Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “Me, too,” he said.

  “Okay,” Pope began, “I have one other clue to add to Cigar Man. He’s missing a molar on the right side of his mouth halfway back.”

  The other two looked at him as if he was crazy.

  Sarah stopped on the dusty wooden sidewalk and put her hands on her hips, staring at him.

  “Okay. Talk.”

  “I studied the two butts last night with my magnifying glass. He chomps down with an upper and lower molar. But there is a space about a tooth wide not compressed on the butt. It’s on the top right between the upper and lower molar indentations. There’s a fainter molar imprint directly below it. The protruding part is on the left. Which indicates to me the missing tooth is on the right.”

  “If we get a suspect,” Sarah said, “he ought to have a missing tooth on the top right of his mouth more or less halfway back, right?”

  “Right! Circumstantial, but every bit of evidence we can put on him helps him get a longer sentence. And don’t forget he is probably the ringleader. Get him and we’ll recover more stolen treasure than from any other of the robbers,” he said, adding “And, maybe the names of the others.”

  “One thing I’d like to establish,” Sarah began, “is whether we are dealing with one gang or two.”

  “You’ve pointed out a definite goal,” Pope said. “A goal to which, at this point, we have no clue. If we follow our base of operations strategy, we’d draw two circles. One with the center point between the two train robberies, and one between the stage robberies. If we did it, even the point of intersection between the two circles would be twenty miles or so north of Cheyenne about where the Lodgepole Creek is. Horatio, is there anything there? A village? A ranch?” Pope asked.

  “I don’t know about a thing on the west side north of the trail from Cheyenne to Laramie,” the deputy said. “On the east side, there are two. They are the Davis and Goodman Ranches. I grew up with the sons of the ranchers. There’s no way in hell old man Davis or Goodman would put up with outlaws working on their ranches. Both are Bible-thumpers and hold their sons to a real high standard.”

  “It almost makes me think the leader, Cigar Man or not, pulled together a robbery team and is not based anywhere. They robbed two trains and three stages and quit. Maybe left the area. It’s not like they had posse’s hot on their tails either.”

  “This makes me come back to the idea they got together on these robberies to raise money to do something else,” Sarah said.

  “But, what?” Akin asked. “Buy a ranch, build a saloon, what?”

  “The answer to your questions, Horatio, is probably the solution to the cases,” Pope said.

  “The first stage robberies were about fourteen miles due east of Cheyenne. Want to ride to them and set up camp? Then, tomorrow morning, we could sketch them, look for clues and begin the trip up to the Willow Spring station where the last one was,” Sarah said.

  “I agree. One thing we should find along the way here will be campsites. Campsites are usually rich with clues,” Pope said, though more hopeful than convinced.

  “If we strike out on the east side with the stage robbery crime scenes, maybe we should go with Horatio to the two ranches on the west,” Sarah suggested. Both men agreed.

  They rode to Lodgepole Creek, the scene of two off the stage robberies. There was a bridge with a stand of cottonwoods just past the northern end. Akin told the two detectives the robbers had waited on horseback in the woods until the stage cleared the bridge, then struck. It was too dark to search the scene, so Pope lit his Dietz police lantern long enough for them to collect fire-wood and set up a simple camp. While the other two got the fire going, Pope did his usual security circle a quarter of a mile out from the campsite. There were no threats. He whistled low before coming in. He was surprised and pleased when someone answered him. He found it was Sarah. Wait until he shared it with his grandfather, he thought!

  They sizzled some ham steaks on a grill erected over the coals. A coffee pot sat on grill along with some store-bought cornpones warming on the corner farthest away from the heat. Local honey from Laramie served as desert poured over the cornpones. Pope thought to himself, “I have had worse trail meals and some nights with no meals. This is what grandpa would complement as ‘passable fare.’”

  The next morning’s meal was similar, but with bacon replacing ham. They cleaned the dishes with sand and put them away. In turn, Pope got out his investigative kit and Sarah her sketchbook.

  Their job was simplified by having two robberies at the same place. Pope made a vague sketch of the site and split it into three sections, one for each to search.

  While Sarah and Akin began their searches, Pope did a detailed sketch of the whole crime scene. He then began scouring his area.

  The first thing was what they did not find. Key West cigar butts. Akin found five .44-40 brass casings and a .56-56 Spencer case about fifty feet from the northern end of the bridge over Lodgepole Creek.

  “These fit with what the driver and shotgun messenger said,” Akin told the two detectives. “They came riding out of the woods yonder and a couple were firing their rifles up in the air.” Sarah took them and placed them in a paper evidence sack and marked them with a dark pencil as to description, location found and date.

  After the search, they sat and talked before heading north towards the LaGrange stage station scene on Bear Creek.

  “I don’t think we can conclude Cigar Man wasn’t here. We pretty much know Appalachia was here for at least one robbery and probably at a train robbery because of using the little .32. Maybe Cigar Man was not here, or maybe he was just out of cigars. While I’d like to find something to put the possible leader at both train and stage robberies, we cannot do it here. Maybe a cigar butt will turn up at LaGrange,” Pope said.

  They packed their gear and rode on, darkness causing them to stop short of their destination to make camp. They rode into the LaGrange crime scene the next morning.

  The scattering of rifle brass was similar, to the first scene. They found another Spencer empty case and a .32-20. The latter was a good small game cartridge.

  Good guns, like Winchesters, Colts and Smith & Wesson’s and a few others were expensive. Some folks carried lesser calibers if they were able to get a good gun and it happened to be chambered for a caliber they would not otherwise choose. Pope knew it from experience. Carrying a .32-20 was not the sign of anything except it was the caliber a man owned. Further, Pope knew the caliber and hence, the rifle, were brand spanking new in 1882.

  Again, they found no cigar butts or any other evidence except for a smashed green wooden treasure chest with black iron strapping. It had been broken open by having the padlock shot off. The chest was empty. They packed it for evidence just out of habit. It would not evidence anything but having a Wells Fargo stage robbed at the location.

  He and Sarah added these facts to their notes on the case. The three headed back to Cheyenne after interviewing the manager at the stage station. He added no new facts.

  They camped one more night before arriving at Cheyenne. The sheriff could not spare Akin, his best deputy, any longer. Akin gave them letters of introduction to ranchers Davis and Goodman. He also gave them directions to their ranches.

  The sheriff, Akin, and several other deputies stood outside the office as Pope conducted his ballistics test.

  He loaded the .32 conversion Colt Sarah had purchased in town. She had the honor of shooting it diagonally into the watering trough near the office. The five feet of water slowed the small bullet enough to cause it to bounce off the far end of the trough and land on the bottom. Pope rolled up his sleeves and fished it out.

  All watching, the detective balanced the recovered bullet and the one surgically removed from the jehu on the hitching post.

  The sun was bright enough for Pope’s magnifying glass to show detail.

  The rifling striations in the bullet were identical. The bullet shot into jehu Berenson was fired from the gun trade
d in almost two weeks later in Cheyenne by Appalachia Man. Pope used his pencil as a pointer to show how he determined it to the sheriff and Akin.

  “This is a new science. Our boss, Chief Detective Jim Hume has led the way in developing it and using it in trials,” Sarah explained. “Even my former company, Pinkerton, is behind Wells Fargo in this method of investigation,” she added.

  The two ranches were twenty-five miles from Cheyenne as the crow flies. There were no hotels in the area, so they would have to camp. Sarah went to the café and a general merchandise for more food supplies and a tarp. Pope went to the livery to extend the rental on the two horses for several weeks. Sarah walked back to P. Bergerant’s Gunsmith & Firearms Shop and purchased two more boxes of .45-70 loads for Pope’s new Marlin carbine. He needed to regulate the sights to see where the gun hit at different distances. It looked like it was going to be a long winter.

  Just before they rode out, Horatio Akin stopped them.

  “There’s been a development up where you are going. Not sure if it is related, but you may be able to use it,” he said.

  “What happened?” Pope asked.

  “There’s a small ranch between the two you are going to call on. Was owned by an original area pioneer and his wife. She died last week. Yesterday, rustlers hit and the old man returned fire and died. No way of knowing if the rustlers are related to the train or stage robberies, but we could use your investigative expertise at the scene. The sheriff is sending me over to the Cheyenne Club to have a sit-down with the judge. He suggested the two of you come along.”

  They agreed and joined Akin on the short walk over to the posh club. It was where most of the area decisions were made by the local power mongers. On the way, he told them Herman Goodman, owner of the ranch named after him was there. He and his son brought the news of the murder. It was his son with whom Horatio Akin had gone through school.

  They arrived at Seventeenth Street and Warren Avenue quickly.

  As they stood on the dirt street and looked at the three-story brick building, they got a hint of what the inside might be like.

  “Can a woman go in?” Sarah asked.

  “You can go with a gentleman to a ball or to lunch or dinner in the dining room. You can’t play tennis, billiards, or enjoy the reading or smoking rooms.”

  “Which is actually pretty open-minded,” Sarah observed, quite serious in view of the times.

  “Wyoming Territory has let women vote for years now. We have a woman magistrate even,” Akin said. “Any woman who is a citizen or has applied for citizenship can vote.”

  Sarah already knew this from McCarthy, but smiled, nodded and said nothing.

  The walked up the outside steps. The rocking chairs had been moved off the porch in preparation for a snowy winter. There was a multistory skylight. The floors were polished hardwood, covered with Oriental carpeting. It rivaled the best clubs in London, Paris, New York or San Francisco. A fire earlier in the year had prompted some renovations. Renovations include additional rooms. A number of members with outlying ranches lived at the Club instead of a rougher life on the plains.

  Rancher Herman Goodman had a room there. He and any of his sons in town used it instead of a hotel.

  “We will see the judge, the sheriff, and Mr. Goodman in a private dining room for an early lunch,” Akin said.

  “I’m glad we all are not trail worn,” Pope noted.

  “Ranchers ride in here in all sorts of condition but get cleaned up once they arrive. We are fine. I have been here before with the sheriff. We both have suits on and Detective Watson has an outfit which seems appropriate to me.”

  “Horatio, how can this little city support building such an opulent place,” Sarah asked.

  “Because it is the most wealthy city in America per person, right now,” he said.

  “How?” Pope asked.

  “Because of having addresses at the Club, many wealthy ranchers out in the plains are counted as citizens. Many are investors from Europe, especially England. Some are from as far away as Russia. Folks like me are more of the exception, money-wise,” he said.

  Pope had on a recently brushed dark gray suit. The jacket was cut longer to cover the twin Colts. He seldom wore the shoulder holsters anymore, except in town. Same for his bowler hat. The black Boss of the Plains Stetson was his normal headwear outside large urban areas.

  Sarah had on a what appeared to be a long maroon skirt, matching jacket and white silk blouse. The skirt was actually riding pants cut to drape like a skirt for the increasing number of women who eschewed the silliness of sidesaddle riding. Her jacket also covered two guns. The larger on the right was a new model S&W in the large, popular .44 Russian caliber. Its smaller frame .38 rode on her left. Neither was apparent under most circumstances, like with Pope. The pair’s guns were readily presentable.

  “Judge Roper, Sheriff Sharples, and Mr. Goodman, these folks are Wells Fargo Detectives John Pope and Sarah Watson.”

  The gentlemen stood and Sarah presented her hand. They shook with her and then with Pope.

  “Please be seated, detectives,” the judge said. “Seth is the sheriff and, he, Herman,” he said nodding to the rancher, “and I have been looking forward to meeting you both. We also have some information which may assist your investigations of the recent robberies.

  I am given to understand you two have some fame as partners. Detective Watson, you are one of the few lady detectives anywhere. And, a favorite of your former boss, Allan Pinkerton. Allan and I knew each other during the war. I hold him in great esteem.

  Detective Pope, you are the grandson of the legendary mountain man and scout, Israel Pope, a former San Francisco detective and have quite the reputation solving cases by either clues or those Colts beneath your jacket,” the judge said. “The San Francisco paper, which we take here at the Club, recounts a recent matter in Marin County. It said you were recovering from wounds and a group of horsemen rode up on you and attempted to assassinate you. Would you share the result of the attempt with us?”

  “I was unable to take them into custody and they all pulled on me. I had to defend myself from certain death.”

  “Were there any survivors?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir. Me.”

  “How many shooters?”

  “Four, your honor. One lived long enough to tell me who sent them. We had solved a kidnapping and the brain behind it organized the retribution against Detective Watson and me from jail.”

  “And, Detective Watson, did they come for you? If so, what happened?”

  “They did. Detective Pope and his grandfather were upstairs guarding me. The Wells Fargo agents downstairs stopped them.”

  “Interesting!” the judge exclaimed. “I am surprised Ned Buntline or somebody has not started writing dime novels about you two.”

  “Notoriety would make being a detective much more difficult, sir,” Pope said.

  The judge touched a small bell near his hand and a waiter appeared with menus.

  “Let’s eat first and then talk about the Eb Carson spread up near Herman and how it may tie in,” the judge said.

  The meal equaled and exceeded anything Pope or Sarah had enjoyed in San Francisco.

  “Now, let us get to the matter at hand. Yesterday, rustlers raided a small ranch adjacent to mine,” Herman Goodman said. “They murdered the owner, Eb Carson. Eb’s wife had died of natural causes a month or so ago. He had a couple cowhands, but they were in a far pasture with a small herd. They rode back as soon as they heard gunfire, but the rustlers were riding off with the herd of about one hundred-fifty beeves. They fired at the rustlers with their revolvers, but the distance was too great. Two men were not enough to go after the six they counted riding away from them.

  When they got to the ranch, Eb was still alive. He verified it was six riders. The one who shot him was a medium-sized man with what the cowboy described as a ‘hillbilly’ accent. Since most of the cattle were gone, the two riders brought Eb into Cheyenne
by buckboard. He died along the way.”

  “Mr. Goodman, is the body still at the doctor’s? Sarah and I would like to take possession of the bullet if possible,” Pope asked.

  Goodman looked over at the sheriff, who nodded and said, “These detectives can tie a bullet back to a particular gun in a lot of cases. I saw them do it today. It was convincing enough to likely hold up in court,” he said, looking at the judge.

  The judge said “Get them the bullet, Seth. They or we can hold it until they get a gun to match.”

  “Gentlemen, we would like to ride out and see the crime scene at the ranch. The man with the ‘hillbilly’ accent ties back to a suspect in the robberies of both trains and stages in this area. In each case, he was the shooter. We also have some clues about the potential leader of the gang. If we can find the same clues at the scene, we can safely conclude the gang has moved from stage and train robberies to rustling.

  I have an idea. It is one I am springing on my partner as well as you. What if we went to the Carson ranch and ran it for a few months? Since this happened yesterday, I might be able to cut some sign and trail the rustlers. If we capture the leader or the Southern fellow, we would have our tie-in and add murder to their charges,” Pope suggested.

  “Detective Pope, do you have the background to run a small ranch?” the judge asked.

  “I believe so. I was raised on one in California. It was just my grandpa and me, so I did everything related to running a ranch. We had cattle and horses as well as a food garden. I hired out as a cowboy for neighboring ranches frequently to help with branding and moving herds to market.”

  “Eb did not have any relatives. I don’t know about his wife, it’s too soon for the sheriff’s inquiries to be answered. What cover would you use?” Goodman asked.

  “A married couple asked by the court to take over the ranch until next of kin can be found and make a decision about its fate. We would move the smaller herd to the main pasture. The one where the big herd was rustled yesterday. Try to make it a target. Put up a small fight, maybe wound one man to get him to talk. But, mainly, let them go and cut sign on the rustlers once they think there’s nobody pursuing them.”