Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “Can you get his attention? Without getting shot, I mean,” she asked.

  “Not sure. We don’t have any pebbles I can throw at him.”

  “We have the next best thing. Beans! I put some in to soak hours ago. But I forgot to put the bag back on the shelf in the root cellar.”

  “You are simply the best wife I never had. Maybe we should hitch up for real,” he speculated.

  “Hold the proposal for a more romantic moment, please.”

  “Are you saying ‘no?’” he asked.

  “Don’t be silly, I love you and would marry you in a minute if we did not have two pretty good careers in the way. But, if somebody is watching us, it overrides proposals.”

  “Right. Gun up. I’ll get a couple of beans,” he said.

  He pulled on pants, a heavy coat, and moccasins. Then, his gunbelt. With a loaded .45-70 Marlin lever action and some extra cartridges in his coat pocket, he eased towards the kitchen area.

  Finding the bag, he shifted the big carbine to his left hand and put four beans in his right.

  Sarah was right behind him, barefooted in a little shift, but wearing a winter coat. She had the mule ear hammers on the scattergun at half cock for safety.

  They eased out the door silently. The night was still and there was no moon. It was dark as pitch. Sarah sat on the step up to the house.

  Pope slipped from linden tree to linden until he got within thirty feet of Willy. He drew back his right arm and hurled a pinto bean through the night. It hit on the grass and did not make a sound.

  The next one hit Willy on the knee.

  “Holy…” he began until he heard a “sssh!” slightly audible above the wind.

  He looked around and saw a figure wave at him from behind a linden.

  “Pope,” the figure said no louder than before. Willy nodded and Pope eased out, ready to drop if Willy started shooting.

  “Sarah’s on the porch with a ten-gauge. We think somebody is watching us,” Pope said from the shadows.

  “Pope, how do I know it’s you?” Willy asked.

  “My grandfather’s name is Israel. I paid you and Roscoe back wages. Don’t forget to get salt blocks later today.”

  “Alright, I believe you!”

  “I’m going to scout around in my moccasins. Just don’t shoot me,” Pope said.

  “I won’t. Where in hell did you get a pebble to throw at me?”

  “Pinto bean.”

  “Well, then. I get it.”

  “I may throw another when I get back,” Pope said.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Pope slipped off, heading behind the house. He blew air out of his nose and sucked in fresh, cold air. Clear now, he sniffed the breeze.

  He could smell Willy had been smoking. Hopefully not on guard duty. His sniffs picked up the aroma of Sarah’s hair. Pope was not sure whether it was real or just wishful thinking.

  From the area around the corral and stables, he smelled horses. So far, no odor of man. He figured a range of one hundred yards, crept out the distance and began to circle the house.

  Pope went silently and slowly.

  Halfway around his circle put him one hundred yards across from the front door of the ranch house. He saw a horse another fifty yards outside the circle. In the dark, it appeared to be just standing there. Pope assumed it was hobbled.

  The man had to be laying on the ground between the horse and the house, looking.

  After five minutes, Pope saw a movement. This man was good. It took him five minutes to move perceptively. And five seconds to raise a rifle as Pope heard the bunk house door open as Roscoe came out for guard duty.

  Pope snapped the big Marlin up and pressed the trigger.

  The watcher jumped and dropped his rifle. He picked it up and ran, zig-zagging towards his horse. He mounted and jammed the rifle into a saddle sheath.

  In his excitement, the man spurred the animal before remembering the hobble.

  Pope was sprinting towards him as the man sat. He was temporarily dumbfounded.

  He raised a Colt at Pope.

  The detective fired and levered for another shot. The man dropped the Colt and slid off to remove the hobble. Hobble removed, he galloped off.

  Pope’s snap-shot blew the man’s Stetson off and he heard him yell “Sombitch!”

  The accent sounded Southern. Very Southern. Was this the shooter from the robberies? Or was it just a coincidence? The rider disappeared quickly in the blackness of the Wyoming night.

  Pope collected the Colt and the hat. The hat had a little blood inside the crown. He must have slightly creased the man.

  Pope walked back, calling out to identify himself.

  “I have a Colt to check out and a hat with a little blood where I must have creased the top of the shooter’s head. Next time, I’ll aim a few inches lower,” Pope said as he walked back to where Sarah and the two cowboys stood.

  Sarah had lit his police Dietz lantern and they focused the side beam on the Colt. It was a .45, so they had another gun to match against a bullet from a crime. It was the same caliber used to murder the ranch’s owner, Eb Carson.

  And, given a capture, a suspect with a crease in his scalp to match against the gun. Evidence was mounting. Custody remained elusive.

  Pope saddled a horse from the corral and rode after the watcher, who had a ten minute head start. Pope cantered to the other man’s gallop. He did not want to be seen after him, nor did he want to take on the gang by himself. He did not have a canteen or his Dietz lantern.

  Pope got off the horse and studied tracks every few minutes. When the moon was behind a cloud, he used a Lucifer to light the tracks. The distance between tracks was lessening. The man was slowing down.

  Pope followed more carefully. They had come almost five miles by his best reckoning. They may be approaching the rustlers’ camp.

  He pulled the horse up abruptly, having heard voices. There were no trees to use to tie his horse, so he dropped the reins and trusted it.

  Pope crept forward, rifle in hand.

  He saw the camp ahead and could not get an exact count on its occupants. It looked like around nine men. Some were asleep, some were milling around.

  The detective returned to his horse and walked it out of hearing.

  He arrived back at the ranch by three AM.

  Sarah was up waiting and was making coffee. The aroma of brewing coffee awakened Willy and Roscoe. All four had a mug of steaming coffee and the cowboys harnessed the mule and hooked up the buckboard.

  The two cowboys got an early start on the hay trip.

  Pope insisted Sarah go back to bed after they left. This time, he prevailed.

  After daylight, Pope stayed outside splitting wood and watching. Again, he thought how beneficial Scout would have been. The hound could sense an intruder much farther away than the detective.

  By noon, the detective was tired and sore. One thing was certain. His bullet wounds had healed. The soreness was muscles, not wounds.

  He figured they were about a quarter of the way done adding additional firewood for the winter.

  Sarah called to him and he joined her for a meal of cheese sandwiches and coffee.

  “Not quite the Cheyenne Club,” she joked.

  “I don’t care. Any meal is perfect with you present.”

  “You were serious with the proposal, weren’t you?” she asked.

  “I was and am. Of course, you were right. We cannot do it until one of us decides to turn in the badge and become a Wells Fargo office manager,” he said.

  “Or mother,” she added.

  She broke out into peals of laughter at the look on his face.

  “I’m just saying! No worries at all!”

  He looked relieved. They were in the middle of a major investigation. One which was not going very well and looked like they were in for the long haul.

  Sarah smiled sweetly at him. She could always pull his strings. She did not do it often. But she did it often enough to re
mind him she could do it at will.

  “I wish we had the .45 bullet removed from Eb so we could compare it to the Colt we just had drop into our possession,” Pope said.

  “Me, too. It may be spring before we can get it to compare.”

  “Maybe, Mr. Goodman will miss the Cheyenne Club and ride back in. He could bring it back. If we see him before April, we can ask,” Pope said.

  “I’m not used to this stuff of planning by seasons instead of hours. I love the rolling plains for a while, but I am not sure this is where I want to settle,” Sarah said.

  “Where would be your choice, my Sarah?”

  “Maybe around Prescott. Mountains and warmer weather. I understand there’s some pretty country in Colorado, too. But, colder than most of Arizona Territory.”

  “Northern California is nice, too,” Pope said. “One day, we will own a ranch not far from San Francisco and a cabin getaway north of the Bay. I hope it’s a long time off though,” Pope said thinking of his grandfather’s hope for him to ranch the land he would leave to Pope.

  “I hope so, too, honey. By then, it might be too populous for us. I think I’d like a lot of rolling land near mountains, water and a small city for doctors and supplies and all,” she said.

  “An area like you describe is worth seeking out. I am with you,” Pope said.

  They finished lunch deep in thoughts. If there was a relief watcher, he saw the two cowboys leave. The man Pope exchanged shots with would have had no way of knowing how many people were at the ranch, unless he set up his observation post before darkness. If he did, he was not much of a planner. He was laying on a knoll with no blanket or tarp and no canteen. His horse was a way away. Too far to walk to get basic needs like water, food and the like.

  “All things being equal, this might be the day the herd in front of us gets raided. We have to be especially vigilant, Sarah,” he said.

  “We are always vigilant, John.”

  Their thoughts were prophetic.

  Six men rode in fast, guns sheathed. They apparently did not expect a reception at the ranch.

  Under the circumstances, with no guns out, Pope could not exercise the range and power advantage of the .45-70. What if they were some of Goodman’s cowboys or Davis.’

  As they got close, Pope walked out with the carbine and both six-guns prominent.

  “Can I help you men?” he asked.

  They were clearly surprised.

  One pulled for a holstered revolver.

  A shot from the .45-70 blew through him and he fell off the horse. Pope dropped the Marlin and drew both Colts. Another man drew and Sarah put a load of double-ought buckshot in his chest. Two down.

  The four remaining spun their horses and left their dead companions where they laid. Pope thought about picking up the rifle and dropping another couple as they rode off, but backshooting was not his way. He let them go.

  “What’s your plan?” Sarah asked.

  “Wait until the boys get back and night trail these fellas tonight. I found out last night where they are cooped up.”

  He walked over and checked the two on the ground. Both were dead. He removed a few dollars and wallets. No names. Their guns were a Colt Navy conversion and a Smith & Wesson like Sarah’s .44. He collected them and gave her the second man’s gun and cartridges.

  “Here, now you have a matching revolver for two big gun events. And, you can’t have too much ammo,” he grinned as he handed her the Smith & Wesson and cartridges.

  “These men came to rustle, not to fight. Canteens and lariats, but no rifles, saddlebags or bedrolls. I figure they are no more than five or ten miles from here.”

  “Are they hiding out on Goodman’s or Davis’ ranch?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. Willy told me there is a strip due north of here which, like this place, does not belong to either. They rode up through this strip. When I followed the watcher, the trail led me straight north to their camp., We will send the boys back to Cheyenne again tomorrow with the two bodies and to bring back a posse,” Pope said.

  The two cowboys arrived a couple hours later to find two bodies rolled in old blankets from the bunkhouse and tied with rope.

  Pope relayed the story as he helped them unload the hay bales and put all but one in the stable for winter storage.

  They took one out, broke it open and spread it around the small pasture to supplement the tastier grass growing there.

  Neither groused over another trip to Cheyenne. Driving a buckboard beat working a ranch any day. They grew even more impressed at the woman detective’s shooting rate.

  They had some things for Pope. One was the .45 bullet dug out of Eb Carson to compare with the captured Colt. Another secret item was from a local bakery. A cake for Sarah’s birthday. The last was a locket. Pope had sent twenty dollars to spend on a present and told them to have the jeweler pick the item for them. He was pleased at the result. He hoped she would be, too.

  Sarah fixed dinner, thinking Pope had forgotten this, her first birthday with him.

  “What a great dinner!” he said.

  “You mean left over beef stew?” Sarah asked.

  “I mean really good beef stew. Don’t you think, boys?” Both nodded sincerely.

  “All we really need is dessert,” Pope said, nodding to Willy who slipped outside. It had turned too cold to eat dinner on the porch.

  He returned with the birthday cake, the first Sarah had in years.

  Her surprise turned to tears, which confused the male audience.

  Pope hugged her.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, silly. Don’t you know women cry when we’re happy?”

  “No, I guess I don’t. Maybe a present will make you smile.” He handed her a small box with the pendant on a gold chain. She opened it and said, “I love it!” and cried harder.

  After, in bed, Pope gently asked her again about the crying.

  “I cried because you and the boys touched my heart. Nobody has had a birthday party for me since I was a little girl. I love you so much!”

  “I love you, too, Sarah. How long ago were you ten? Fifteen years ago?” he asked.

  “Wrong by five years. I’m thirty today. Three years older than you and I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

  “Neither do I,” he admitted. “All I know is I was ten when my parents and little sister were killed by a war party. My grandfather came and got me. We talked and he took me on a quest to find the party. We did. And we killed them all. Every single one of them.”

  “Dear God, Pope! How did you feel about it? Did Israel kill most of them?” she asked.

  “We killed about the same number. He saw to it. He said it was important for me to get even and to get the hate out of my system. I did it and never looked back. My parents never held much store by birthdays. As far as most of my memories go, they started with the day my grandpa picked me up in Kansas and we hit the retribution trail. Nobody could have been a better or more loving parent than him. Nobody, Sarah.”

  “Pope, I have to tell you something. Something which might affect where you and I go from here.”

  “I doubt it, but go ahead and spill it, Sarah.”

  “I cannot conceive children. I had a fever when I was fifteen and it made me infertile.”

  “You would have been a wonderful mother. Maybe, if you want, we can adopt some children someday. But, you will still be the only wife I will ever want, so it won’t affect our relationship one way or the other, I promise, Sarah.”

  She hugged him tightly and cried softly into his chest. This time, he knew it was tears of joy.

  Pope helped Willy and Roscoe load the two bodies onto the buckboard early the next morning.

  “I have seen the outlaw camp from a distance, so I pretty much know where it is. I’m comfortable enough for the sheriff to call up a posse and come this way. He may or not want the US Marshal to participate. His call. I will just be a posse member as far as anyone
other than you two and the sheriff are concerned. He may solicit some men from the two adjourning ranches. Again, it’s his call.

  Tell Sheriff Sharples if he wants to camp the men here, to give the Wells Fargo office this letter. It authorizes them to give him a draft to cover some camp gear and food for a couple nights for the posse. His county seat being one of the richest places around, he might not need it. I think coming up here this afternoon and searching out the outlaw camp early tomorrow would be smart. They may decide to winter somewhere else. We don’t want to miss this chance at them. They are down two men anyway.”

  “We’ll do her, boss,” Willy said, and they left in the mule-drawn buckboard once again. Pope and Sarah were once again alone to face the gang if they returned unexpectedly.

  The two cowboys returned by four o’clock with Sheriff Sharples and six possemen. Sharples said Akin had come but diverted over to the Goodman ranch to try to get Goodman’s son and a few of their cowboys for the posse.

  As they were setting up camp, Deputy Akin rode in. He said four Goodman cowboys and son Bob would join them at daybreak. Those men made for fourteen possemen with Pope. He planned to leave his two cowboys at the ranch with Sarah in case the rustlers circled around and hit the ranch while he and the posse were gone. Sharples concluded with his strategy.

  “Thanks for offering to pay towards feeding the men. My budget is pretty good, so I did not take advantage of Wells Fargo’s offer. Maybe next time,” the sheriff told Pope.

  Pope proposed, using his Dietz police lantern, having either the sheriff or chief deputy Horatio Akin ride with him a half mile in advance of the posse. He would track the rustlers. If they came up on the camp unexpectedly in the dark, which he said he did not expect to do, they would make the shoot or slip away decision on the spot. In the dark, most of the prairie looked the same.

  “Your posse, Sheriff. Just think of me as a tracker or scout,” Pope said.

  “Pope, I am a detective. I think it’s enough to have Willy and Roscoe looking after the ranch. I want to ride with the posse. We will have fifteen of us. We don’t know if the Wells Fargo manager’s original estimate of twenty outlaws was right or wrong. Too many of us beats too few,” Sarah said.