The Chase by Clive Cussler (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

Telluride—the name supposedly came from the saying “to hell you ride”—was launched after gold was discovered in the San Miguel River. The gold, along with silver-bearing ore, found high in the San Juan Mountains, quickly attracted an army of prospectors and miners over the next fifty years. By 1906, more millionaires per capita lived in Telluride than in New York City.

The miners eventually dug three hundred fifty miles of tunnels that honeycombed the surrounding mountains, some as high as twelve thousand feet above sea level. The population soared to over five thousand, and the rip-roaring town soon overflowed with wild and crazy living mixed with a healthy dose of corruption. There were three dozen saloons and one hundred eighty prostitutes to keep the army of miners in a good mood after long twelve-hour shifts in the Silver Bell, Smuggler-Union, and Liberty Bell mines at three dollars a day.

When the sun dropped behind the mountains and darkness came, a blaze of lights flashed on up and down the streets. In 1892, mine owner L. L. Nunn had hired the electrical wizard Nikola Tesla to build the world’s first alternating-current power plant to move ore on cables down the mountain and miners up from town. After running lines from the power plant into town, Telluride became the first town in history to have electric streetlamps.

Bell walked past the notorious cribs where the scarlet women plied their trade. The upper-class houses were called the Senate and the Silver Belle. Music could be heard through the windows out on the street as a piano player pounded out the “Dill Pickles Rag” and other ragtime tunes. The street was called Popcorn Alley, its name coming from the constant opening and closing of doors all night.

He moved up to the main section of town on Colorado Avenue and looked through the windows of the Telluride First National Bank. Tomorrow, he would meet with the town sheriff and the bank manager to plan a reception for the Butcher Bandit, should he swallow the bait and make an attempt to rob the bank. He passed the old San Miguel Valley Bank that Butch Cassidy had robbed seventeen years previously.

The evening air had turned cold, once the sun took its heat beyond the mountain peaks. Bell noticed that the nine-thousand-foot altitude caused him to take deeper breaths. He ignored the main street saloons and headed for the New Sheridan Hotel.

Bell stepped inside the lobby and asked the desk clerk to see the manager. In a minute, a short man with a florid face and bald head came out of the office with quick, hurried steps, like a mouse running from a hole in the wall. He smiled an official smile, but not too warmly, as he sized up Bell’s rather dowdy appearance.

“I’m sorry, all our rooms are taken. The Sheridan is full up.”

“I don’t want a room,” said Bell. “Are you Mr. Marshall Buckman?”

The smile straightened and the eyes narrowed. “Yes, I’m Buckman.”

“I’m Isaac Bell with the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Buckman eye’s widened again and he bowed. “Mr. Bell. I received your telegram. Permit me to say the Sheridan will cooperate in every way.”

“The most important thing,” explained Bell, “is to confirm to anyone who asks that I work here as a janitor.”

“Yes, of course,” Buckman said in a patronizing manner. “You can count on me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Buckman. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I will enjoy the best whiskey in your bar.”

“We serve only superior whiskey from the finest distillers. No local rotgut is tolerated at the Sheridan.”

Bell nodded and then turned his back on Buckman and stepped toward the bar. He paused and read a plaque listing rules for the hotel patrons.

Don’t shoot the pianist, he’s doing his damndest.

No horses above the first floor.

No more than 5 in a bed.

Funerals on the house.

Beds 50 cents, with sheets 75 cents.

At the doorway, he stood aside as a blond lady whose face was hidden under a wide-brimmed hat stepped past him. All he saw was that she had a fine figure.

Conversely, she paid no attention to the limping man who walked by her as she headed for the carpeted stairway leading to her room.

Much later, Bell cursed himself for not recognizing the blonde just as Margaret blamed herself for not identifying the limping man until it was too late.

24

BELL EXPLAINED THE SITUATION TO SHERIFF HENRY Pardee and the bank manager, Murray Oxnard. The three men sat around a table eating a breakfast served by the sheriff’s wife. Pardee’s house sat directly behind his office and the jail. He walked to the door, made sure it was locked, and drew the curtains so nobody could see inside.

Bell was impressed with the sheriff. One wall of the parlor had bookshelves from floor to ceiling stacked with works by Shakespeare, Plato, Voltaire, Bacon, and Emerson, along with several volumes in Latin. Bell had never met a peace officer in a small town who was so well read.

Pardee ran a hand through a thick mane of graying hair and tugged at a shaggy mustache. “What you’re saying, Mr. Bell, is that you think the Butcher Bandit is going to hit our town bank.”

“I can’t say for certain,” Bell replied. “But if he’s true to form, he’ll be lured by the large payroll that is being shipped to the bank from the First National Bank of Denver.”

“I know of no such payroll shipment,” said Murray Oxnard. He was a tall, quiet man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He seldom smiled, and his face was always fixed with a dour expression.

“There is no shipment,” explained Bell. “It is a ruse to smoke out the bandit.”

Pardee rapped the fingers of one hand on the table. “If he is as smart as I’ve read, he’ll dig into the true facts and find it’s all a sham.”

Bell shook his head. “No, sir, the directors of the bank in Denver