Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  The undertaker arrived and removed the woman. Sarah obtained her name from Olson who had sent and received many wires for her on behalf of the bank. The bank manager had come while Pope was taking McCarthy to the hospital and stood struck with the needless violence perpetrated on his employee and a wife and mother of three.

  “Has anyone notified her husband?” Pope asked the banker.

  “Yes. The sheriff and I went by shortly after he told me she was shot and had not survived. Her husband is pretty broken up. They have three young children and no nearby family. He’s already looking for a woman to come in and care for the young ones. He does not have the liberty to grieve until they are taken care of,” the banker said.

  “You know, Horatio, we in law enforcement have to see the other side of crimes. The suffering on part of victims and their families. Though a bit different from pure crimes, I know the impact. I saw my mother, father and baby sister killed in front of my eyes. It was seventeen years ago and still as clear to me as a picture,” Pope said. Sarah was shocked. Pope was not one to open up. He must think highly of Akin to pursue this line of thought.

  “You must have been what, ten years old, John?” Akin asked.

  “I was. When the raiding party came, Pa put my sister and me in the root cellar. We could hear the shooting and screaming. My little sister panicked and came out of the root cellar. She ran towards the action. The braves saw her, but thought she came from the house they had just torched. They shot her down and scalped her, Horatio. It was the worst thing I ever saw.”

  “What happened then?” Akin asked.

  “I did what Pa had told me and laid low. They burned the house down after taking what they wanted and left. I went to the neighboring farm. It was about three miles and told them. They kept me until my grandfather arrived from California.”

  “What then?”

  “We watched the tribe and saw another raiding party go out. I recognized some of the braves. We tracked them and caught them in the open. The two of us opened up with rifles and pistols. We killed every damn one of them and scalped them. The ones we killed were the only young men in this band. Grandpa and I rode into the camp we had watched. He dropped their scalps at the feet of the old chief. I saw scalps hanging by his tent. My baby sister’s was there. Grandpa saw me looking and knew what I was thinking. He looked at me and I read his approval.”

  “Approval, John?” Akin asked.

  “I raised the 1866 Winchester Yellow Boy carbine Grandpa had given me and shot the chief between the eyes. I have not committed a cold-blooded murder before, nor will I ever again. But it was like my sister was watching and willing me to do it.”

  Sarah saw something she had never seen before. A tear forming in the corner of the big detective’s eye.

  “What you did as a boy wasn’t cold blooded murder. It was payback to the man who sent the braves out. I’d like to think I would have done the same thing. Though I’m not sure I could have pulled it off at ten years old,” Akin said softly and introspectively. It was as if he was speaking to himself and not them.

  They were interrupted by a telegram being brought across the room to them. Pope knew it must be important for Olson to rush it over.

  It was in code, so Pope went to his desk and sat down with the Wells Fargo Cipher book and quickly decoded it.

  It was from Hume. The first thing it said was “Get robber.” The second thing was a surprise. Hume said he had spoken with Wells Fargo Superintendent William Pridham. The legendary former Pony Express rider had authorized Sarah Watson to replace McCarthy as manager until he recovered. Hume told Pridham about her history, including being tax office manager for Yavapai County, Arizona Territory. Pope would have to track down and arrest the Wells Fargo robber and murderer without his partner. The case was named the highest priority case currently under investigation by the company. Even higher priority than Black Bart.

  Sarah was looking over Pope’s shoulder as he wrote the simple language version of the coded message.

  He looked up at her wide eyes.

  “Are you alright with the temporary assignment?” he asked.

  “I have to be. It did not seem to be an option on my part.”

  “More like an expediency,” he said.

  “Think you can solve a crime without your brilliant and beautiful partner?” she asked.

  “It will be difficult. Truly. But we have to do whatever is assigned. Do you think you need a manager from somewhere else like Marcus Howard in Denver to ride up for a day’s orientation?” Pope asked.

  “Yes. Definitely. Especially with him being a short train ride away. I’ll compose an in-the-clear non-encrypted telegram to Hume. I guess he’ll have to clear it with Superintendent Pridham,” she said.

  “Sounds like a good plan, Sarah. Horatio?” Pope called to the chief deputy who was still there, now speaking with one of his deputies.

  Akin walked over to Pope’s desk. Pope showed him the translated telegram.

  “Looks like you lost a pard for a while,” he observed.

  “Looks like it. Are you running with this one, or are you going to assign a deputy to manage your case?” Pope asked.

  “I have several cases going and know you will bring this fella in with or without the Laramie Sheriff’s Office. So, I may put a young deputy on it for experience. Maybe you and I both can look over his shoulder.”

  “Sure. Let me work out my investigative plan. Send him over and I’ll share it. If I need to ride out and cut sign, I may do it alone and bring your man fully aboard later.”

  “Haha. ‘Cut sign.’ You are mountain man-trained for sure,” Akin said chuckling.

  “I sure am, brother! And I think it’s going to pay off in this hunt.”

  Sarah opened the office for limited business. She organized during slack periods. After the office closed, she would do her daily cash counts and compare with the previous day’s office cash and OPM or “other person’s money.” The count was done with one counting and another watching. They reverified the take from the robbery during the process. Both signed the cash register.

  A deputy came in and motioned Akin aside. They spoke in low voices for a minute, then the deputy left. Pope looked questioningly at Akin.

  “John, I have news. Good news!” Akin said.

  “I have deputies and the remaining constable questioning everyone who might have been on the street around the time of the robbery. One found a witness who saw the robber, money bag and all, mount a gray gelding and head out of town at a full gallop.”

  “Which way?”

  “He was high-tailing due south towards Colorado.”

  Pope looked at his pocket watch.

  “He’s got a two and a half hour head start. You can’t put together a posse equipped for several days in the snow between now and dark. But night trails are my specialty. I’m on it,” Pope said.

  He donned his heavy coat and quickly walked over to the livery stable nearest the office. He inquired whether the big, Roman nosed dun was available for a few days. He liked the horse’s endurance and power. The horse was available, and Pope reserved him starting immediately. He got the manager to add a small bag of feed. There was enough snow now to make finding browse difficult. He stepped into a tobacconist and picked up a box of good cigars.

  When he returned, Akin was already gone. He could not kiss Sarah goodbye with Olson there, so he winked at her and blew a kiss with his back turned towards the telegrapher. He had stopped by both a mercantile and a restaurant on the way back from the livery. He kept his saddlebags, bedroll, and tarp in the office. He put them on the horse and attached the scabbard with the Marlin lever action.

  He mounted and galloped out of town, heading south. It would be dark in less than two hours. Pope knew he was in for a cold camp. A real cold camp.

  The big horse was named Caesar for his Roman nose. He seemed happy to be flexing his muscles in the cold air. Heavy and sixteen plus hands tall, Caesar had a comfortable smooth gait. Pop
e knew from experience the horse could put away miles effortlessly in any conditions.

  Ten miles into his southward journey, Pope met a waggoneer coming north and hailed him.

  “Howdy. I’m a lawman trailing a lean cowboy on a gray gelding. Might be wearing a brown ranch coat. He he’s probably riding pretty fast,” Pope said.

  “I seen him a couple hours ago,” the stocky driver said.

  “He was cutting the gray towards the west. It was around Ft. Collins. Other than the village of Laporta, there’s nothing west until you cross the Laramie River and go into Walden. Not much there either. There’s a trail all the way though.”

  “It’s pretty mountainous over there isn’t it?” Pope asked.

  “Yeah. Medicine Bow range first, then officially the Rocky Mountains start. Hope you got plenty of grub if you are heading all the way after him, lawman. ‘Course you could kill a deer for some meat. I never thought squirrels or rabbits was worth the trouble,” the man said.

  “I agree,” Pope said. He thanked the man and rode on.

  He saw the turn off the wagon driver described to him and headed west on a trail which ran northwest to the village of Laporta. He rested Caesar and got a hot meal.

  His suspect had stopped there for lunch and to buy provisions. He also got feed for his horse. There was no place to stay, so the suspect rode on.

  Pope had his horse fed at a stable to save his bag of feed. He added more provisions to those he had quickly picked up leaving Cheyenne.

  Pope rode on into the growing darkness. The trail began to straighten out. And, headed into the Medicine Bow range. Pope would rather camp in the mountains where there were trees, streams and woods than on the windy prairie.

  He found a spot protected from the blowing snow. He felt secure in not hobbling Caesar. Pope did his usual long radius swing around his campsite. There was nobody in the area.

  He gathered long branches from the ground and cut them with his hatchet. He reckoned he had enough fire-wood for the night and for breakfast tomorrow.

  Pope dug a pit and set his fire. He used a steel and scraped it along the top edge of the blade on his Bowie. The bright shower of sparks caught in the tinder. Soon he had a small, hot fire. Saving the limited supply of Lucifer matches seemed prudent. He built a lean-to with one of his two tarps to protect against the snow. It seemed to be falling faster.

  While the fire was burning down to coals, he got out his coffee pot and melted snow for the horse and for his coffee. He added coffee beans to his and the coffee brewed as he selected some meat, cheese and cornbread from the restaurant. With coffee, he ate to his fill. Beans and roasted meat for trail food was fine when one had hours to simmer the beans and use a Dutch oven for the meat or combination. But, for a lawman tracking someone, it was quick or nothing.

  It was getting colder and colder. Pope ate quickly and cleaned his utensils with snow to not attract coyotes or other varmints. He checked on Caesar and hand fed him some feed from the bag. He was starting to respect the horse more and more. He talked with him for a while before going back to the fire.

  Pope lowered the height of the tarp lean-to in an effort to better keep the increasing volume of blowing snow out. He crawled in and leaned against his saddle. Fully dressed, even with his coat, he wrapped in both his wool blanket and the smaller, waxed tarp.

  Despite his preparations, he was cold. He feared it was going to be a long miserable night. It was.

  Before dawn, Pope built up the fire and melted more snow for coffee. Caesar stood butt to the wind and seemed to take the miserable weather without complaint. Pope fed and watered him while the fire was working on providing some heat.

  Soon, he had coffee and ate a cold meal with it. He broke camp and headed in the same general direction as the tracks had led him to this point. The overnight accumulation of snow obliterated any remaining tracks.

  Pope’s only chance was to happen upon the outlaw’s morning trail and track him from it. Usually, he would have a potential town and a chance the fugitive would head towards it. In this case, he was headed into mountain wilderness. He was not sure even of a ranch out here.

  He and Caesar walked slowly in the dark. By light, if one could call the miserable gray day light, he still had not encountered horse tracks.

  His outlaw must have a greater lead on him than he thought. Still no camp from last night. Or perhaps he had missed it. He doubted he had. Pope’s sense of smell for horses, coffee and wood smoke seldom failed him on the trail. The one benefit of the icy air was to heighten smell. But, so far, he had nothing.

  By noon, the detective happened on something he did not expect to find. It was a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

  “Hello, the ranch!” he called, to avoid surprising someone and being shot.

  A man opened the door, a full-length Sharps buffalo gun in his hand. Pope had moved his badge to the lapel of his outer coat, and it glinted in what passed for light.

  “Come on in, lawman,” the older rancher called. “I got coffee on and the missus has come bacon and mush still warm from breakfast.”

  Pope slid off the big horse and petted it on the flank.

  “Good boy. Wait out here,” he said.

  “You been on a cold trail, it looks like,” the rancher offered.

  “I have. I’m John Pope, detective for Wells Fargo. I’m after a thin, young cowboy who shot a woman and a policeman in cold blood after robbing the Wells Fargo office in Cheyenne.”

  “Shot a woman?”

  “He did. For no reason at all. Left a husband and three small children behind.”

  “Not right detective, not right at all.” Pope nodded.

  “I’m going to take him in, mister. On the saddle or over it.”

  “He seemed like a nice young fella...” the man said, catching Pope off guard.

  “So, he was here?” Pope asked.

  “He spent the night in my barn. We fed him and his horse. A nice gray gelding. A likeable young man, maybe twenty years old. He did wear his gun low and tied like a gunfighter though.”

  “Nobody got a look at his face because of the mask. Will you describe it for me?”

  “Too young for much of a beard. Actually, he looked like he didn’t need to shave at all. Light eyes, light brown shaggy hair. No scars or anything showing. Wore a brown ranch coat and a red plaid wool shirt. Brown or tannish canvas pants. Just looked like a cowpuncher. Except for the gun.”

  “Did you note what kind of gun he was packing?” Pope asked.

  “A Smith & Wesson, it appeared.”

  “Well, the gun and description clinches it. Sounds exactly like my man.”

  By this time, they were into the house. The rancher introduced himself as William Brown. His wife offered Pope a tin mug of steaming coffee.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. This coffee is a lot better than the trail coffee I made before five o’clock this morning!” Pope said.

  “I’m heating up some oatmeal mush, for you to warm your stomach, Detective Pope,” she said.

  “It would be most appreciated.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Brown, did the man identify himself by name?” Pope asked.

  “Never offered, so we never asked.”

  “Did he hint as to where he was going?”

  “Said he had a friend up near the Continental Divide. Has a cabin or something. Kid said he was fearful the friend might have packed it in and left. If so, he did not have the supplies to winter there. I told him the old general store at Kremmling had some other buildings and was almost a town now. He could follow the Muddy River down from near here. Then, he could pick up the old Midland Trail and go east or west. He seemed to like it as an alternative. He left here going south. So, I figure he decided to head to Kremmling instead of his friend’s cabin.”

  Pope enjoyed the oatmeal and coffee. Mrs. Brown packed him a bag with cooked bacon to heat and some cornpones.

  “He’s got a four-hour head start on you. But he didn’t look like he was in a
hurry. I guess he reckoned nobody would follow him through a snowstorm,” Brown said.

  “I’ll catch him. I really lucked out at the livery stable. Old Caesar is like a buffalo. He’s big, strong and has good endurance. And he rides like a big-wheel carriage. Thank you all for the information and the hospitality. I better hit the trail south,” Pope said. Brown told him the way to reach the Muddy River and how to follow it down to Kremmling. He said he heard there might even be a rooming house just built there.

  Pope hoped so. There might be a chance the trail-weary murderer would try to get a night’s sleep on a real bed.

  “Oh! One more thing. Mrs. Brown, did you also give the fellow food to eat on the trail?”

  “Yes, I did. Some bacon like you and cornpones. He will probably stop and build a fire to finish cooking the bacon. I reminded him half raw bacon would mess up his stomach. I figured you’d already know it.”

  “I sure do. Thanks, Mrs. Brown. You may have just bought me an hour. Longer if it warms up enough for him to have a nap after lunch.”

  He bid the Brown’s adieu and rode south, warm for the first time in eighteen hours.

  Snow had neither fallen nor melted since his fugitive left the Brown’s ranch this morning, so Pope had a clear trail to follow. He even picked up and studied a couple of hoofprints in dirt. There was nothing distinctive, however.

  It appeared his man was walking his gray. Pope urged Caesar up to a canter. The big horse seemed pleased to stretch his legs.

  Pope found where the fugitive had stopped by the river for lunch and continued on, picking up a half hour or so by eating in the saddle.

  He saw Kremmling beside the river in the distance. Stopping, he unpinned his badge and re-pinned it inside his coat lapel out of sight. He shifted both Colt’s into his outside jacket pockets.

  He rode into town, slowly and looking from side-to-side. He was looking for the fugitive from general description and also the gray gelding tied to a hitching rail. He did not see either.

  The little village had the original settler’s general store, a new thrown-together rooming house and a blacksmith shop. There were a few small cabins.