it around the stage. Moving through the crowded tables to the bar, he waited until a busy bartender asked, “What’ll it be, friend, whiskey or beer?”
“What’s your best whiskey?”
“Jack Daniel’s from Tennessee,” said the bartender without hesitation. “It won the Gold Medal at the St. Louis Fair as the best whiskey in the world.”
Bell smiled. “I’ve enjoyed it, on occasion. Let me have a double shot glass.”
While the bartender poured, Bell turned around, leaned his elbows behind him on the bar, and gazed around the busy saloon. Like most watering holes in the West, a large section of the room was given over to gambling. Bell’s eyes went from table to table, looking for the right mix of poker players. He found what he had hoped to find, a table with men dressed in fancier clothes than the large number of miners. They appeared to be businessmen, merchants, or mining officials. Best of all, there were four of them, one short of a fifth player.
Bell paid for his whiskey and walked over to the table. “May I join you gentlemen?” he asked.
A heavyset man with a red face nodded and motioned toward an empty chair. “You’re quite welcome to sit in,” he said.
A man directly across the table shuffled the cards, looked across at Bell as he sat down, and began dealing. “I’m Frank Calloway. The others are Pat O’Leery, Clay Crum, and Lewis Latour.”
“Isaac Bell.”
“You new in town, Mr. Bell?” asked O’Leery, a big, brawny Irishman.
“Yes, I arrived on the six-thirty train from Phoenix.”
“Business or pleasure?” O’Leery probed.
“Business. I’m an agent with the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”
They all looked up from their cards and stared at Bell with inquisitive interest.
“Let me guess,” said Crum, folding his hands over a rotund belly. “You’re looking into the bank robbery and murders that took place four months ago.”
Bell nodded as he fanned his hand and examined his cards. “You are correct, sir.”
Latour spoke in a French accent as he lit a cigar. “A little late, aren’t you? The trail is cold.”
“No colder than it was five minutes after the crime,” Bell countered. “I’ll take two cards.”
Calloway dealt as the players called out the number of cards they hoped would give them a winning hand. “A mystery, that one,” he said. “No trace of the bandit was ever found.”
“Uncanny,” O’Leery said as he inspected his hand,
