The Chase (19 page)

M
ARGARET WAS NOT ENDURING THE LIFE OF A PROSTITUTE
in a crib on Pacific Avenue. She was living in style in the New Sheridan Hotel. After opening a small account at the town bank to examine the floor plan, number of employees and where they were located, and the type of safe, she made the rounds of the mining companies to make inquiries about a long-lost husband who never existed. The effort gave her story substance, and soon she became the source of gossip around town.

She went so far as to call on Sheriff Pardee with her bogus story, to see what kind of man he was face-to-face. Mrs. Alice Pardee came into the office when Margaret was asking the sheriff for his cooperation in finding her husband. Alice immediately felt sorry for the woman in the cheap, well-faded cotton dress who poured out her sad tale of the abandoned wife desperately seeking the man who had deserted her. Alice assumed that this Rachel Jordan was half starved and invited her up to their house for dinner. Margaret accepted and arrived in the same cheap dress, which she had bought in San Francisco at a used-clothing store for the poor.

That evening, Margaret made a display of helping Alice Pardee in the kitchen, but it was obvious to the sheriff's wife that their guest was not at home over a hot stove. Alice served a homemade meal of mutton chops, boiled potatoes, and steamed vegetables, topped off by an apple pie for dessert. After dinner, tea was served and everyone settled in the parlor, where Alice played tunes on an old upright piano.

“Tell me, Mrs. Jordan,” Alice asked, pausing to change the sheet music, “where are you staying?”

“A nice lady, Miss Billy Maguire, hired me as a waitress at her ladies' boardinghouse.”

Pardee and his wife exchanged pained glances. Alice sucked in her breath. “Big Billy is the madam of the Silver Belle bordello,” she said. “Didn't you know that?”

Margaret made a display of looking sheepish. “I had no idea.”

Alice bought Margaret's lie, Pardee did not. He knew there was no way any woman could fail to recognize the difference between a boardinghouse and a bordello. The germ of suspicion began to grow in his mind, but his wife was swept by compassion.

“You poor thing,” she said, putting her arm around Margaret. “You'll not stay at the Silver Belle another minute. You'll stay here with Henry and me until you find your husband.”

“But he may not be in Telluride,” Margaret said as if about to weep. “Then I would have to move on, and I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“Nonsense,” said Alice. “You march right back to Big Billy's and bring back your things. I'll make up the spare bed for you.”

Margaret went into her act and shed a few tears. “How can I ever thank you? How can I ever repay you?”

“Don't give it a thought. Henry and I are only too glad to help a poor soul in distress. It's the Christian thing to do.”

As she sipped her coffee, Margaret moved the conversation to Pardee's job as sheriff. “You have to live an exciting life,” she said. “Telluride seems like an uninhibited town. You must be kept quite busy.”

“The miners can get pretty rowdy at times,” Pardee agreed, “but serious crimes like murder don't happen but once every six months or so. It's been peaceful since the union strikes by the miners two years ago, when the governor sent in the army to squelch the rioting.”

Margaret was slow and deliberate in her answers to Pardee's questions about her missing husband. She in turn made general inquiries about the town and the mines. “A lot of money must pass through the bank to the mining companies,” she said casually.

Pardee nodded. “The payrolls can add up to a considerable amount.”

“And you never have a fear of robbers and thieves?” she asked innocently.

“The miners are a solid lot and rarely indulge in crime. Except for occasional fights in the saloons, or a killing when a confrontation gets out of hand, the town is pretty quiet.”

“When I was in the bank, I saw that the safe looked very strong and secure.”

“It's strong, all right,” said Pardee, lighting his pipe. “Five sticks of dynamite couldn't blow it open.”

“And the bank manager is the only one who knows the combination?”

Pardee thought it strange a question like that came from a woman, but he answered without hesitation. “Actually, the locking bolts are set to spring open at ten o'clock every morning. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the manager closes the door and sets the clock.”

“Someone at the Silver Belle told me Butch Cassidy robbed the local bank.”

Pardee laughed. “That was a long time ago. We've never had a bank robbery since.”

Margaret was leery of pushing too hard, but there was information she had to know if her brother was to carry out a successful robbery. “The miners' payroll. Is it taken directly to the mining companies when it arrives?”

Pardee shook his head and went along with Bell's story. “It came in today and went directly to the bank. Tomorrow, it will be counted and sent to the mines the next day.”

“Are there extra guards in the bank to protect the money?”

“No need,” said Pardee. “Anyone who tried to rob the bank wouldn't get far. With the telegraph lines running alongside the railroad tracks, peace officers around the county would be alerted and posses formed to wait for the robbers when they tried to escape.”

“Then such a crime would be impossible to commit successfully.”

“I guess you could say that,” Pardee replied confidently. “There's no way it could succeed.”

Margaret left the Pardee house and walked toward the Silver Belle. As soon as she was out of sight, she ran down an alley to the New Sheridan Hotel to pack her meager clothes. She felt pleased with herself and could not believe her luck. Staying with the sheriff and his wife would give her access to most of the town. When her brother arrived, she would have enough information for him to plan a foolproof crime.

Her only problem was the whereabouts of her brother. To her knowledge, he had not arrived in town, and tomorrow was the only day the payrolls could be robbed before they went to the mines for distribution to the miners. She began to feel extremely uneasy.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, A BLACK-HAIRED WOMAN
drove a smart-looking buggy pulled by a dappled gray horse on the road into Telluride. The road led from the ranching community of Montrose, a rail terminus for the Rio Grande Southern Railroad. She had arrived from Denver and rented the rig and horse at the local stable. She was dressed in a long buckskin skirt over a pair of pointed-toe leather boots. Her upper torso was covered by a nicely knit green sweater under a wolfskin fur coat. A lady's-style flat-topped cowboy hat was set squarely on her head. She was fashionably attired for the West, but not ostentatious.

She came onto Colorado Avenue, passed the San Miguel County Courthouse, and pulled the horse to a stop in front of the town stable. She climbed down from the buggy and tied the horse to a hitching post. The stable owner came out and lifted his hat.

“Good afternoon, ma'am. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I wonder if you would please feed and water my horse. I have to be on the road back to Montrose this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the stable owner politely, slightly taken aback by a voice that had a gentle harshness about it. “I'll take care of it. While I'm at it, I'll tighten your front wheels. They look a mite loose.”

“You're very kind, thank you. Oh, and by the way, my sister will come for the buggy and pay you.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The woman left the stable and walked a block to the New Sheridan Hotel. She approached the desk clerk and asked, “Do you have a Miss Rachel Jordan registered here?”

The clerk shook his head, stared at what he saw as an attractive woman, and said, “No, ma'am, she checked out last night.” He paused, turned, and pulled an envelope out of a mail-and-key slot. “But she said if someone asked for her to give them this.”

The woman thanked the clerk, walked out onto the sidewalk, opened the envelope, and read the note. She stuffed it in her purse and began walking through town. After a short hike, she came to the Lone Tree Cemetery, on a hill north of the San Miguel River. She passed through the gate and walked among the tombstones, noting that most of the deceased had died from mine accidents, snow slides, and miner's consumption.

A pretty blond woman was sitting on a bench beside a grave site, leaning back and sunning herself. Out of the corner of one eye, she caught the approach of another woman. She sat up and stared at the intruder, who stopped and looked down at her. Margaret began to laugh.

“My God, Jacob,” she finally gasped. “That's the most ingenious disguise you've ever created.”

Cromwell smiled. “I thought you'd approve.”

“A good thing you're short, thin, and wiry.”

“I don't know why I never thought of it before.” He awkwardly bunched up his buckskin skirt and sat down on the bench next to Margaret. “Tell me, sister dear, what have you learned since you've been here?”

Margaret told him how she became friendly with the sheriff and his wife. She handed him a sketch she'd made of the Telluride First National Bank's interior and a description of the employees. Her report included the arrival of the payroll shipment from the bank in Denver and the counting today before it was sent to the mines tomorrow.

Cromwell looked at his watch. “We have one more hour before the bank closes. The best time to remove the currency and leave town.”

“I spotted a man hanging around the railroad depot. I couldn't tell for sure, but I suspect he might have been a Van Dorn agent who was on the lookout for you.”

Cromwell looked thoughtful. “Even if Van Dorn sends agents to watch train arrivals and departures during payroll shipments, they're only chasing a phantom. No way they could know where I'll strike next.”

“If they're wise to your boxcar, it's a good thing you had it repainted.” She looked at him quizzically. “Just how do you expect us to make a clean escape after you rob the bank?”

Cromwell grinned wolfishly. “Who would suspect a pair of clean-cut, attractive ladies riding slowly out of town in a horse and buggy?”

She placed her arm around his shoulders. “The simplest plan is the best plan. You are brilliant, brother. You never cease to amaze me.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” he said, rising to his feet. “We don't have much time. The payroll awaits.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Go to the stable and pick up my horse and buggy. I told the stable owner my sister would come by to get the rig. Then wait at the back door of the bank.”

 

W
HILE
I
RVINE
watched the train station and town railyard, Bell and Curtis manned the Telluride Bank. Sitting in Murray Oxnard's office, Bell began to think he had bet on the wrong horse. There were only ten minutes left before closing time and no sign of the bandit. Playing the role of a teller, Irvine was getting ready to close out his cashbox in anticipation of waiting on the last customer.

Bell glanced down at the .45 Colt automatic he'd kept in an open desk drawer and regretted that he would not get to use it on the Butcher Bandit. Blowing the scum's head off was too good for him, Bell mused. Not after he had murdered so many unsuspecting people. His death would save the taxpayers the expense of a trial. Now Bell was faced with admitting defeat and starting over again with the meager clues he and his agents had ferreted out.

Irvine walked over to the office door and leaned his shoulder against the frame. “I can't deny it was a good try,” he said with a tightness in his voice.

“It looks as if the bandit failed to take the bait,” Bell said slowly.

“Perhaps he didn't read the article in the paper because he doesn't live in San Francisco.”

“It's beginning to look that way.”

Just then the door opened and a woman wearing a buckskin skirt walked into the bank, her hat pulled low so it covered her eyes. Bell gazed past Irvine but relaxed at seeing what appeared to be a well-dressed woman. He nodded to Irvine, who walked back to his teller's cage and said, “How may I help you, ma'am?”

Cromwell lifted his head slightly so he could look into Irvine's face. Then with a pang of alarm he stiffened as he instantly remembered the Van Dorn agent as one of the men who were sitting with Bell and Bronson in the Bohemian Club dining room only days earlier. He did not answer Irvine for fear his voice would give him away to the agent. Cromwell became charged with tension as he realized this was a trap. There came a pause as he lowered his head, his mind racing with alternatives. His advantage was that the agent did not recognize him, not dressed as a woman, and was not alert to the fact that the bandit was less than four feet away on the other side of the counter.

He could shoot the agent and take what money was in the safe or he could simply turn around and walk out of the bank. He chose the latter option and was about to beat a hasty retreat when Bell stepped from the office. Cromwell immediately recognized Bell. For the first time in his criminal career, he felt the spur of panic.

“How may I help you, ma'am?” Irvine repeated, vaguely wondering why the woman did not answer him the first time.

Already, Bell was looking at him with a questioning expression on his face, as if the female customer looked familiar. Bell was a master of identification and had a photographic memory when it came to faces. His eyes betrayed the fact that he was trying to recall where he'd seen her. Then his eyes dropped to Cromwell's hands, which were covered by leather gloves. Abruptly, as if he had seen an apparition, he realized that he was staring at the bandit. It struck him like a hammer blow to the head. Bell's eyes flared open and he gasped:
“You!”

Cromwell did not waste another second. He reached into his large cloth purse and jerked out his .38 Colt, which had a heavy cloth taped around the muzzle. Without the slightest hesitation, he pointed the Colt at Irvine's chest and pulled the trigger. A loud thump reverberated in the bank's lobby. Then he swung the muzzle around and shot at Bell even before Irvine hit the floor like a rag doll.

If Bell hadn't instinctively whirled around and thrown his body over the top of the desk, crashing to the floor behind it, the bullet would have caught him square in the stomach. The violent thrust saved him, but the bullet still plowed through the fleshy part of his thigh. He hardly felt the piercing blow. In a single movement, he reached up and snatched his Colt from the desk drawer. Without the luxury of time, he snapped off a shot at Cromwell that missed the neck of the bandit by less than half an inch.

Then, faster than lightning could strike, both men fired again, the shots coming so closely together they sounded as one.

Cromwell's second bullet gouged a small trench across the side of Bell's head, barely piercing the skin but creasing the skull. Bell's vision became a blurred mist and he fell into the black pit of unconsciousness. Blood quickly seeped from the wound and covered the side of his head. It had not been a decisive wound, but to Cromwell, who was still standing, it looked as if he had shot off half of Bell's head.

The bandit did not come out of the gun battle unscathed. Bell's bullet had caught Cromwell in the waist but had passed through without striking any internal organs. He swayed, and only by reaching out and grasping the edge of the teller's cage did he prevent himself from falling to the floor. He stood there for a few moments, fighting the pain. Then he turned and unlocked the rear door, standing aside as Margaret burst in.

“I heard shots outside,” she shouted shock. “What went wrong?”

“It was a trap,” he murmured as anger replaced fear. Holding a hand over his wound, he motioned the muzzle of his Colt toward the office floor. “I killed Isaac Bell.”

Margaret stepped into the office and looked down at the bloodied Van Dorn agent and a look of horror came into her eyes as she recognized Bell despite the blood covering much of his face. “Oh, my God!” She felt as if she was going to be sick, but the nausea quickly passed when she turned and saw that her brother was also bleeding. “You're hurt!” she gasped.

“Not as bad as it looks,” he said through clenched teeth.

“We've got to get out of here. The shots will bring the sheriff and rouse half the town.”

Margaret half carried, half dragged her wounded brother through the rear door of the bank. Outside, the horse and buggy were waiting. She used all her strength to push him onto the seat of the rig, untied the horse from the fence post, and climbed aboard.

She raised the whip to urge the horse to a gallop, but he grabbed her wrist. “No, go slowly, as if we're two women out for a buggy ride. It will look suspicious if we charge out of town.”

“The sheriff is a smart man. I know him. He won't fool easily.”

“Even a smart man won't suspect a woman of robbing a bank and killing two men,” muttered Cromwell.

At the end of the alley, Margaret turned the buggy up a side street and then headed west toward the town limits. Cromwell took off the wolfskin coat and draped it over his lap to cover the blood that soaked his sweater. He slipped the Colt into one of his cowboy boots and sat back, trying to keep his mind clear by ignoring the throbbing pain in his side.

 

B
ELL HAD
instructed Sheriff Pardee that he would fire a shot as a signal if the bandit made his appearance. But Pardee knew there was trouble when he heard five shots, some of them muffled like the distant dynamite charge in a nearby mine. He rushed into the street from a hardware store where he had been hiding, fearful that the woman he'd seen walk into the bank might have been shot by the bandit.

Seeing him running toward the bank, four of his deputies leaped from their hiding places and rushed after him, while a fifth deputy ran to the railroad depot to alert Curtis. With his single-action Smith & Wesson drawn and the hammer pulled back, Pardee burst through the door of the bank. At first, he didn't see anyone. Irvine was lying out of sight, behind the teller's cage, and Bell was down on the other side of the desk. Then he came around the cage, saw the Van Dorn agent sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. He checked to make sure Irvine was dead before he entered the office and found Bell.

“Is he a goner?” asked one of his deputies, a great bear of a man with a huge stomach bulging over pants with suspenders stretched to their limits, who stood poised with a sawed-off shotgun at the ready.

“The bullet only creased his skull,” answered Pardee. “He's still alive.”

“What about the woman?”

Pardee's mind did not register for a moment. Then it hit him. “The woman who came into the bank before the gunshots?”

“That one.”

“She must have been abducted by the bandit.”

“But we saw no one else enter the bank before or after her.”

Pardee stood up in confusion and disbelief. It took all his imagination to believe a woman was the Butcher Bandit.

“The bandit must have entered through the back door.”

“I don't know, Sheriff,” said the deputy, scratching his chin. “The door should have been locked from the inside, like it always is.”