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While the bartender poured, Bell turned around, leaned his elbows behind him on the bar, and gazed around the busy saloon. Like most watering holes in the West, a large section of the room was given over to gambling. Bell’s eyes went from table to table, looking for the right mix of poker players. He found what he had hoped to find, a table with men dressed in fancier clothes than the large number of miners. They appeared to be businessmen, merchants, or mining officials. Best of all, there were four of them, one short of a fifth player.
Bell paid for his whiskey and walked over to the table. “May I join you gentlemen?” he asked.
A heavyset man with a red face nodded and motioned toward an empty chair. “You’re quite welcome to sit in,” he said.
A man directly across the table shuffled the cards, looked across at Bell as he sat down, and began dealing. “I’m Frank Calloway. The others are Pat O’Leery, Clay Crum, and Lewis Latour.”
“Isaac Bell.”
“You new in town, Mr. Bell?” asked O’Leery, a big, brawny Irishman.
“Yes, I arrived on the six-thirty train from Phoenix.”
“Business or pleasure?” O’Leery probed.
“Business. I’m an agent with the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”
They all looked up from their cards and stared at Bell with inquisitive interest.
“Let me guess,” said Crum, folding his hands over a rotund belly. “You’re looking into the bank robbery and murders that took place four months ago.”
Bell nodded as he fanned his hand and examined his cards. “You are correct, sir.”
Latour spoke in a French accent as he lit a cigar. “A little late, aren’t you? The trail is cold.”
“No colder than it was five minutes after the crime,” Bell countered. “I’ll take two cards.”
Calloway dealt as the players called out the number of cards they hoped would give them a winning hand. “A mystery, that one,” he said. “No trace of the bandit was ever found.”
“Uncanny,” O’Leery said as he inspected his hand, his expression revealing he had nothing worth betting on. “I fold.” His eyes briefly met Bell’s. “Uncanny that he could escape into thin air.”
“The sheriff found no sign of his trail,” muttered Crum. “The posse returned to town looking as if their wives had run off with a band of traveling salesmen.” He paused. “I’ll bet two dollars.”
“I’ll raise you three dollars,” offered Calloway.
Latour threw his hand toward the dealer. “I’m out.”
“And you, Mr. Bell,” inquired Calloway, “are you still in?”
Bell was amused that the stakes were not high, but not penny-ante either. “I’ll call.”
“Two queens,” announced Crum.
“Two tens,” said Calloway. “You beat me.” He turned. “Mr. Bell?”
“Two eights,” Bell said, passing his cards facedown to Calloway. Bell had not lost. He held three jacks, but he thought that losing would bring him closer to the other men’s confidence. “Was there any clue to how the robber escaped?”
“Nothing I ever heard of,” replied O’Leery. “Last time I talked to the sheriff, he was baffled.”
“That would be Sheriff Hunter?” Bell inquired, recalling what he read in the agency report.
“Joe Hunter died from a bad heart two months after the murders,” answered Latour. “The new sheriff is Stan Murphy, who was Hunter’s chief deputy. He knows what went on as well as anybody.”
“As nice as they come, if he likes you,” Crum said. “But get on his bad side and he’ll chew you to bits.”
“I’d like to talk with him, but I doubt if he’ll be in his office on the Sabbath,” said Bell, not mentioning the discouraging comments of Murphy’s deputy. “Where might I find him?”
“We had a bad flood through town two weeks ago,” replied Calloway. “His house was badly damaged. I suspect you’ll find him up to his neck in repairs.”
