Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  She unconsciously patted her suit coat and felt the .44 Russian caliber Smith & Wesson underneath. Hume saw the subtle movement and smiled but said nothing.

  “I am going to bring the San Francisco police in on this one, Sarah. We are going to put a protective ring around you until O’Brien is either caught or makes his play. Due to the deathbed—so to speak—words of one of the men Pope shot, I will also contact the district attorney about Riordan sending out a hit team on the two of you. I want more charges against him when he gets to court next month.”

  They discussed the kidnapping of a Wells Fargo executive’s daughter. It was a case where Sarah suspected that the perpetrators were not sophisticated enough to demand bearer bonds or pick such a specific target. After the shootout where Pope was injured, but the victim was returned safe, Hume had given Sarah the go-ahead to follow up on her suspicions. Those suspicions had resulted in the arrest of a prominent San Francisco citizen for both masterminding the kidnapping and running an organized crime ring downtown. Now, it was apparent the arrestee, Patrick Riordan, was guiding retribution against the Wells Fargo detectives from his jail cell while awaiting trial on numerous felonies.

  Hume’s secretary tapped on the door and stuck her head in.

  “Detective Pope has arrived. He’s not looking so good, sir. Should I show him in?”

  “Yes, please. And please bring us a pot of coffee. And, scare up some pastries of some sort if you can. Is the senior in?” he asked, referring to Senior Detective John Thacker. The secretary nodded and went to get him.

  The two men came in together. Pope was white-faced and drawn and was limping on the cottonwood cane. Sarah immediately rose to go to him but stopped short. Hume was aware they had a relationship, but ordered it be kept invisible to coworkers. To the world and the company, they were very effective partners and nothing more.

  Hume looked at Pope with great concern as the latter painfully lowered himself into a chair. The jostling around on the buckboard, ferry and hansom cab from the docks had started him bleeding again. To save ruining a perfectly good suit, he took a handkerchief and placed it between his shirt and lapel and applied pressure. As covert as he tried to be, he was unable to hide his action from the three top investigators who noticed virtually everything.

  “John, are you bleeding?” Hume said.

  “Only slightly, sir. I will have it checked as soon as I have made my report and am sure Sarah will be safe from these ruffians.”

  “My telegram from the Marin sheriff says four Irishmen rode to your grandfather’s cabin and, in the ensuing firefight, you killed them all. He said one identified Riordan as having sent them and one Paddy O’Brien has been assigned to harm Detective Watson,” Hume said.

  “It’s about the sum of it, sir. My grandfather had to finish off one after I shot him. The man went for a knife as a last act. Grandpa also heard him identify both Riordan and O’Brien before the man died,” Pope added.

  “I take it was a ‘clean’ shoot?” Hume said.

  “As clean as four men against one man and a blue tick hound could be,” Pope said, petting Scout on the head as he sat panting beside his master.

  “I’d like to hear how the two of you pulled this one off, but later. We need to formulate a safety plan for Detective Watson first. Thacker, some ideas?”

  “I will put some men on the street near the docks to see if we can get a location for O’Brien. I think two men outside wherever Sarah lives and two inside with shotguns until the situation is resolved,” Thacker said.

  “I need to be there, too,” Pope said. “Grandpa is coming shortly. Maybe the two of us can handle the inside guard duty. Plus, Sarah demonstrated her lethality several weeks ago, so we’ll really have three inside.”

  Thacker and Hume knew Israel Pope and were both on scene shortly after Sarah shot the lead kidnapper in the chest several weeks before. Both had seen the legendary older man in action.

  Pope whispered something to Sarah, who had moved next to him. She withdrew a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to him. He folded it and withdrew one hand from beneath the sling and his coat. It held a bloody handkerchief which he replaced with hers.

  “Pope, I want you to get to the hospital down the street immediately. You are no good to Sarah if you bleed to death. Thacker, get a carriage with a top to help hide your identities. And, a shotgun messenger fully armed. I will send Israel to Sarah’s address, Pope, as soon as he arrives,” Hume said.

  “As soon as I get patched up, I need to go to the docks and put some markers out for locating O’Brien. Also, boss, how about the boys you rewarded for speaking up about Riordan?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you about this during your recovery, but they were all found dead last week. Throats slit. SFPD is investigating. I will leave here when you do, but I’ll go see Detective Sergeant Howell. He’s heading the boys’ murder investigation and the attack on you and threat against Sarah will likely be associated. Maybe it was O’Brien who knifed the boys.”

  They quickly finished the coffee. All three men stuck a scone in their pockets and all left. They knew it would probably be dinner.

  Sarah and Thacker each picked up a short-barreled shotgun and box of shells at the company armory. An unarmed messenger boy was summoned to carry Pope’s carbine and carpet bag down to the carriage.

  He leaned on Sarah going down the steps to the ground floor. It was about as close as he could get to her under the circumstances. She stopped at her desk and retrieved another handkerchief to replace the one he had already soaked. The bullet had made a mess of his shoulder and today’s activities had worsened it.

  The large carriage made good time to the hospital. Hume had taken a smaller buggy to the police department.

  The carriage waited at the front of the hospital. Thacker and Sarah, both with a shotgun in hand, helped Pope in.

  The same surgeon who had treated Pope three weeks ago revisited the shoulder wound and replaced several stiches. He washed and applied a different ointment to the four-inch crease wound on Pope’s bicep before redressing it with a wrapped bandage.

  The surgeon wanted to admit Pope for another day or two, but the detective told him he did not be time to be sick. “Do you have time to be dead, detective?” the doctor said.

  “I have some things I have to do. They cannot wait. I will have to deal with healing and dying later. No time now, doc,” Pope told him as he limped out the door, the wound in his right thigh unchecked. The doctor just stood watching him leave, shaking his head.

  It was almost dark by the time the three people and one dog were dropped at the rooming house where Pope and Sarah had adjoining rooms. Their proximity was unknown to anyone other than Hume and Israel and they wanted to keep it their secret for now.

  Thacker took Sarah’s key and went in and cleared her rooms.

  Nobody was hiding in wait for her. He retrieved a chair to take to the front door and position in the bushes until the shotgun messenger arrived.

  “Grandpa will be coming along soon, so don’t y’all shoot each other,” Pope warned as he munched the scone from Hume’s office.

  Sarah’s rooms were an actual apartment with a fireplace and kitchen area. The bedroom and a study were separate. An adjoining door led to Pope’s original two rooms with only a stove for heating and cooking. There were several privies out back and a place to temporarily tie, feed and water horses. Pope reckoned his grandfather would put the buckboard and horse there.

  “I suspect Hume will swing by here before midnight, maybe with Howell from the police department,” Thacker said. Possibly Hume’s only real friend, Harry Morse, knew the chief detective better than Thacker did. “You watch, the boss will have Harry on this case before it’s all said and done!” Thacker predicted.

  “There’s not a bull in SFPD who knows the Irish gangs better than Harry does,” Pope agreed, referring to his former detective peers.

  Sarah had been remarkably quiet. She did not like to b
e guarded like some incapable woman. She could shoot as well as any man. Except for the two Popes and maybe John Wesley Hardin, she added to herself. During training, she had amazed Pinkerton himself with her marksmanship. She was sure Hume had shared her shooting the kidnapper with her former employer. They periodically exchanged telegrams, as they had when Hume was contemplating hiring her.

  As soon as Thacker left with the chair to take up position, Sarah rushed to Pope. She did not know where she could hug him with a shoulder wound, an arm wound and an opposite leg wound. So, she leaned up and gave him her famous smile which always melted his resolve and kissed him passionately. He collapsed into a stuffed chair and she held the kiss all the way down.

  “Don’t you ever get shot without me there to look after you again!” she said fiercely. He nodded. He lay back in the chair. It was pretty comfortable. He had sat in it many nights and weekends. His apartment only had the ladder back chairs with his dining table. But tonight this one felt comfortable. Really comfortable. He fell asleep at the second “comfortable.”

  Sarah knew his wounds were tightly bound and the shoulder stitches repaired. Waking him and helping him over to her bed would make him more comfortable and not injure him further. She eased off his boots and jacket and guns. She hung the latter on a bedpost and put his derby on top. She covered him with her blanket, and he was asleep again within minutes.

  Sarah straightened the rooms. She knew Thacker would be back up, maybe the shotgun messenger on guard duty for food, Hume, the detective sergeant, Israel, and maybe Harry Morse. More company in one day than she ever had. She worried about the appearance of Pope in her bed but chalked it off to operational necessity.

  Sarah slipped her jacket off and checked her holstered Smith & Wesson’s. They were the same double action design. Her primary was a .44 Russian caliber and the smaller frame backup was .38 S&W caliber. She went to her cupboard and got a box of cartridges for each and placed them next to the shotgun shells from the Wells Fargo armory. The Remington double, with its mule-ear hammers, was propped in a corner, ready for immediate action.

  She wanted to loosen the damn bun holding her long black hair, kick off her shoes and lay armed beside Pope as he slept but she knew she could not. Forget the appearances, she was currently one of her own bodyguards. More importantly, she had to protect Pope if there was an attack. And she would protect him like an angry she grizzly protecting her cub - with fast and devastating violence.

  An hour later, Scout growled low at the sound of footsteps on the stairs up to the second floor where they were. Then, he stopped growling and started wiggling with glee. There were only two people who could cause him to be so happy. One was asleep ten feet away. It had to be Israel.

  “Missy, it’s me!” came a familiar deep voice.

  Taking no chances, Sarah opened the door, .44 in hand at her side.

  “How’s our boy?” Israel Pope said. Sarah liked the ‘our’ instead of ‘my.’”

  “He’s asleep. We took him by the hospital and the doc replaced the broken stitches. You should have heard the doctor complaining about the black walnut salve.”

  “Ha, it’s kept me alive after a bear clawing, a tomahawk wound and more’n you can imagine,” the older man said with conviction.

  He walked into the bedroom and checked his grandson.

  Israel came back and looked fondly at the beautiful, raven-haired woman.

  “If your hair was down, like I’ve seen it before, you’d look like my second wife.”

  “Second wife, Israel?” Sarah said.

  “I married again after my son’s Ma was killed in a raid.”

  “You mean after Pope’s grandmother was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Pope know her?”

  “He didn’t know either one of my wives, Sarah. It was his loss. Both were fine women. One white, one Cheyenne. Both killed by Crow war parties. Our boy don’t know about the second one. Mebbe one day I’ll tell you two the story, but not yet.”

  This was the most personal thing about his history he had shared with Sarah. Like his grandson, he kept a lot to himself.

  “Clint Fuller, the top shotgun messenger has arrived. He was with us when you shot the kidnapper, Lang. A good man, Sarah.” She nodded agreement. Fuller was a legend at Wells Fargo like Israel Pope was in the West.

  “Do you and Thacker and Fuller want coffee?” she said. “Or sandwiches?”

  “Food and coffee carries scents. Guards need to get spelled and come up here to partake. I’ll go down and let them know, though,” he said, walking out the door.

  She made five sandwiches with cheese and bologna and wrapped them in butcher paper. Setting out five mugs for the coffee or water, she answered the tap on the door.

  It was Fuller, who she knew.

  “Miss Sarah, how are you? And how’s Pope?” he asked.

  “I am fine, Clint. Pope is not quite fine. He’s asleep now,” she pointed at him through the open door. Fuller nodded.

  “Thanks, for coming. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have here protecting us,” she said. “Grab a sandwich and some coffee or water.”

  “Thanks, it’ll be dinner.” He ate quickly like he would on the top seat of a Concord stage-coach at speed and left. Clint Fuller was a man of few words, but a lot of talent. Talent with any gun ever made. Thacker came up next for a food break. Sarah forgot she had not eaten either. Not even one of Hume’s scones. She joined Thacker.

  “Those Irish gangs have real good intelligence operations,” the senior detective noted.

  “Apparently, John. Almost nobody knew about the Pope cabin up in Marin County. I hope they didn’t burn the ranch in Alameda. I just thought about the ranch. Maybe we should wire the sheriff to check it.”

  “Good idea, Sarah. Mention it to Hume when he gets here,” Thacker suggested.

  He went downstairs after eating and Israel returned.

  “There are sandwiches, Israel,” Sarah offered.

  “I might eat one,” he said, smiling.

  “What are you so tickled about?”

  “I was thinking of the old days, roaming. Things were sparse of the plains. Still are. I’d kill a buffalo and eat the tongue, liver and most of the hump. It was a lot of meat. But it lasted me a week. All I had to do is drink enough water.”

  “Did all the meat give you a stomachache?” she said.

  “Nope. Never. I guess I was doing like those camels in Egypt do with water.”

  Sarah should have known to not be surprised at things Israel knew. But she was still caught off guard.

  Around eleven, Hume, Morse and San Francisco detective Howell arrived.

  Using good tradecraft, they noted and winked at the two watchers hidden on chairs in the bushes by the door and walked in.

  Israel and Scout heard them at the same time. Israel drew the cavalry model Colt. Sarah, gun in hand but out of sight, opened the door.

  The three detectives, all from different agencies walked in.

  Hume nodded approvingly as he saw both sheath the two revolvers.

  “How’s Pope doing?” he asked.

  “The hospital fixed him up. The doctor wanted him to stay a day or two, but he refused. He’s asleep now. I think today took a lot more out of him than he’ll admit,” Sarah said.

  “Let me go see if he’s up yet,” Israel said, walking towards the bedroom.

  He leaned over an awakened his grandson. While still leaning he whispered “There’s a lot of badges in the next room. You shot the fourth man. He was dying. I just helped him get to hell quicker. It might be best to not credit him to me. I kinda arrived after the party was over. Too many questions, right?”

  The two locked eyes. With an imperceptible change in Pope’s pupil signaled he heard and agree. A small grin sealed the deal.

  “Luckily for us, his stubbornness makes him an even better detective,” Hume said and the other two agreed. Howell had been his boss while Pope was a detective at San Francisco
Police Department.

  The subject of their words walked in slowly. He had a stag-handled Colt stuck in his waistband as he shakily entered the room. He leaned heavily on the cane.

  “Pope, I’m going to get you a fancy cane like Bat Masterson has over in Dodge City,” Morse said.

  “Thanks, Harry. This one is special. It was made to my exact height.”

  “And, carved with this little pen knife,” Israel grinned, producing his massive Bowie knife.

  Howell studied the big knife, then said, “How many credits does it have?”

  “I lost count, sergeant. Somewhere upwards of ten. Maybe fifteen. The 1840’s and 50’s were real active for me,” Israel replied.

  “While things are quiet, this might be a good time for you to tell us exactly how you killed four attackers. And only got a scratch this morning, John,” Hume suggested.

  Pope told them in report style vernacular instead of story style. His telling of the events was factual and included only what he thought they needed to know. Israel, who knew the whole story, sat listening as stoically as his grandson was in the telling.

  They chatted for a while. At close to eleven thirty, the group heard noise outside.

  “Throw up your hands, and don’t move!” Thacker yelled.

  The order was followed by the blast of a big ten-gauge shotgun and a scream.

  Hume pulled his gun and motioned for Pope and Israel to guard Sarah as he, Morse and Sergeant Howell went downstairs, guns out.

  They found four men kneeling on their knees, hands up. One man was writhing on the ground, missing most of the lower part of his right leg.

  Fuller had reloaded and was watching the others while Thacker fashioned a tourniquet above the man’s right knee.

  Upon arriving on scene, Howell summoned help with his police whistle. Facing away from the detective sergeant, Hume rolled his eyes and Thacker saw him and suppressed a smile. Hume’s message was the blast of a big bore shotgun in downtown San Francisco ought to attract police attention quicker than a whistle.