“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 other boys by claiming he’d seen the bandit.”

“I’d like to question him.”

“Go up Third Street to Menlo. Then turn right. He lives in the second house on the left, a ramshackle affair that looks like it may fall down any minute, like most of the houses in that area of town.”

“I’m obliged.”

“You won’t get any more out of Jackie than you did from the others, probably less.”

“I have to look on the bright side,” said Bell. “As I said, we have to check out every lead, no matter how trivial. The Van Dorn Detective Agency wants the killer as much as you.”

“You might stop by the general store and pick up some gumdrops,” Sheriff Huey said. “Jackie has a sweet tooth for gumdrops.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

BELL FOUND the Ruggles house just as Huey described. The entire wooden structure was leaning to one side. Another two inches, Bell thought, and it would crash into the street. He started up the rickety stairs just as a young boy dashed out of the front door and ran toward the street.

“Are you Jackie Ruggles?” Bell asked, grabbing the boy by the arm before he dashed off.

The boy wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Who wants to know?” he demanded.

“My name is Bell. I’m with the Van Dorn Detective Agency. I’d like to ask you about what you saw the day of the bank robbery.”

“Van Dorn,” Jackie said in awe. “Gosh, you guys are famous. A detective from Van Dorn wants to talk to me?”

“That’s right,” said Bell, swooping in for the kill. “Would you like some gumdrops?” He held out a small sack that he had just purchased at the general store.

“Gee, thanks, mister.” Jackie Ruggles wasted no time in snatching the sack and savoring a green gumdrop. He was dressed in a cotton shirt, pants that were cut off above the knee, and worn-leather shoes that Bell guessed were handed down by an older brother. The clothes were quite clean, as befitting a mother who was a laundress. He was thin as a broomstick, with boyish facial features that were covered with freckles, and topped by a thicket of uncombed curly light brown hair.

“I was told by Sheriff Huey that you saw the bank robber.”

The boy answered while chewing on the gumdrop. “Sure did. The only trouble is, nobody believes me.”

“I do,” Bell assured him. “Tell me what you saw.”

Jackie was about to reach in the sack for another gumdrop, but Bell stopped him. “You can have them after you’ve told me what you know.”

The boy looked peeved but shrugged. “I was playing baseball in the street with my friends when this old guy—”

“How old?”

Jackie studied Bell. “About your age.”

Bell never considered thirty as old, but to a young boy of ten he must have appeared ancient. “Go on.”

“He was dressed like most of the miners who live here, but he wore a big hat like the Mexicans.”

“A sombrero.”

“I think that’s what it’s called.”

“And he was toting a heavy sack over his shoulder. It looked like it was plumb full of something.”

“What else did you notice?”

“One of his hands was missing the little finger.”

Bell stiffened. This was the first clue to identifying the killer. “Are you sure he was missing a little finger?”

“As sure as I’m standing here,” answered Jackie.

“Which hand?” Bell asked, containing his mounting excitement.

“The left.”

“You’ve no doubt it was the left hand?”

Jackie merely nodded while staring longingly at the gumdrop sack. “He looked at me like he was really mad when he saw I was looking back.”

“Then what happened?”

“I had to catch a fly ball. When I turned around, he was gone.”

Bell patted Jackie on the head, almost losing his hand in a sea of unruly red hair. He smiled. “Go ahead and eat your gumdrops, but, if I were you, I’d chew slowly so they last longer.”

AFTER HE checked out of the Rhyolite Hotel and before he boarded the train, Bell paid the telegraph operator at the depot to send a wire to Van Dorn describing the Butcher Bandit as missing the little finger on his left hand. He knew that Van Dorn would quickly send out the news to his army of agents to watch out for and report any man with that disfigurement.

Instead of traveling back to Denver, he decided on the spur of the moment to go to Bisbee. Maybe—just maybe—he might get lucky again and find another clue to the bandit’s identity. He leaned back in his seat, as the torrid heat of the desert grilled the interior of the Pullman car. Bell hardly noticed it.