At last, he said, “You underestimate the law enforcement officials. They searched the boxcars of all the freight trains that passed through the towns during the specified time limits.”
“What about the boxcars that were switched onto local sidings to be hauled later to other destinations by incoming trains? He could have dodged the posses by hiding in a freight car.”
Curtis shook his head. “The posses searched all empty cars and found no sign of the bandit.”
“Did they check out the ones that were loaded?” Culhane questioned.
“How could they? The cars were locked tight. There’s no way the bandit could have entered them.”
Culhane grinned like a fox on a hot scent. “I guess nobody told you that the train brakemen all carry keys that will open the locks on the loading doors in case of fire.”
“I was not aware of that angle,” said Curtis.
The steel-rimmed spectacles slid down Culhane’s nose. “It’s certainly something to think about.”
“Yes, it is,” Curtis mused, his mind beginning to turn. “We’re looking at a process of elimination. The posses claimed there were no tracks leading out of town to follow, which means our man didn’t ride a horse. There is almost no chance he could have taken a stagecoach, and it appears unlikely he bought a ticket and traveled out of town as a passenger on a train. He also failed to be spotted in an empty boxcar.”
“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.”