Curtis stood short and rotund, with a rounded stomach neatly encased in a vest whose buttons were stretched to their limit. He had thinning sandy hair, wide megaphone ears, blue eyes, and a smile that showed a maze of teeth that lit up the room. “We haven’t seen you since we tracked down Big Foot Cussler after he robbed that bank in Golden.”

Irvine placed his hat on a coat stand, revealing a thick head of uncombed brown hair. “As I remember,” he said, standing as tall and as scrawny as a scarecrow, “you led us directly to the cave where he was hiding out.”

“A simple matter of deduction,” Bell said with a tight smile. “I asked a pair of young boys if they knew of a place where they liked to hide out from their folks for a few days. The cave was the only location within twenty miles, close enough to town so Cussler could sneak in for supplies.”

Curtis stood in front of the large map of the western United States and thoughtfully studied the little flags signifying the killer’s spree. There were sixteen of them. “Got any intuition on the Butcher Bandit?”

Bell looked at him. “Butcher Bandit? Is that what they’re calling him?”

“A reporter from the Bisbee Bugle came up with it. Other newspapers have picked it up and spread the term across the territory.”

“It won’t help our cause,” said Bell. “With that name on everyone’s lips, the law-abiding citizens will come down hard on the Van Dorn Detective Agency for not apprehending him.”

“That’s already started,” Curtis said, laying the Rocky Mountain News on the table in front of Bell. He stared down at it.

The lead column was on the robbery and murders in Rhyolite. Half the column was devoted to the question “Why haven’t law enforcement agencies made any progress in the case and captured the Butcher Bandit?”

“The heat is on,” Bell said simply.

“The heat is on us,” Irvine added.

“So what have we got?” asked Bell, pointing to a stack of files two feet high on the bank crimes piled on the desk in front of him. “I’ve studied the reports while coming west on the train. It appears that all we have is that we’re not dealing with the typical cowboy turned bank robber.”

“He works alone,” said Curtis, “and he’s devilish clever and evil. But what is most frustrating is that he never leaves a trail for a posse to follow.”

Irvine nodded his head in agreement. “It’s as though he disappears into the hell he came from before he leaves town.”

“No tracks are ever found leading into the surrounding countryside?” asked Bell.

Curtis shook his head. “The best trackers in the business have come up dry every time.”

“Any evidence he might have holed up in town until the excitement died down?”

“None that’s ever turned up,” replied Curtis. “After the robberies, he was never seen again.”

“A ghost,” murmured Irvine. “We’re dealing with a ghost.”