Clive Cussler - The Chase

“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.

THE 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.”