Pope figured if the railroad came through or ore was discovered, it might grow. If not, it might disappear. He tied Caesar at the general store and went in. In a place this size, news of most of the goings-on were available in the general store or livery stable.
“Howdy,” he said to an older man who was probably the owner.
“I’m a Wells Fargo detective. Have you seen a young guy, clean shaven, early twenties come through today on a gray gelding?”
“Why are you looking for him?” the man asked.
“I aim to arrest him for murder of a woman and a policeman related to robbing a Wells Fargo office in Cheyenne.”
“A woman? He killed a woman?” the man asked with shock and disgust.
“He did. For no reason at all. She left a husband and small young ones behind. He shot down a town constable in cold blood, too.”
“He ought to hang!” the man said.
“I suspect he will, assuming he gives up peaceably,” Pope replied.
“Young fellow like him stopped in here an hour or two ago. Had a gray horse. Bought jerky, some horehound candy sticks, and some .38-40 cartridges. About busted my till when I had to break his gold piece.”
“Probably from the robbery. Did he say where he was going?”
“He asked how long a ride it was to the train line. I told him Frisco or Breckenridge was probably the closest. He asked the distance. I told him almost a full day ride.”
“How long a head start does he have on me? Two hours?” Pope asked, not knowing how long his suspect had actually spent in the village after arriving.
“I expect less. Mebbe more like an hour. He had some coffee and crackers. Didn’t talk much.”
“Did he mention his name?” Pope asked.
“Nope. So, I didn’t ask.”
“The trail by the river...is it the one to take to get to Breckinridge?”
“It will get you to the main road. Hang a right when you get to the first really big road you see. It will take you right to Frisco. There’s a train stop there. It’ll take you east to Denver or west to the Pacific, eventually.”
“Thanks for your help. I’d better get Caesar on the trail.”
The man looked out at the horse and said “He ain’t pretty, but I bet he will ride when the other horses have called it a day!” Pope nodded at him and mounted up.
He reached the main road by four o’clock and Frisco half an hour later.
Pope went directly to the small train depot.
“Sorry, you just missed the westbound by an a few minutes.” Pope had thought he heard a train whistle in the distance as he was coming down the river trail.
“Did a young fellow with a gray gelding board it?”
“He did. Put his horse on a stock car.”
Pope identified himself and showed his badge.
“Where did his ticket go?”
“San Francisco, California,” the agent said.
“When is the next train?”
“Tomorrow at four fifteen.”
“Better give me a ticket for me and to transport my horse the full way,” Pope said.
He bought the ticket and inquired about a telegraph in town. He knew there was not a Wells Fargo office yet.
“It’s on the opposite side of this building.”
He walked over and sent Sarah a telegram saying where he was and asking her to do two things. First, was to have Hume send a couple detectives to arrest the fugitive when he arrived in San Francisco and advise him Pope was on the next train. The second thing was to try to buy Caesar from the livery stable. It would not only be less expensive than having him sent back to Cheyenne circuitously, but Pope had taken a real liking to the big horse.
Telegraph lines paralleled the intercontinental rail tracks and were becoming increasingly important in train operations. But it was not possible to send and receive from trains yet. Pope could communicate with Sarah at the Cheyenne office and with Hume from any station along his route.
Pope checked back at the train depot after checking into a small hotel. He found he had received telegrams from Sarah and Hume.
Sarah said he was the proud owner of Caesar for sixty dollars. She said he owed her the money when he saw her. She sent her “best feelings of congeniality.” It was her way of signaling the love they could not yet publicly admit.
Hume said congratulations. He agreed to have several detectives meet the train.
The chief detective also sent some new information. A man meeting the description was on a wanted poster out of New Mexico. His name was John Henry Randolph, AKA Kid Taos. He was wanted dead or alive with a five-hundred-dollar reward. His description was virtually identical to the shooter in Cheyenne, down to his horse. He was supposedly a cold-blooded killer with five deaths attributed. He was also a known gunfighter and fast draw.
“Well, Kid, let’s call it seven deaths. The last two, at least were not very noble. And let’s see how damn fast you are,” Pope thought to himself as he read.
During his trip, Pope checked on the big horse travelling with several other horses in a cattle car modified with horse stalls. He made sure the water was pure and Caesar was getting decent feed. He spoke to the horse each time the train stopped and could tell the horse was glad to see him. He reckoned it proved to Caesar he had not been abandoned.
His grandpa, Israel Pope, taught him well.
“Animals have feelings just like people do. Treat all living things fairly boy, unless they are trying to kill you,” he said. “If they are, kill fast and clean, whether man or beast. Try not to make anything suffer. If you wound something, track it down fast and end its misery.”
He stepped off the train at Salt Lake City. While he was looking for a telegraph office, he saw the familiar blue uniform of a Wells Fargo office manager.
The man walked towards him.
“Are you Detective Pope?” he asked.
“I am.”
“You look just like Mr. Hume described you. I have an urgent telegram from him. It was sent without encryption.”
He handed the piece of paper to Pope. It was short and sweet.
“Randolph got off train somewhere before San Fran. Stop. Come office to formulate next actions. Stop. Hume”
“Thanks. I have the gist of it. You can have it back for your files if you like,” Pope said, initialing it.
For a major station, the stop in Salt Lake City was short, because the conductor was calling “All Aboard!” before they could introduce themselves. Pop shook the man’s hand and turned and walked briskly to the train and resumed his seat. The next major stop was Elko.
The conductor told him it was approximately seven-hundred fifty miles to San Francisco. He said they would arrive in about twelve hours.
He went back to his seat and began to study his map of the Western United States. “Where could Randolph have gotten off? Why? There’s very little between here and San Francisco but desert or mountains,” Pope pondered. The map stared back at him and offered no obvious conclusions.
The next day, he arrived and claimed Caesar. He rode the big horse to the office and left him and his tack at a livery he often used.
Pope went up to Hume’s office and presented himself to the chief detective’s secretary.
“He’s in and alone. Just tap on the door.”
“Enter!” came the order from within.
“Well, John! How was Wyoming?”
“Beautiful, but cold, boss.”
“Did you get my telegram? Randolph was not on the train when it arrived here. I have several detectives checking with the railroad to try to determine where he exited. I looked at the map and could not come up with a logical place between Cheyenne and San Francisco,” Hume said.
“I arrived at the same conclusion after I received your message in Elko, Nevada,” Pope said.
“I’ve been thinking. What if we did our own wanted poster and sent ten copies to every office we have in the West. Maybe just ‘wanted’ instead of adding
‘dead or alive.’ I was thinking equaling the five hundred dollars. ‘For information leading to the arrest of’ language. Let’s multiply our search capability by whatever the number is off every badge toter west of the Mississippi,” Pope said.
“I must have taught you well,” Hume began. “I ordered the printing and distribution of such a poster yesterday. Why don’t you stay here a day and see what happens. If nothing, head back to Cheyenne. Sarah is going to need some help learning to run the office. Having you there for the rest of the winter is not a bad idea. We don’t want to have some idiot wannabe come in with a gun. I’ve seen too many copycat robberies.”
“Yessir. I think it’s a good idea. I somehow don’t think our man came all the way to the coast. Cheyenne has good rail connections, so if someone sees him or picks him up, I can jump a train and get there pretty fast. After checking mail here, I’ll go back to my room and ready the shotgun to travel back with me. And get some warmer socks.”
“You went to Cheyenne without a long gun?” Hume asked.
“I took a new Marlin lever action .45-70. It did well for me in a couple of long shots against revolver caliber carbines.”
“What’s your impression of Cheyenne?” Hume asked.
“It’s an enigma in many ways, boss. A small city on the prairie, it’s the richest per capita city in the world. The reasons are mining interests and rich Europeans who want to be cowboys and have brought big spreads. The Cheyenne Club has to be the equal of anything here, or New York or even London. They have a nice hospital, library, opera house.
And, they have fully stocked tobacconists,” he said handing a box of Hume’s favorite cigars to him.
“Are you trying for a promotion, son? This might work,” Hume said, pleased with the gift of his favorite expensive cigars.
“No sir. I have the job I want. Just saw these and thought of you.” Hume arose and shook hands in appreciation.
“Figure on lunch with Morse and me tomorrow,” Hume said. “You can get tickets back for the next day. Unless we hear something about Randolph.”
Harry Morse was the owner of the Harry Morse Detective Agency. Like Hume, he was a former California sheriff known for his investigative abilities and fast gun. He often worked as a paid contractor for the chief detective. The two were not only best friends, they were also two of the three most famous detectives anywhere. The third now relied more on reputation than continuing action. He was Allan Pinkerton, now in rapidly failing health in Chicago.
“I’ll wait for the location and time,” Pope said grinning at his boss and mentor.
He went to his desk and began to read the large number of wanted posters, letters and telegrams awaiting him.
The top piece of paper on his stack was Hume’s wanted poster for John Henry Randolph, AKA Kid Taos. A note across the top, in Hume’s familiar scrawl, stated it had been sent to every sheriff, police department and US Marshal in the West. Pope was pleased with the wording and coverage. He knew this was not Hume’s first roundup, so would have expected no less.
Pope wanted to see his grandfather this trip, but time only allowed for a letter. He was not sure if Israel Pope was at his cabin in Marin County or his ranch in Alameda County. He sent duplicate short letters and plowed back into Wells Fargo work.
At the end of the day, he left his saddlebags and rifle at the office and went by a restaurant for dinner.
He found his room cold and stoked the stove quickly to burn off the dampness. It felt strangely empty without Sarah Watson. She lit it up. He wished there was a quicker way to tell her than a letter which took a week to arrive. He would see her before the letter was in her hands. Pope knew a telegram was not secure enough, even encrypted, for a love note.
The next morning, he bought tickets for himself and Caesar for the trip back to Cheyenne.
The lunch with Hume and Morse was informative. They brought him up-to-date on the years search for stage robber Black Bart. The two admitted they were no closer to him than three years ago.
“Do you all think the wanted poster for Randolph will bear fruit?” Pope asked.
“Most have an effect. Nothing Harry and I have done to catch Black Bart has after years of trying so far, though. It certainly can’t hurt, especially with Randolph covering so much territory. Far more than our California and Oregon stage robber. Thacker and I have never been able to find so much as a hoof print in seven years. We have no idea how he even gets to a robbery site. It’s like he is scared of horses,” Hume said.
“When you get him, it will be one of the most significant arrests in history, though he has never fired a shot. The most he has done is leave poems and steal a lot of money,” Pope said.
“All true. We will get him. One day,” Harry Morse said.
Hume told him about having dinner with Pope’s recovered kidnap victim a week ago.
“I had dinner with the Lane’s,” Hume began. “Mattie asked about her ‘hero.’ She told me she looked after you in the hospital for a couple of nights. She thinks you and Sarah are pretty special, John.”
“She and her sister are both fine young ladies who took the night watch together. They’ve been raised right, sir,” Pope replied. He omitted one fact.
Mattie, now seventeen and blossomed into a beautiful young woman, sent him love letters on a weekly basis. Sarah laughed at them. Pope was sure the laughter covered irritation. Pope certainly did nothing to encourage her. Nor, to stop her. She was a bright, interesting young woman whose letters were always enjoyable, romance aside.
He moved the conversation to a safer subject.
“I guess you know my grandfather just married the Lane’s lovely cook and housekeeper recently?”
“I heard such a rumor. Good for them!” Hume said with Morse nodding.
Both detectives had seen Israel Pope in action during the kidnap investigation and privately noted to the grandson the mountain man more than lived up to his reputation. Morse was more familiar with Israel Pope since he had been sheriff of the county where Pope’s ranch was located.
“Was a double wedding considered?” Morse asked. He and Hume were among the only two people Pope was aware who knew he and Sarah were more than partners assigned to work together.
“It wasn’t, Harry. Maybe one day, when one of us gets tired of the constant travel and settles down to run an office or something. I don’t see such a situation happening anytime soon,” Pope said.
“Sarah has been sending Superintendent Pridham and me daily telegrams about McCarthy’s condition. I don’t know if you have heard, but McCarthy has developed lead poisoning. The doctor is worried he may not make it,” Hume said.
“I wasn’t aware and it worries me a lot, boss. Byron McCarthy is a friend in addition to a fellow Wells Fargo employee. I have been moving around so much since the robbery, I have not had a chance to communicate with Sarah,” Pope said.
“Well, John, pray for him. I fear he needs it badly at the point in his recovery.”
“Yessir. I will go see him as soon as I get back to Cheyenne.”
“Do you leave tomorrow morning?” Morse asked.
“I do. I have to get in early to have Caesar loaded on the train. He’s a livery horse I could not get back to Cheyenne, so I bought him. Then, I brought him here with me. I reckoned I’d need a horse to track Randolph. The more time I spent with him, the more I liked him.”
Both men had spent their early careers as county sheriffs on horseback.
“What kind of horse caused this immediate affection?” Hume asked seriously.
“A big dun, over sixteen hands high. He has a crooked Roman nose. The nose is how he got his name. He has the endurance of a buffalo. He likes nothing better than to trot along after a miscreant all day, no matter the weather. I swear he’s smiling all the way down the trail.”
“Do you talk to him?” Hume asked.
“Yessir. I’ve talked to all the horses I ever owned.”
“Me, too, John. I think all real horsemen do,�
�� Hume said, and Morse nodded.
Hume and Pope walked back to Wells Fargo. Morse walked back to his office at the corner of California and Kearny.
Pope thought a lot about his current circumstances staring at the ceiling later. He was happy with Sarah, with his job, and he liked Cheyenne. Though tracking anyone on the lonesome prairie was tough, the weather was better than many more mountainous places. Or places further north. He had met Sarah in Prescott, Arizona Territory. They both liked Prescott and spoke about settling there if the opportunity arose. Once she had some experience running a Wells Fargo office, maybe it would be time to discuss future plans.
Having come to such a conclusion, he rolled over and went to sleep. He slept badly, turning, waking. He had grown used to the long black hair of his lovely partner splayed across him at night. If not with Sarah, he could sleep better alone on the trail.
8
Sarah and the telegraph operator spent two days running the Cheyenne office by logic more than experience. The third day, Marcus Howard from the Denver office took the train to Cheyenne for a rapid one-day orientation.
The first thing he impressed upon Sarah is the immediate need for a cashier to help her and handle the money and much of the customer contact work. He also urged hiring a messenger.
She knew the positions were approved and McCarthy had begun searching for the right people. He had no luck. The only people out of work in Cheyenne in the middle of the winter was a bunch of cowpunchers. And one of them robbed the office.
Howard helped her write a request to Superintendent Pridham to inquire within the company for an assistant cashier or a full cashier who might like to relocate to Cheyenne. The inquiry was more successful than the local search. A young man was on the train from the Los Angeles office two days after Howard returned to Denver.
While he was there, Howard instructed her in the formalized opening and closing procedures, the cash control procedures and the security related to wiring money and the telegraph in general.
She got the office organized to the point McCarthy had before being shot, if not more organized.
Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2) Page 15
