Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “You a pretty good tracker, Detective Pope?” Sheriff Sharples asked.

  “Israel Pope taught me from age ten on. I’m still not as good as the old scout, but I’m fairly competent,” Pope said modestly.

  “What’s your plan once you find them?” Sharples asked.

  “Send one of the cowboys to you to form a posse and bring them in for trial. All I ask is for Sarah and me to question them about the train and stage robberies. Once those are solved and any stolen money is recovered our job is over. And, yours is just beginning. We will have any ballistic help you want once the slug which killed the old rancher is recovered by the doc.”

  “Would you winter there?” Goodman asked.

  “I honestly don’t know yet,” Pope said. “It depends on a lot of things like weather, the progress of the case, what any descendants want done with the ranch...”

  “Men, I am leaning towards letting the detectives run the ranch. It keeps it solvent for the descendants, if any. And, it is the best chance we have of bringing these miscreants to justice,” Judge Roper said.

  The rancher, sheriff and deputy all nodded agreement.

  “Horatio, do you know what kind of supplies, this Eb gentleman laid in for the winter?” Sarah asked.

  “No, Ma’am. Not for sure. One of the cowboys hinted they’d been eating low on the hog, so I took it to mean things are pretty lean.”

  “Is there a buckboard?” Pope asked.

  “There’s an old broken down one. I wouldn’t trust it much.”

  “We’ll buy a buckboard and a mule and get enough supplies for several months for four. How long does it take to get out there? Will we be able to come back here in January to re-supply?” Pope asked.

  “Probably not because of weather, not distance. The good news is there are a couple of good merchantiles offering food put up in Mason jars, so get several cases of those. Maybe get six, not several. Meat won’t be a problem unless they steal every head of cattle. I’d put about three in the stable. Eb was winding down and had more room than livestock, so it should work,” Goodman said.

  Thanks. We will do it. Guess we have some shopping to do. Sheriff, will you or Horatio work on getting us the slug from Eb?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ll do it. If y’all are leaving today, I might get Horatio and a couple deputies to bring it to you in a few days. I’m thinking travel should be at least two people for safety. Mebbe more.” Pope nodded. With the long range of his new Marlin .45-70, he was not too worried about him and Sarah taking a buckboard out there. They could keep a group of riders at bay well beyond the range of revolver caliber carbines like Winchester 73’s.

  “How long is the ride out to the ranch by buckboard?” Sarah asked.

  “Probably half a day. I’d order up my supplies for loading in the morning. My son is in town on business. The four of us can ride out tomorrow. Safety in numbers and all,” Goodman offered.

  “Sounds like a plan. When would you like to meet and where?”

  “How about here at ten in the morning. You’d have plenty of time to get the buckboard loaded and be ready to go.”

  “Perfect, assuming we can find and buy a buckboard and horse or mule to pull it today,” Pope said.

  “Finding a rig shouldn’t be a problem here in Cheyenne. Go over to JM Newman Livery at Third and Seventeenth. He has a couple wagons and both horses and mules. Personally, I’d choose a mule,” the sheriff said. Pope nodded his agreement.

  The men stood, signifying the end of the meeting.

  “Can we contribute to lunch, Judge?” Pope asked.

  “Nope, son. Our pleasure. Just be safe and get me some suspects to try in court.”

  They went the livery and bought a used, but serviceable buckboard and mule for pickup in the morning. He ordered four bags of feed for the ranch’s horses and their mule. The next trip was to a mercantile, where they purchased six cases of vegetables in Mason jars, eight sides of bacon, a fifty pound bag each of rice, flour, and beans, a sack of salt and one of sugar and miscellaneous small quantities of items, including first aid supplies. The next stop was the gunsmith for more boxes of revolver cartridges, more buckshot, and more boxes of cartridges for the Marlin. Pope had packed his Bowie knife and bought a dagger for Sarah. They were ready, except for paying for everything.

  Back at the Wells Fargo office, they requested funds be wired to allow issuance of drafts to cover their purchases.

  Since it was only spitting light snow, they took a walk around Cheyenne.

  5

  The mule was already harnessed to the buckboard when they arrived at the livery at eight the next morning. They went to the mercantile where their supplies were loaded, then on to the hotel for their luggage, long guns and ammunition. The .45-70 and shotgun were put just behind the seat in easy reach. A box of cartridges for each rested below the seat. Checking out of the hotel, they drove to the Cheyenne Club where Goodman and his son had just come out of the door and were having their horses brought around.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be a gray, windy day to be riding into the snow,” Goodman said.

  “I told Pa he should have started his ranching somewhere warm, like Arizona,” Byron Goodman, the son, grinned.

  They stopped for a quick trail lunch. Goodman had the Club pack a lunch for four and he put it in the buckboard. Pope knew it was the best meal they would get for the next several months.

  “Mr. Goodman, what do you know about the two cowboys Eb has?” Pope asked.

  “Let me jump in here, Pa,” the younger Goodman said.

  “They are both about twenty-five and decent sorts. The tall one is Willy Havers and the short one is Roscoe Thomas. Both are good riders and know cattle.”

  “Can they shoot?” Sarah asked.

  “I never knew many cowboys who could shoot anything but a rifle or shotgun. They both have Colts, but I never saw them shoot with them,” he answered.

  “Do they have rifles?” Pope asked.

  “I believe so.”

  He looked at Sarah. “I should have gotten a couple of used Winchesters,” he said.

  “Mr. Goodman, if I fire a .45-70 three times in succession from Eb’s place, will you be able to hear it at your ranch?”

  “I doubt it. Mebbe if the day was clear and the wind blowing just right. But, likely not. You thinking for a signal?” he asked.

  “I was. It was a long shot,” Pope admitted. “Gentlemen, I left my ’73 in San Francisco and brought the new model Marlin .45-70. I will fire it about ten times today to see where it prints at various ranges. So, if you hear ten heavy shots maybe a few minutes spaced, don’t worry.”

  They arrived at the ranch. The two cowboys had already shown the presence of mind to move the smaller herd down to the pasture by the house as Pope had planned to have them do.

  “Mr. Goodman, please introduce us as a couple. We will use the names ‘John and Sarah Smith,’” Sarah asked as she slipped on a plain, thin gold wedding band, as might befit a wife of a small-time rancher.

  “Do you have to be a couple often?” Byron asked.

  “Once so far. We had to stay at an executive’s house after a kidnapping and we were not sure until later his household staff was not involved. We are partners and best friends, so it’s natural for us,” Sarah said.

  The two cowboys came out of a small bunkhouse, setting a carbine and a shotgun against the door frame. They smiled as they saw the Goodman’s.

  “Hi, boys. Meet the Smiths. They are going to run the ranch until the judge determines what Eb’s wife’s family wants to do with it. Don’t y’all worry. You always have a job at my spread. The Smiths are good folks. They and you should focus first and foremost on protecting what cattle are left from another raid. I’m right glad to see you moved the rest of the cattle down here. My son and I are going to head home so’s you can get a chance to get to know one another. They’ll be here most, if not all, of the winter,” the older Goodman said.

  They rode off and Pope and
Sarah got to know the cowboys better and liked them. They were glad to see food in quantity on the buckboard. And, to see Pope carrying a new .45-70 and Sarah carrying a sawed-off double barrel shotgun and propping them on the opposite side of the door frame from their long guns.

  Pope saw them look at each other as he propped his heavy carbine.

  “I keep my friend’s close and my guns closer,” he said. Though spoken in a friendly, light-hearted manner, the look in his eyes told them more than the words. Pope was a gunman. These cowboys recognized it right off.

  The ranch house was not a cabin. It was a professionally constructed home. It obviously had not been swept and dusted since the wife died. Sarah set out to do those tasks while Pope and the cowboys moved supplies into a storeroom. He was glad to see Eb put a water pump inside the house near the cooking area. Water inside was a lifesaver if they got into a siege situation. There was both a wide cooking fireplace with iron swing arms to hold pots and a woodstove. The ironware and dishes appeared clean, though he knew his partner would use boiling water and wipe the ironware down and wash the dishes in a small sink adjacent to the pump.

  “What time do you boys want to have dinner?” Sarah asked. “Usually just before sundown,” Willy answered. “There’s a dinner bell in case we’re out in the stable where Roscoe is putting the mule or checking the cattle in the pasture out to the side,” he said as he pointed the bell out.

  Pope walked out to the side with the Marlin and motioned the cowboys to follow him.

  “I just bought this and have no idea where it shoots with the sights on factory setting,” he explained, handing the big carbine to Roscoe. Pope walked to around twenty-five, fifty, one hundred and two hundred yards and at each distance selected a rock or chunk of dirt to use as a target.

  He loaded four rounds and aimed at the first target, a rock.

  The bullet went several inches high. The fifty-yard shot was two inches too high. The hundred yard one was dead on and blew the rock into dust. At two hundred yards, he used Tennessee elevation and aimed two feet above the rock target. The rock was obliterated. Now Pope knew a man target was easy with the standard sight elevation at any distance up to two hundred yards. The big slug was deadly at any range. It just had to hit something. Beyond a couple hundred yards, the amount he would have to aim over became too much for the snap shooting required on a moving or riding target.

  Though the almost the same length as his Winchester carbine, the Marlin was several pounds heavier and much more powerful. He cleaned the black powder residue and fully loaded the rifle.

  Sarah had the ranch house in order. The only thing she had to do was wash the sheets and substitute the new blankets they had bought. The sheets might be a chore since the air was getting colder. She boiled some water and added a mixture of soda crystals, borax, and several bars of soap, chopped. She retained the resultant liquid soap for laundry use.

  She got sheets from the two cowboys and added them to their wash. Sarah included some of her and Pope’s clothes. She hung them on a line outside, where they flapped noisily in the stiff breeze. Whether they would dry in the frigid weather was in question.

  Pope familiarized himself with the workings of the ranch with the two cowboys.

  “Do y’all think there’s enough browse in the pasture for this size heard of beefs?” he asked.

  “For a while, but some hay bales would sure help. Eb was planning to plant alfalfa in the spring,” Willy answered.

  “Do you think the Goodman’s have some bales we could buy?” Pope asked.

  “Naw, they use all they got. We’d have to take the buckboard into Cheyenne for hay and mebbe some salt blocks.”

  “If you left first thing in the morning, could you get back by night?”

  Willy said, “We done it a couple times, so yes.”

  “Why don’t you plan on both going tomorrow. Let me know what it might cost and think whether there’s anything else you need,” Pope said.

  “We’ll do it and will take plenty of ammo. Now—mind you—if the rustlers see us riding off, they will think the place is unprotected and come for the herd,” Roscoe said.

  “I’m banking on it,” Pope smiled.

  “You really ain’t a rancher are you?”

  Pope thought for a minute. He decided to be straight with these men.

  “I grew up on a ranch, but now I’m a Wells Fargo detective. So is my wife. We think this gang of rustlers robbed some stages and trains in the past months. Rustling is not Wells Fargo business, but the other two sure are. If we bring the gang down, it will help everybody.”

  “Just you?” Willy asked.

  “Haha. You have not seen Sarah shoot. She just killed a kidnapper in San Francisco. And, it was not her first shooting or fighting scrape.”

  “I didn’t know there was any female detectives.”

  “She was one with Pinkertons. She’s the first for Wells Fargo, but with the track record she has, I expect she won’t be the last,” Pope said proudly.

  “Boss?” Willy asked.

  “Yes, Willy.”

  “Could we get some pay? We ain’t been paid for two months.”

  “Absolutely, but having been a cowboy, I’d like to ask you to leave most of it here in your bunkhouse, unless you need to buy clothes or something.”

  “We get twenty-five dollars a month. How ‘bout we only take ten dollars apiece with us for tobacco and some hard candy sticks and stuff.”

  “You do what you think is right,” Pope said.

  Pope inspected the cattle. They had new browse in the pasture near to the house, but he saw ribs, not something a rancher wanted to see going into winter. The boys were right. They needed a supplement of hay bales. Most ranches had some milk cows, chickens, maybe a pig or two. This one did not, which crimped the food situation. It was something he would change if the ranch was his.

  This would have been a good case to have both his grandfather and his dog, Scout, on. Being back in Wyoming would have brought back memories for Israel Pope, since the last Rocky Mountain Rendezvous of the mountain men was about three hundred miles northwest. And Israel had been there, one of the youngest mountain men.

  The site was at the point where the Green River joined with Horse Creek. The Gros Ventre Range is on the north and the Wind River Mountains to the east. Six rendezvous were held there between 1833 and 1840. A young Israel Pope attended the final one.

  Sarah, who knew she was an equal detective with Pope, took the wife and homemaker role seriously. She prepared lunch and rang the bell. They ate on the covered porch. It was cold, but out of the direct wind. She made a stew out of vegetables and meat brought from Cheyenne. Soon, they would have to slaughter a cow for beef. The meal was good and all ate heavily. With the impending threat of rustlers, the four were always unsure of the timing of the next meal.

  “Boys, I think we ought to break the night into three-hour shifts and mount a guard until we take this gang down,” Pope said. The bunkhouse has a good view of the pasture. The covered porch there might make a good place to squat in a coat and blanket out of the wind. A rifle or shotgun would be handy to have sitting beside you. Since you are going to Cheyenne in the morning, I will be glad to take the last watch so’s not to interrupt your last hours of sleep.”

  They agreed with the plan. Sarah changed it by suggesting it be split into four watches of three hours each, with her taking the final one. The cowboy started to disagree, but Pope knew better and shut them up with a look and wink.

  After lunch, Pope saddled one of the horses in the ranch’s remuda and rode around the ranch. It was small by local standards. The land was a rolling hundred acres of prairie. A creek ran through it. There was a stand of cottonwoods a half mile from the house. Some red oaks grew further on.

  Pope noticed the woodpile was not going to last even halfway through the winter, so felling a couple of red oaks and dragging them to saw and split would be necessary.

  He knew the ranch had been homesteaded
early enough for Indian raids to be a valid worry. The stands of trees there when the place was being settled were cut down. The reason was to provide less hiding spaces near the house. There were a few lindens in the yard. They did not provide much cover for raiders, but still gave shade in the summer. After circling what he thought would be the circumference of the property, he returned and checked in the stable. He found what he sought. It was a thirty-foot logging chain and a well-oiled bucksaw and two axes. The axes, too, were rust-free and sharp.

  “A man should have pride in his tools, be they knife, gun or other,” Israel Pope always said. Pope knew Israel would approve of the late Eb Carson.

  He and Willy rode out to the stand of oaks with the chain and an axe. He took the buckboard with the mule and Willy rode his quarter horse.

  Wearing leather gloves to protect his shooting hands, Pope felled the tree in short order. Willy cut the limbs off. They chained the tree to the back of the buckboard. The mule, Joshua, had no problem dragging it back to the area near the woodpile.

  They spent the rest of the day buck sawing the tree. Roscoe split the green oak as logs became available. It would need seasoning, so he placed it at the far end of the woodpile.

  All three earned their beef stew, this time with fresh cornbread and honey. They drank a whole iron pot of coffee and Roscoe took the first watch at nine o’clock.

  Pope’s instinct kicked in. The only one he mentioned it to was Sarah.

  “Why are you awake? I can hear you thinking,” she said next to him in bed.

  “I feel we are being watched.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what I’ve been thinking about,” he said. “If Willy on watch is sharp, he might hear me slip out. If he’s goosey, he might shoot me. My normal procedure would be to wake you and get you to gun up while I take a look around.”