Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “Do you have a spirit animal then?” she asked.

  “I do. A bald eagle. He appears when I am confused or in danger. Somehow, I get through it.”

  “Does this eagle tell you anything?”

  “Not in words. More in feelings. Like he guides me.”

  “Does he ever bring bad news?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “I have. When I was riding a few days ago,” Pope said.

  “So, you think the eagle boded well?”

  “I do. He has not let me down yet,” Pope said seriously.

  “Do I have a spirit animal?” she asked.

  “Yes, if you will allow yourself to acknowledge it.”

  “If I agree to have one, how will I know who or what he or she is?” Sarah asked.

  “You will know. It will appear in a time and way you will recognize what it for what it is.”

  “You know something? You are as mysterious as your grandfather.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Sarah, I will never be half the man he is, not if I live to be a hundred years old.”

  “He seems to think you already are.”

  “He just sets me on the top rail of the fence,” Pope said.

  “Me, too, cowboy.”

  She rolled over and nestled against his shoulder. Then, she decided snuggling was nowhere near enough. He absolutely agreed.

  The next morning, they went to the office and met with McCarthy. They talked about the new office. Though it was in an existing building, the weather was still delaying arrival of the materials needed to make new rooms, for the vault a steel door into the vault room and new décor.

  Pope had completed most of the security feature planning from Hume’s checklist. Sarah had helped McCarthy with the layout and furnishings. It was now a matter of sit and wait for the weather to improve and materials to arrive. Trains were running on schedule, but the problem was getting items to the train from warehouses in Chicago, New York and other places as snowed in as Wyoming.

  Pope and Sarah were assigned the Wells Fargo detective job they and all other detectives with the firm hated the most. They investigated fraudulent claims against Wells Fargo and lawsuits against it. These were not dangerous but were contentious and boring to investigate. The firm was conspicuously honest. The two knew any claim of wrongdoing against it was wrongfully made. At the very least, it would be found to have been caused by mitigating circumstances. But they had to investigate nonetheless.

  While all twenty-three thousand dollars of treasure stolen by the Rufus Black gang had been returned—at a loss—by Wells Fargo, one shipper sued for interest lost on the money.

  It claimed the loss of its money for the two weeks processing after a robbery caused “immense and unreconcilable damage to its business.”

  It was a coal mining company in Carbon County, approximately one hundred miles west. The company and its attorney were from a small town on the Platte River, but the suit was in the court in Cheyenne. Sarah and Pope traveled to Carbon. They separated before arriving in town and were not seen together publicly.

  Using her real background as the tax collector of Yavapai County, Arizona Territory, Sarah got a part-time job as an accountant at the mining company. Wells Fargo’s attorney subpoenaed financial records from the company. The records with which they responded showed a considerable loss. Sarah found the real records showing no loss. She slipped them into her bag before leaving one night and left the modified subpoenaed ones in their place.

  The company treasurer was censured by the judge and the case dropped when the treasurer was called upon in court to substantiate any loss. Where and how the correct records came from never came to light. The treasurer was caught, and he knew it. Sarah, undercover, resigned suddenly from the mining company. She did not appear in court.

  Pope had the treasurer sign an agreement to not bring another claim against Wells Fargo regarding the matter. He signed and Pope and Sarah did another case closure report.

  It was a colder than usual winter in Cheyenne and, indeed, all off the Territory of Wyoming. The area in the far western part of the territory, near the Wind River Range, was snowed in.

  Days were bleak and nights cold. Snow, while it never got more than a few feet deep in the Cheyenne area, fell frequently.

  There was no progress on the conversion of their new space due to continuing shipping delays.

  Stores were open, but a lot of cowboys were out of work and drifted towards Laramie and Cheyenne to kill time. They mainly killed time by drinking. The drinking led to fighting. So, minor crime soared in the two cities.

  The Cheyenne crime wave would have been a non-event between coverage by the local officers and the sheriff’s department being headquartered there.

  The problem was where to put lawbreakers, since the Hazeltine’s had blown down a major support wall in the jail. The temporary wall, due to lack of construction materials, was wooden and largely insecure. Two jailers with shotguns had to guard it day and night. Resources were stretched at patrol officers from both departments were called in to stand watch.

  The judge asked Pope and Sarah to ride up to the Carson ranch and check on cowboys Willy and Roscoe. Descendants had not yet decided on the fate of the ranch.

  They rode back to the Wells Fargo office and found it was in chaos.

  Wells Fargo agent in charge McCarthy was in over his head. As good he was, he had more business than the small office could handle. The newspaper just reported Cheyenne to be the richest city per capita in the world. Yet, he did not even have a cashier. Just a telegrapher. He needed a cashier and one or two front desk people to handle simpler customer demands and a messenger.

  McCarthy had been trying to hire an experienced cashier, but to no avail. Both Pope and Sarah had stepped in to assist, but it was not their job. And, they had to be gone on investigations too much to be serious help for him. The telegraph operator was at the key from open until after closing. He could not be cross-trained and help.

  McCarthy was busy with the new office. However, he had customers all day. Most were business customers from hotels and retailers transferring money.

  He knew such customers needed immediate service. Their livelihood depended on it.

  There was a break in customers, then a man walked in. Byron McCarthy got a glimpse of him just before he pulled a kerchief over his face. The action was followed by him drawing a large revolver from his left topcoat pocket.

  “It’s a robbery! Let’s go to where you keep the money!” he said.

  McCarthy arose and led the man into the vault, which was in a corner of the open room. Only a temporary curtain blocked public view from an adjacent table where office funds and customer money, or treasure, was counted.

  “I will open the vault. There’s not much in it. The weather has delayed transfers in and shipments out by businesses. It’s the wrong day of the month for payrolls,” McCarthy told the man. His voice was shaking nervously.

  “Just open the damn vault. Be fast about it!” the man ordered.

  McCarthy opened it and the robber saw an office cash box and a smaller safe within. The small one contained customer money. It had not been opened for four days, except for the daily count.

  “What’s in there?” the man asked pointing his gun at the small safe.

  “Our customer’s money.”

  “Open it now!”

  McCarthy did and the man saw a variety of banded bills and stacks of gold coins.

  He pulled out a flour sack and ordered McCarthy to fill it. The agent did.

  “Now, dump the cash box in.”

  Again, McCarthy complied.

  As they turned, a woman walked in the door. McCarthy hoped it was Sarah.

  Instead, it was an employee from the bank coming to send a wire.

  The robber panicked and fired his gun. He hit the woman in the upper chest, just below the throat. She died instantly and toppled onto the t
ile floor.

  McCarthy grabbed the man and they wrestled for the gun. It went off and McCarthy fell ten feet from the woman.

  The man rushed out of the door and ran down the street, still with his face covered and the money sack in one hand and the revolver in the other.

  A town policeman saw him and drew his Iver Johnson .32.

  Before he could bring it into play, the robber shot him in the chest and he fell. Men yelled at him. A woman nearby began to scream.

  The robber disappeared down an alley.

  The two Wells Fargo detectives immediately saw two people on the floor and civilians from the street checking them as they pulled their horses up in front of the office. They quickly tied the horses to the hitching posts out front and pushed through the crowd.

  There was a female shooting victim just inside the door.

  A woman was squatting on the floor beside McCarthy. She was doing nothing, frozen with panic. Telegrapher Lon Olson was kneeling, patting McCarthy’s hand.

  “Sarah, I’ve got him. Please check the woman near the door,” Pope said.

  He checked McCarthy for wounds and found one in his left chest, not far above the heart. It was similar to the one Pope had, but closer to the heart. Pope’s was just now healing. Pope removed a clean folded handkerchief and pressed it on the wound and held it firmly.

  “Lon, what did you see?” Pope asked.

  “I walked in from the privy and saw Mr. McCarthy fighting with a man in a mask. Then, the gun went off. Mr. McCarthy fell and the man ran out the door and turned left on 17th.”

  “Describe him to me, please.”

  “Medium height. Maybe five-six or seven. He had on a heavy coat, but his face under the mask and his hands looked skinny. I couldn’t see no hair, what with the bandana and his Stetson hat. His clothes were kind of worn, but not ragged.”

  “What was his voice like?” Pope asked.

  “He didn’t talk in front of me.”

  “How about his gun?”

  “Long barrel. Blue or black. I don’t know enough about guns to name the make or model. It was big though. Oh! He looked kinda bow legged. Maybe a cowboy,” Olson said.

  “Pope, it’s the woman from the bank. Nobody can help her now,” Sarah yelled.

  Akin stuck his head in the door. He looked at the woman. Sarah looked up and shook her head.

  “McCarthy?” he asked Pope.

  “Bad wound. He needs to be transported to the hospital really fast. I’ve somewhat stopped the external bleeding, but I don’t know what’s going on inside.”

  “I’ve got a town policeman shot a block down 17th. I will go there, but you should try to find a carriage to take Byron to the hospital.” He then turned and sprinted down the street to the fallen officer.

  “I cannot let up on the pressure on Byron’s wound. Will you see if anyone saw the shooter?” Pope asked his partner. She left the body and rushed to the crowd outside.

  “Lon, you’ve done well! I need you to do one more thing. Find me a buckboard with a bed or a wagon or carriage. We have to get McCarthy to the Memorial Hospital. It’s not far, but we can’t carry him.”

  Sarah began canvasing the small crowd near the office door. Most arrived to see what was going on and stayed. One, however, had seen a young man in a dark brown topcoat wrestle with McCarthy after shooting the bank woman. He said the two men scuffled a bit, then the robber’s gun went off, wounding McCarthy.

  “I knew he was shorter than me because he damn near knocked me over going out the door. I saw over his head. I sure did!”

  Sarah pressed him for more information.

  “How tall are you?” she asked.

  “I’m six foot one,” he said, “so he was probably five foot seven or so.”

  “You’re really helpful! What was he wearing?”

  “He had on a dark brown sheepskin ranch coat and a matching wide brim hat.”

  “What kind of gun was he carrying?”

  “A S&W Schofield. He waved it in my face when he shoved me aside. I thought I was going to die!”

  “Did he still have a mask on?” she asked.

  “Yes! A red bandana tied around his mouth and nose.”

  “Did he say anything?” Sarah asked.

  “Nothing. I heard him yell at a man in his way when he was running down the street.”

  “What kind of a voice did he have? Did he have an accent?” Sarah asked.

  “Regular voice. No accent. Sounds like from around here,” the man said.

  Five minutes later, Lon Olson came back, having commandeered a farmer and his buckboard for the quick trip to the hospital. Pope carefully picked McCarthy up in his arms and carried him outside.

  “Lon, go get his coat so we can cover him up and keep him warm,” Pope said.

  The telegrapher brought the coat and covered his boss.

  “Two more things, Lon. One make a “closed sign” and post it. Two, telegraph James Hume at Wells Fargo headquarters and tell him what has happened. Tell him the two detectives and you have the situation under control for now, alright?”

  “Yessir, Detective Pope. I sure will,” and he ran back inside where it was warm, but still had one bloody body on the floor. He keyed up his machine.

  McCarthy came to briefly during the short trip to the hospital.

  “Pope. Am I going to die?”

  “One day for sure. But, not today as near as I can tell. I had a real similar gunshot some months ago. Same place. Hurt like hell. I just took off the sling some weeks ago. But I think you will be fine, Byron.”

  Pope thanked the farmer for the ride as they pulled up in front of the hospital. He offered to pay the man.

  “Naw, I can’t take no money for helping a man. It wouldn’t be Christian. Lemme go inside and get some docs out here with a stretcher or something.”

  He was as good as his word and moments later, a doctor, nurse and several orderlies ran out with a gurney. They loaded the unconscious McCarthy on it and Pope followed them inside.

  One of the doctors asked about the circumstances.

  “You will find a large caliber revolver wound to the upper left chest between the shoulder and heart. I put a pad on it and kept pressure within minutes after it happened. The shooter killed one woman and shot a policeman in his escape. You’ll know if the policeman lived soon enough, as he will be brought here.”

  “Anything else?” the doctor asked, in a hurry to prepare for surgery.

  “Yes. It is important for me to get the bullet when you take it out.”

  “Souvenir for your friend?”

  “No. I am a Wells Fargo detective. We have developed a way to compare bullets from victims with particular guns. It doesn’t always work, but most of the time it’s good enough evidence to put away a shooter. If you are the coroner too, I’ll need the one from the woman dead on our office floor and the policeman. When we catch this shooter, he will hang for sure.”

  “I’ll make sure you get them both. Where can I find you?”

  “The Wells Fargo office. I will get you to sign a statement of where you obtained them.”

  “Fair enough. Gotta go!” and the doctor rushed off down the hall.

  Pope went back to the office.

  Akin was there talking to Sarah. Because of the relative lack of business due to the weather, she was able to verify the loss at twenty-four hundred dollars. Eighteen hundred had been money on account for customers, the rest office cash.

  “How’s McCarthy?” both asked simultaneously.

  “Don’t know. I survived a similar wound a few months ago. I hope he will, too.”

  “This poor lady and the constable weren’t so lucky. We have to catch this man and hang him,” Akin said.

  “Between your questioning the telegrapher and Sarah, we have a good description. Sounds like a skinny, mid-twenties, probable cowboy. Slightly bow legged, no particular accent or voice description. Brown ranch coat and wide brimmed hat. Nothing on his hair or whether he has a mus
tache or beard. He was packing a Schofield with the standard military length barrel,” Akin continued.

  “Pope, could you or Sarah show me how you draw crime scenes. They make perfect sense to jog memories, whether for solving or testifying.”

  “How about watch us do it now?” Sarah asked. The chief deputy agreed.

  “Is anybody coming to remove this poor lady?” Pope asked.

  “Soon. I sent for the undertaker,” Akin said.

  “I made preliminary arrangements with the surgeon to get the bullets from all three victims. We can do the ballistics analysis. It would be good if you follow up on it with the undertaker and the surgeon. We don’t want bullet to slip through the cracks since people aren’t trained to think about it yet,” Pope said as he removed his sketch pad and pencil. He used a square and a ruler to lay out the room. He drew the position of the victims then used a tape measure to note the dimensions of the room and distance between where the two victims fell. Then, in a box on the lower right, he put his name, title and date. He gave Akin his pad and pencil and he drew his own version.

  “Horatio, do you create a file for each crime you investigate?” Sarah asked.

  “Not really. Should I?”

  “It would probably keep you organized when things get hectic. It helps to have something weeks or months later to use for a referral before testifying in court. Whether it’s in a notebook, or pages in a folder for larger cases, it helps keep an investigator on track. Having a closed, controlled file room at the sheriff’s office would give you a place to keep case files and evidence, or property to be returned after a trial.”

  “Like?” he asked.

  “Oh - how about a gun is held for a trial, then the defendant was found innocent?” she said.

  “I see. We have a small, spare room. I’ll talk with the sheriff about it. Will you all help me set it up?”

  “Glad too,” Pope said, entering the conversation. While Akin and Sarah were talking, he had finished his review of the crime scene. There was no evidence except for a lot of blood. They knew whose blood it was in both cases. Pope suspected blood would one day be a personal identifier. Technology just was not present yet, he lamented.