"Come here, young Isaac, gaze down upon our neighboring saloons, brothels, and opium dens. Observe potential customers down on their luck earning the price of a drink or a woman by panhandling. Or, failing to kindle charity, sticking up citizens in that alley."

"Note there, a mustachioed fop luring the gullible with shell games on a folding table."

"And look at those out-of-work hard-rock miners dressed in rags, pretending to sleep on the pavement outside that saloon while actually laying in wait for drunks to roll."

"How long was the man dead?" Bell asked.

"Better part of a day, Doc thinks. You were right about the stabbing. A narrow blade straight through his neck. Just like Wish and the Glendale yard bull."

"So if the Wrecker killed him, he could not have left Ogden before last night. But no one saw him buy a ticket."

"Plenty of freights in and out," ventured Wally.

"He is covering mighty long distances in a short time to rely on stealing rides on freights," said Mack.

"Probably using both, depending on his situation," said Wally.

Bell asked, "Who was the murdered man?"

"Local owlhoot, according to the sheriff. Sort of a real-life Broncho Billy--our chief suspect ... Sorry, Isaac, couldn't resist." Fulton nodded at the wanted poster.

"Keep it up and I won't resist asking Mr. Van Dorn to post Weber and Fields to Alaska."

"... Suspected of knocking over a stagecoach up in the mountains last August. The cinder dicks caught him robbing a copper-mine payroll off the Utah and Northern ten years ago. Turned in his partners for a lighter sentence. Looks like he knew Jake Dunn from prison."

Bell shook his head in disgust. "The Wrecker is not only hiring hands to help but hiring criminals to hire help. He can hit anywhere on the continent."

There was a tentative knock at the door. The detectives looked up, gazes narrowing at the sight of a nervous-looking youth in a wrinkled sack suit. He had a cheap suitcase in one hand and his hat in the other. "Mr. Bell, sir?"

Isaac Bell recognized young James Dashwood from the San Francisco office, the apprentice detective who had done such a thorough job establishing the innocence of the union man killed in the Coast Line Limited wreck.

"Come on in, James. Meet Weber and Fields, the oldest detectives in America."

"Hello, Mr. Weber. Hello, Mr. Fields."

"I'm Weber," said Mack. "He's Fields."

"Sorry, sir."

Bell asked, "What are you doing here, James?"

"Mr. Bronson sent me with this, sir. He told me to ride expresses to beat the mail."

The apprentice handed Bell a brown paper envelope. Inside was a second envelope addressed to him in penciled block letters, care of the San Francisco office. Bronson had clipped a note to it: "Opened this rather than wait. Glad I did. Looks like he made you."