The Chase by Clive Cussler (motivational books for students .txt) 📗

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