Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  Sarah walked over to the city’s high school, now operating for almost fourteen years.

  She sat with the vice principal and outlined her need for a messenger. The job required diligence, energy and strength lifting a variety of items. The man had a boy in mind. He met all off the requirements. He was unable to graduate because his father passed away several weeks ago and he now had to serve as the primary provider for his mother and several siblings. The salary Sarah mentioned was more than he might reasonably expect working at a saloon, retail store, or working cattle or sheep.

  The vice principal offered to contact the young man through a letter home by a sister attending the high school. The man showed up the following day, was hired, and a couple of uniforms and messenger cap were ordered from San Francisco.

  The following day, the new cashier arrived. He was in his early twenties.

  The man, Chester Lyon, served as assistant cashier of the larger Los Angeles office for three years. The cashier was only several years older than Lyon, had a home and family and was unable to move on. Chester was happy to move to an expanding office and already knew the job.

  Sarah visited McCarthy daily at the hospital. She was saddened to see the effect the lead poisoning had on his body and constitution. She tried to keep him up to date with office matters, but he simply was not able to focus on them.

  By the time Pope arrived back in Cheyenne the office was fully staffed and running smoothly.

  They went over to the hospital together to visit Byron McCarthy. He recognized them, but little more. They sat with him speaking softly with him in a one-way conversation. Both felt he knew they were there. After their visit, the two detectives returned to the office. Both were saddened from the visit and very worried about their friend.

  McCarthy succumbed to his gunshot wound later in the evening.

  When they got the word, Pope stamped around the closed office and cursed, something Sarah knew he seldom did.

  “I will track down this Kid Taos, if it’s the last thing I ever do. And I will bring him to the hangman or administer justice to him on the spot. His call! But he’s going to die. By rope or bullet or my bare hands!”

  Sarah had called Pope a stone-cold killer in the past. Sometimes in jest, sometimes seriously. Now, she knew she was right. The grown up who hunted down braves twice his age when he was ten years old, killed and scalped them. He would find this killer. And justice would be done. She shivered, but not in revulsion. Her love and respect would never waiver. But Pope was a very scary human being, deep beneath his surface.

  “Thank God he is my scary human being,” she thought.

  Pope spoke, now calmly and logically.

  “You know, there’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he said.

  “What darling?”

  “In casual conversation, we have assumed Randolph would not go anywhere near Taos. He chose it as his nickname. He must be known and wanted there.

  What if we are totally wrong? What if he’s from there, but has no warrants there and is not known by Kid Taos in Taos, New Mexico? What if he is just circling around, leading us on a long wild goose chase and is heading home to hide in plain sight.

  Just like in Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter.’”

  Once again, the literary knowledge of a mountain man instructing a little boy astounded Sarah.

  “I think you might be on to something! What do we do about it?”

  “I think we send a telegram to the US Marshal for New Mexico Territory and the Sheriff of Taos County. Ask about the name of John Henry Randolph. Give a description in case it is an alias.”

  “Do we need clearance from Hume to send it?” Sarah asked.

  “No, it’s our case. We run it within reason like we want.”

  He sat at his desk and started writing on a telegram pad.

  “US Marshal NM Terr Santa Fe and Sheriff Taos County Taos Stop. Request info on John Henry Randolph AKA Kid Taos Stop Early twenties Five seven Clean shaven Stop. Wanted for killing Wells Fargo agent Woman and Policeman Stop. Send any info to Wells Fargo Cheyenne Wyoming Terr Stop. Det John Pope End.”

  Sarah read it and had nothing to add. She walked it over to Olson who keyed it into his telegraph.

  “Now, we hurry up and wait,” Pope commented.

  Sarah noticed a line forming at the front. Chester had fit into the operation smoothly and was assisting a banker from a new bank in town. He had several retailers waiting. She quickly moved in and began helping the first in line.

  With some trepidation, a new feeling for him, Pope followed her suit and waited on the third customer.

  It was the beginning of an afternoon of one customer after another. At the end of the day, Chester felt he accomplished a lot. Sarah was ambivalent. Pope knew once and for all customer service was not his cup of tea.

  Sarah initiated a new procedure of having a brief debriefing meeting with all employees following cash settlement.

  “Honey, your sense of organization is astounding to me. Your intelligence is obvious, but you have turned this office around. I am so proud of you,” Pope told her once the doors had been locked for an hour and they were alone.

  “I enjoy making something run smoothly. Allan wanted me to take over the female detective division. He saw it in me. I would have done it, but for my stupid choice to follow the wrong man to Arizona Territory.”

  “Yes, but it brought you to the right man,” Pope reminded her.

  “Our cashier and new messenger are going to have to hold the fort alone tomorrow while we attend Byron’s funeral, John.”

  “I have not attended many funerals,” he said. “I have caused a few though,” he added.

  “We have to go. He was our friend and our Wells Fargo associate. We have planned the funeral. We have to be there to pay for it, also. The company is not paying,” Sarah said.

  “I know, honey. When I was out late this morning, I was speaking with the preacher, telling him about Byron. His character, his orphan life as a child here in Cheyenne, and the like. He seems to be ready to conduct the service,” he said.

  “I attended the funerals of the bank lady and the constable. Both were very sad,” Sarah said. “The gray, snowy days made both even more depressing. They are why I liked Prescott better than Chicago”

  Pope nodded appreciatively.

  “Do you think the Superintendent will ask you to stay as agent in charge of the new, larger Cheyenne office, Sarah?” Pope asked.

  “What would you think about it?” she countered.

  “Two big if’s. If you wanted to and if they would allow me to work out of this office. The good news is we would no longer how to hide our relationship. We could even get married.”

  “The only definite is the last part. We could. It would be very nice, wouldn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes. It would be very nice. We’d stay partners, too. Just not investigating together officially. I’d be able to pick your brain on every case,” he said.

  “Oh, my. How on earth did you ever get along before me?” she asked.

  “Blind luck, I suspect. Awfully far from my grandfather, though. He’s not getting any younger. Though, getting married may add to his years.”

  “Or shorten them if he tries to perform like a twenty-year old,” she said.

  “I had not thought about it in those terms. However, if you keep those type of thoughts in your mind, I will buy you dinner and take you back to the hotel to continue them in reality.”

  “You, have a deal, partner!”

  They checked the office one last time and relocked the door on the way out.

  It was snowing lightly as they walked back towards the hotel and its restaurant.

  “We could forget dinner,” Pope suggested.

  “Hold your horses, cowboy. I’m hungry,” Sarah said.

  The funeral was attended by many office patrons. McCarthy was well-liked and respected. Pope did not think anything could further harden his resolve to bring Randolph t
o justice. The funeral did.

  A freight wagon for which Wells Fargo was waiting made it to Cheyenne two days later. It had some of the construction materials necessary for modifying the new space to company requirements. Carpenters started working immediately.

  Tile, paint, paneling and some new furniture followed. Before Christmas, the space was beginning to look useable. Only the steel vault door for the brick walled safe room and the safe itself delayed opening.

  Pope received a letter from his grandfather saying he and his new wife, Millie, were coming to Cheyenne to spend Christmas with Sarah and him. Both were thrilled at the news and reserved a suite for them at the Western Hotel.

  One night, Sarah and Pope returned from the hotel after a day of work to find it decorated for Christmas. The Opera House had a holiday concert just after Israel and Millie’s arrival and Pope bought four tickets.

  Three days before Christmas, Pope received a letter in response to his telegram to the US Marshal for New Mexico. The marshal said John Henry Randolph was born in Taos and his parents still lived near there. He said his deputy in Taos went by the farm several times and never saw Randolph. No one in the area was familiar with the Kid Taos name.

  “Not much, but a clue we need to follow up on,” Pope said.

  With Hume’s concurrence, Pope boarded a southbound train which took him through Denver. He transferred to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe for the final part of the four-hundred-mile trip.

  Pope got directions to the Randolph ranch from the sheriff’s office. His livery stable horse was not up to the standards Caesar set, but the ride was short.

  He wore a suit and heavy coat, with a Colt in each outer pocket. He carried his Marlin carbine in its saddle scabbard.

  Arriving at the ranch mid-day, he sat in a copse of trees for a while waiting for some sign of life at the ranch. He drank some water and munched on a piece of jerky.

  Finally, an old man came out and picked up some firewood and took it into the house. Pope thought a twenty-year old son might have gotten the wood, but could not be certain of the logic. Anyone who would shoot down a lady for no reason would not necessarily help his father with firewood.

  After a half hour, he decided to approach the house and try to obtain information on Randolph.

  “Hello, the house,” Pope yelled in a stentorian, but not threatening voice. Presently, the old man opened the door. His hands were empty, but Pope knew he might well have a ten-gauge stashed just out of sight. Drawing his Colt from a jacket pocket was nowhere near as fast as a holster. He compromised by keeping both hands in his jacket pockets as if he was cold. Which he was anyway.

  “Help you?” the old man said without positive or negative emphasis.

  “Are you Mr. Randolph?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m John Pope, with the Wells Fargo Company,” Pope said.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked. Up close, Pope could see he was only in his fifties. He was tanned, wrinkled and weatherworn. A typical rancher or farmer, used to being outside working all the time.

  “I would like to speak with your son, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Why on earth would Wells Fargo want to talk with my no-account son?”

  “I am a detective with Wells Fargo, Mr. Randolph,” Pope said, removing his hands slowly from his jacket pockets and flipping his left lapel to flash his badge.

  “We had an armed robbery of an office up in Cheyenne. The robber matched your son’s description. If he’s innocent, I would like to eliminate him from my inquiries.”

  “You tell me about the robbery and I’ll tell you about my son, young fella. You may as well come in where it’s warm. Let me warn Ma a stranger is coming in.” Randolph turned his back and walked away, giving Pope time to quickly unbutton his coat and transfer his revolvers back to their holsters.

  “We are ready to talk with you now. Ma put on some coffee.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Randolph pointed towards a table. The three sat, Pope nodded at the wife, who remained silent.

  “A week ago, a young man who appeared to be in his twenties walked into our Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory office. He pulled a gun and ordered the agent in charge to open the safe. He did and the young man put several thousand dollars in a flour sack or something like it.”

  “Did he hurt anyone?” the woman asked, speaking for the first time.

  “I’m afraid so, Ma’am.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “A woman who walked in the door at the wrong time. And, the manager, who tried to stop him. The robber left, ran down the street in a snowstorm and shot a city constable before escaping.”

  “How are the people?” the father asked.

  “Mr. Randolph, none of them survived their wounds,” Pope said, knowing this is where the communication would turn. One way or the other.

  There was silence in the small ranch house.

  “How did you get John’s name?” Randolph asked.

  “Our San Francisco office located a wanted poster of someone meeting the description and style of robbery. To possibly eliminate your son, I’d like to ask you some questions about him,” Pope said. Both nodded, hesitatingly.

  “What is his age?” Pope asked, his leather notebook and a pencil in hand.

  “He’s twenty-one”

  “His height and build?”

  “About five and a half feet. Skinny as a rail.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Green.”

  “What hand is his primary use hand?”

  “He’s right-handed.”

  “When you last saw him, what kind of horse was he riding?”

  “He stole my gray gelding when he left outta here a year ago.”

  “Do you remember exactly when he left with your horse?”

  “Thanksgiving day,” Mrs. Randolph said quickly. Pope nodded his thanks.

  “What kind of gun or guns does he carry, Mr. Randolph?”

  “A .44 Smith & Wesson and a .44 Winchester carbine, last I know.”

  “Did he give you trouble as a youth? Skirmishes with the law? Fights? Harm animals?”

  Pope watched as the color drained from the wife’s face. He knew he had hit on something.

  “Mrs. Randolph, did he harm animals?” Pope asked specifically.

  “Johnny liked to hurt things then kill them. Whether it was a cat, stray dog, anything. We couldn’t get him to stop,” she said. “He fell out of his crib when he was just able to pull himself up to standing. Still has the dent in his skull where he landed. We thought he was dead. He was out for an hour, at least. Randolph and I always reckoned the fall made him ... different.” she added.

  “This one’s a crazy killer,” Pope thought to himself, saying nothing and keeping a stone face.

  “Which side is the dent on?” he asked.

  “Very back, towards the top.”

  Pope drew a sketch and marked where the skull dent would be. It might be decisive in identifying him. Dead or alive.

  “Did he ever use the alias Kid Taos?” Pope asked.

  “Not around here, he didn’t detective. Listen, I want to ask you something. You say this person killed three people in Cheyenne. How do the answers to your questions square with what you already knew?”

  “Real close, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Will you take him alive?” the woman asked.

  “Well, arresting someone is always my objective, Ma’am. However, the person I am arresting usually makes the decision about what happens. Your son has warrants from a number of locations unrelated to our robbery. I cannot say what other lawmen might do.

  Thank you for answering my questions. I fear I have not improved your Christmas this year. But I will promise you this: I will do my best to bring your son in unharmed. But it’s gonna be his call.”

  “It’s cold for a father to say, detective, but sometimes I think a bullet would be preferable to sitting in jail waiting for a noose. No disrespect to your W
ells Fargo man, but it appears Johnny also killed a woman and a policeman. It’s killing the woman what makes me sick in my stomach. They are all hanging offenses but killing her is worse to me.”

  Pope reached out and shook the man’s hand. These appeared to be good people. Heartbroken over a mean, crazy son. A son destined for death at the hand of a lawman or hangman.

  He was reminded how much he would have liked another Christmas with his own family. He hoped they would be proud of him now. He knew his grandfather was.

  Pope turned the livery horse back towards Taos. His mood, this day before Christmas Eve, was strangely sad. He was pretty sure he would go up against Kid Taos. And kill him, despite the best of intentions. He had never worried about such a thing in his life. He did now, though.

  He arrived back home, for Cheyenne was home for now, on the morning of Christmas Eve. Israel Pope and Millie were at the Wells Fargo office when he trudged in. His mood immediately soared as he hugged his two-favorite people in the world and his new step grandmother. He was almost knocked over by his excited blue tick hound, Scout.

  “Ha! My boy! Coming home from a business trip carrying his rifle and two guns. You got a Bowie, I hope, sonny?”

  Pope reached behind his coat and withdrew a Sheffield Bowie with a ten-inch blade.

  “Well, It’s almost a real Bowie. I guess a real fourteen-inch blade Bowie would not hide under your suit, huh?”

  “No sir. I don’t think it would.” Pope turned to Millie.

  “Has he got you packing a Bowie yet?” Pope asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No, John, but I’m expecting him to any day!” Pope smiled.

  “I am going to take the afternoon off. Our three young men will run the office and settle it. They will close at four in the afternoon. Millie and I are going shopping,” Sarah said.

  “Grandpa and I are, too. I have to write up my trip and get a telegram to Hume first. Grandpa, do you want to stay here or go with the ladies?”

  “If I go with them, can you find us?”

  “I’ll cut your sign. Usually, I can find about anyone. Now, I have this Randolph fellow whose mother asked me not to kill him. I cannot seem to find him. But I will.”