“If you are up to it, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” she said.
“Shore. I sure don’t have anything else to do right now.”
“How many men did you see?” Sarah said.
“Six, I think. One had the drop on me and fired before I could do anything. The shotgun messenger was brand spanking new. When we saw these fellers, I told him to not do anything stupid. There was too many for the two of us to shoot it out with.”
“Did the man just shoot you without provocation?” Pope said.
“Yep. He just hauled off and shot me. I think he recognized me.”
“Did he seem familiar to you?” Sarah said.
“He did. But I couldn’t place him then or now. He looked like a cowboy. But I used to drive a twenty-mule team before becoming a jehu. I figure we must have been mule skinners together.”
“How long ago were you a mule skinner?” Sarah said.
“From my late teens to about four years ago.”
“Where did you do this?” Pope said.
“Pretty much Utah and New Mexico.”
“Did you have any run-ins with any of the people you drove with?” Sarah said.
“One feller. He was a Reb. About three years older than me. Didn’t like some of our Negro drivers. We got in a fight. Helluva fist fight. Then, he pulled an Arkansas toothpick on me. One of my compadres broke a stick over his head. We had the sheriff haul him off. Never saw him again.”
“Will you describe him, Mr. Berenson?” Sarah said.
“Very average. Mebbe five-seven, one hundred forty. Brown hair and a beard. Medium length.”
“Any memorable characteristics,” Pope said. “Like scars, limp, anything?”
“Nope.”
“How Southern was his accent?”
“Pretty much hillbilly. Not like educated Southern.”
“Did you get the impression your shooter was the boss?” Sarah said.
“Not really. I fell over and played possum. I couldn’t tell who ran the robbery.”
“Do you remember his name?” Sarah asked.
“He went by Cletus. I’m not sure any of us knew his last name.”
“Do you remember his gun?” Pope said.
“Yeah. Which is why I’m alive! It was a Colt 1849 pocket .31. It was converted to .32 rimfire. Brass frame with nickel plating. If it had been a .44, I’d probably be dead.”
“You’re pretty sure of the caliber?” Sarah asked.
Berenson reached over to the bedside table somewhat painfully and picked something up and handed it to Sarah. She looked at it and handed it to Pope.
It was a small conical bullet in the same condition it came out of the barrel. It did not have any deformation due to a low powder charge and accordingly low energy. It hit at .32” diameter and stayed .32” diameter.
Pope handed it back to the jehu.
“It helps. Though the 1849 was the most popular revolver Colt ever made, I doubt many were converted and are carried out here. Would you trust your life to something this underpowered?” Pope said.
“Hell no! But, I shore am glad he did!”
“Me, too, my friend. Get some rest. Hold on to the lucky bullet. I am pretty sure we are going to need it for evidence at the trial when we get these outlaws. And keep this mum. We weren’t here, alright?”
Horatio winked and they quietly left.
“You know who carries one of those little popguns?” Pope said.
“The boss.”
“Yep. America’s greatest detective.”
“John?”
“Yes, dearest.”
“At least it goes bang, unlike the one I used to carry.”
“True. But your new ones go bang quite nicely,” he said.
“Because they were picked out for me by my partner. My forever partner.”
“Don’t you forget the forever part.”
“I won’t. Now, let’s eat or my stomach will start growling like Scout when he senses trouble.”
“He’s in his glory now, riding around in the buckboard with Grandpa talking to him like a fellow mountain man,” Pope said.
The walked to the Western Hotel. John P. Smith and his sister, Sarah W. Brown had adjoining rooms there. Their luggage had already arrived, and they ate in the hotel’s café.
Afterwards, Pope walked over to the IXL Livery at 16th & Thomas Streets and hired two horses for the next several days. The trip east would require camping. Pope bought several blankets, tarps, canteens, and some cook gear. They would get trail food after they returned from Laramie.
The partners retired to their respective rooms. But, not for long.
4
Pope and Sarah had an early breakfast the next morning and went straight to the Cheyenne Wells Fargo office. Laramie County chief deputy Horatio Akin had just arrived.
The three Wells Fargo people and the deputy discussed the westward trip. Since the two detectives had to get and load up their livery horses, they agreed to meet outside of town in an hour.
Pope asked Sarah to go to nearby P. Bergerant’s Gunsmith & Firearms Shop. It was a long shot, but he wondered if the gun shop knew of anyone with a conversion 1849 Colt.
Pope brought the horses back to the hotel and packed trail gear behind the saddle’s cantle. They planned to stay at a hotel in Laramie, but he thought it prudent to carry the gear just in case. He also included lunch and trail food.
Sarah went into the gun shop and looked around. When the other customer had left, she approached the proprietor.
She knew she had to break cover and showed her badge and asked, “Do you know of a medium-sized cowboy with a country Southern accent and carrying a Colt 1849 Pocket converted to .32?”
The man went to the counter, reached in and took one out. Just as described.
“Feller like you described traded this on a .45 Colt last week. Said it was too puny for his liking.”
“Did you happen to get his name?”
“Nope. Squirrelly feller. Would have lied if I’d asked,” the proprietor said.
“But he had the country Southern accent and was average in most respects?” Sarah said.
“He was. Brown hair and beard. Some gray showing. Probably mid-forties. Sounded like an ole Appalachian Mountain boy to me. I served with some during the war,” he said, referring to the War Between the States. She assumed he was a Confederate, since most Appalachian mountaineers fought for the South.
“How much for this revolver and five cartridges?” Sarah said.
“You sure you want a little popper like this? I would have thought a detective, even a lady one, would carry something more powerful.”
“I do. This is to test for evidence.”
“What?” he asked.
“My boss has been experimenting with matching bullets used in crimes with guns confiscated from the suspects. Seems you can tell a lot about the grooves in bullets fired from the same gun.”
“I’ll be! I’ve been around guns for forty years and never heard such,” he said.
“It will stand up in some courts. Not in others. It’s a new science, so it will take a while to get recognized everywhere.”
“Well, the gun is five bucks. I’ll throw in a cylinder of cartridges. Is five enough to test?” he said.
“Oh, I believe so,” she smiled. “If not, I’ll come back.”
She handed him a five-dollar bill.
“You do it, little lady. I will be right here. I always am,” he said.
Sarah walked a block back to the Wells Fargo office. Pope was tying two horses to the hitching rail out front.
“Learn anything?” he asked.
She palmed the little gun and covertly handed it to him.
“Just traded in on a .45 last week by an average-looking man with a country Southern accent.”
“Guess we ought to borrow the pistol bullet from the jehu in the hospital, huh?” he said.
“I guess.”
“Did you happen to get any
cartridges to test bullets against his?”
She just gave him an arch look of reproval. One he had not seen before and would endeavor to not see again.
“Sometimes, because you are so beautiful, I lose track of how smart you are. Sorry,” he said.
“Fair recovery, but not sufficient.”
“What would make it alright?” he asked.
“I’m working on it.”
The three rode for almost two hours beside the westbound Union Pacific tracks. Deputy Akin, held up his hand.
“We are at the first robbery site,” he said.
All dismounted and dropped reins.
The robbery was too long ago to find tracks they could use. Pope walked off into the woods and studied, while Sarah sketched the crime scene. She walked off and marked distances on her drawing. They could see the railroad ties used to stop the train. The conductor, fireman and a couple of passengers had broken down the barrier and just dragged the heavy creosoted ties off the tracks. They were still there. Sarah added the ties and their positions to her sketch.
In the woods south of the tracks, Pope saw a number of broken small branches. They were about horse shoulder high. While there were no hoofprints remaining, the underbrush was still in disarray. He saw a cigar butt laying on some pine tags.
“Damn fool could have burnt the woods down,” he thought aloud. He collected it and put it in one of the several small paper evidence sacks he carried in his pockets on investigations.
Pope walked out of the woods and approached Akin and Sarah.
“I found where they waited. One was smoking a cigar. I collected the butt. It won’t do much good unless we arrest someone with a matching ring and leverage it with a few untruths.”
“I have our crime scene sketches,” Sarah said.
“I’m just learning this detective stuff,” Akin said, “but, we better get going. The next stop is about four hours further on.”
They ate turkey sandwiches Pope brought from the hotel café and had water from their canteens in the saddle. They were too tightly scheduled for a lunch stop.
The three arrived at the second train robbery site at three in the afternoon. Akin had not responded after the robbery because it was outside his jurisdiction. He had gotten a wire from the Albany County sheriff with directions. The directions were helped by the robbery site being an un-manned watering station for steam engines.
This time, Pope did the sketches and Sarah took Akin on a search for clues on the ground. There were no woods nearby. Sarah thought the robbers must have hidden behind the water tank and flue arm which swung over to the engine to put water in. They found some horsehair on some of the rough timbers of the supports where horses had been crowded in together.
They also found and retained another cigar stub. The paper ring on it matched the one Pope found at the first crime scene. Any cigarette stubs had long since broken up and blown away.
The two detectives got a sense from McCarthy’s report, and corroborated by Akin, the robbers had become more efficient this robbery. They chose a site where the train was going to stop anyway. And nobody was harmed.
By the time they finished, it was dusk. They still had an hour and a half to ride to get to Laramie for the night.
At Laramie, the two detectives took rooms in their Cheyenne aliases. There was no need for Akin to use an alias.
They found a small restaurant open for dinner. Due to the late hour, they were the only customers. They were able to speak low, but with privacy whenever the manager and the waiter were behind the closed kitchen door. It was apparent they were not only father and son but cook and bottle washer.
“Well, what do we have?” Akin asked.
“Not much,” Pope said. “We have two crime scenes with the evidence where horses were hidden, but no clue as to how many without hoofprints. Probably, at least one of the robbers was the same man smoking the same brand cigar. But not necessarily.”
“They either got smarter for the second robbery or luckier,” Sarah said. “They didn’t have to build a blockage to stop the train and they did not either shoot anybody or almost cause a train wreck by blocking the track too close to a blind curve like in the first one.”
“What can be concluded from those facts?” Akin said.
“Probably nothing,” Pope said.
“Was our trip a waste of time and Wells Fargo’s money?” the deputy asked.
“Not necessarily. We had to investigate. The one clue which would solve the case might have been here. And we got the cigar stubs which might be of use. We also made sketches to use in court. So, we did due diligence,” Sarah said.
“Due diligence?”
“Another way of saying we did our jobs.”
“Now, what? Ride to the stage scenes on the other side of Cheyenne? I’ve been to both of those closer to the robberies. Didn’t see much,” Akin said.
“Even though it’s even later now, Horatio, you might see more. Your way of looking for and at things has changed. Plus, we need our sketches. Before we go, we have to interview the wounded shotgun messenger in the hospital here in Laramie,” Pope said.
They ate. Akin went outside to smoke in the fresh air. The detectives went to their rooms.
After breakfast the next morning, they walked over to the hospital and called on the Wells Fargo employee.
They introduced themselves and Pope asked the man “How are you?”
“No permanent damage. I took a small bullet in the fleshy part of my right arm. It passed through. I’d be out of here, but it got infected, so the sawbones kept me. He said if it got gangrene, he might have to live up to the ‘sawbones’ name.”
“You said ‘small bullet,’” Pope said. “Describe the gun to us.”
“An older pocket revolver. Not one of those Montgomery Ward specials for a buck fifty. A real Colt. Just old.”
Keeping his face expressionless, Pope said “Describe the shooter.”
“Just an average-looking man. Average in height, build and hair. He had brown hair and a small beard.”
“Anything memorable about the average man,” Pope said.
“Yep. He had a strong Southern accent. But like he was from ‘way back in the sticks.”
“Anybody smoke a cigar?” Sarah said.
“Yeah. One man did. Stood back in the back and watched. He may have been the boss. Never said anything. He was the only one without his gun out.”
“How about thinking hard and giving us everything you can on him? How tall? Build? Was he dressed like the rest? Hair color? Beard, mustache or clean shaven?” Pope said.
“He was maybe five foot eight or nine inches. Shorter than you. More like the deputy, but maybe one seventy. Wore a dark suit, but sure looked trail-worn. Hard to tell whether it was black, dark gray or dark blue it was so dusty. Black hair and a mustache. Typical handlebar. Can’t say the accent like with the shooter. This one did not say a word. You said you picked up a cigar stub?” The wounded messenger said.
“Two, actually,” Sarah said. “Both were the same band, La Rosa Española. We have one bullet to study and the two cigar butts to follow up on,” Pope said.
They wished the wounded man well with his infection and took their leave.
On the street, Pope stopped a well-dressed businessman and inquired where he might find a good cigar.
“You can find a pretty good cigar in any general merchandise. But, for a great cigar, go to Smith Tobacconist’s. The man pointed across the street, four shops down to the right.
They angled across the street.
Pope walked into the tobacconist’s. Pope skipped the undercover identity. He flashed his badge, knowing it would prompt a better response from an honest citizen.
“Howdy. I’m trying to identify someone who smokes cigars with “La Rosa Española” on the band. Do you sell them?” he asked.
“I do. They are premium cigars. Three dollars each. Made by Seidenberg & Co., down in Key West, Florida. They are made out of Cuban tob
acco seeds grown elsewhere.”
“Three dollars! I bet you don’t get much call of those!” Pope said.
“Oh, I sell a lot of expensive ones. These La Rosas, though, have a taste some purist cigar smokers don’t like. Some flavor in the wrapper,” the tobacconist said.
“Anybody buy these?”
“I sold a whole box about three weeks ago. Glad to get them off the shelf before they got stale.”
“Tell me about the man who bought them,” Pope said.
“Just an average looking fellow. Medium height, muscular build, maybe mid-forties.”
“Hair and eye color? Beard?”
“I don’t rightly remember. Dark brown or black hair and beard. Maybe some silver flecked in,” he said.
“Any sort of accent?”
“Not as I remember. He didn’t talk much. Just asked for them by name and bought a box for seventy-five dollars.”
“How’d he pay?” Pope asked.
“With four shiny twenty-dollar gold coins. I gave him five dollars change in bills.”
This interested Pope, in view of the coins stolen in all the robberies. “Could you see any other gold coins on him?” he asked.
“Yes, he had some more in the leather bag he used for his coins. When he opened it up, gold is all I saw.”
Pope asked the man if there was anything else, he could remember.
“Now’s I think about it, he had a black horse with matching saddle tied up at the hitching post out front. He had saddlebags and a bedroll on it. I saw him mount up after putting all but one of the cigars in his left saddlebag,” he said.
Pope thanked the man and joined Sarah and Akin and told them what he had learned.
“The picture of Cigar Man is he buys seventy-five dollar boxes of cigars, sticks with a particular variety, does not talk much, and rides a black horse with a black saddle. And at least the day he went shopping in Laramie, had long trail gear on his horse. His suit was dusty from on the trail somewhere. Mr. Appalachia is average height with a brown beard and hair, strong rural Southern accent and a Colt 1849 pocket converted to cartridge. Until recently, when he gunned up to a bigger Colt.”
“Sounds about right to me, Sarah.” Pope asked Akin if it seemed right to him.
Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2) Page 4