Sarah drew her .44 revolver and shot him twice in the torso.
The other one jumped up from his chair and pulled. Pope drew and killed him before he stood to full height.
There was shock and silence in a saloon which had seen death and mayhem before.
The barkeep and a couple men dragged the bodies out the door to keep blood from soaking into his luxurious sawdust floor.
Pope checked the men while Sarah watched his back.
“You men, and barkeep. Did anyone hear the older man with the cigar or the one with the strong Appalachian accent say where they were going?” Sarah asked.
“Them fellas you just shot was joshing with them the first night.”
“Joshing how,” Sarah asked the somewhat inebriated man.
“About how in heck they was coming ‘way up here to get over to Denver? The reasoning beat their friends and the rest of us.”
“The cigar-smoking man and the one with the Southern accent were talking about going to Denver?”
“Yep. They was going to follow the Oregon Trail east into Nebraska, then down to Colorado. They said they had to pick up some stuff at the trading post here in the village.”
“What kind of stuff,” she asked.
“Camping stuff. They bought some already-cooked food right here.”
She turned to the barkeep.
“The trading post is attached to this saloon. Do you know what they bought?” she asked.
“Biscuits, cornpone, a bunch of beer sausages, some already-cooked beans, an axe and some tarpaulins,” he said.
They recovered several hundred dollars. Whiskey was apparently not cheap in Deer Creek.
Pope composed a quick report to Hume and converted it to Wells Fargo cypher from his code book. He sent a non-coded wire to the commanding officer at Ft. Federman. He advised they would be there tomorrow at the latest. Both were tapped in before they left.
They followed the Oregon Trail east from Deer Creek to the fort. They left the two prisoners in the brig for pickup and transport by the US Marshal. They also took the bodies to the fort.
“Let the Marshal decide what to do with them also,” Pope said.
The commanding officer gave them a receipt for “Two men, described below, arrested by Wells Fargo detectives for train robbery, stage robbery, cattle rustling and accessory to murder of one EB Carson, northwest of Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. Three corpses, male, two killed resisting arrest by below-named Wells Fargo detectives. One froze to death on the trail before apprehension. Said corpse identified by their gang members as noted below. Same charges for deceased outlaws.”
Sarah mailed the receipt to Hume in San Francisco.
Now unencumbered again, they decided not to directly trail Black and Hazeltine. If they were trying to take a circuitous route to Denver, the detectives would go straight to the city. Which meant returning to Cheyenne and heading due south.
Several days later, they rode into Cheyenne. They reported to the Wells Fargo office, stabled their horses and the mule and advised the sheriff what had transpired.
The next morning, they boarded the Union Pacific train in Cheyenne for the short ride south.
“I believe we will get to Denver before our cigar-smoking friend and his murderous sidekick,” Pope told Sarah.
“If we don’t find him there, I’m not sure what we will do,” she said.
“While I’ve not had a fugitive elude me yet, this could be the one. Every other detective I’ve spoken with has had multiple cases they could not solve and people they could not catch. Look at Black Bart. Both Hume and Morse, two of the greatest detectives in history have chased him for seven years. They don’t have a clue who he is, Sarah. Not a single clue. These two could be our dead-end cases. I hope not.”
“The same is true of Pinkerton’s. Look at John Wilkes Booth. Few who are
knowledgable about him really think the man killed at Garrett’s tobacco barn was really him. He and the inability to catch the James Brothers have wracked at Allan Pinkerton for years. And, due to his condition, I think he will carry both frustrations to his death,” Sarah said.
“So, we’ll keep doing our best until the boss tells us to give it up and take on another case…or five,” Pope said. His partner nodded her agreement as the train rolled on towards Denver.
Neither detective knew the Wells Fargo manager in Denver. His name was Marcus Howard.
“We are pursuing two fugitives wanted for robbing Wells Fargo on trains and stages, shooting two Wells Fargo employees, murdering a rancher and cattle rustling. We have brought the gang to justice, except for these two. They are the most important and elusive. Rufus Black is the leader and Cletus Hazeltine is the shooter. We have bullets tying to his previous and current revolver and three shootings.”
“Why Denver, detectives?” the manager asked.
“We have interview testimony from several gang members he and Hazeltine planned to come here by a circuitous route to avoid Cheyenne. We think we may have beaten him by a day or two,” Sarah said.
“I am curious. I take the Cheyenne newspaper. Did the two of you take these ruffians on alone?”
“We had a Laramie County posse with us for one instance. We were alone for the others,” Sarah responded.
The manager nodded. The paper had been specific. He was interested in how the two characterized their actions. He knew the woman had outdrawn one herself. They did not seem to exude any braggadocio.
“How are you going to proceed and find these two?” he asked.
“First, we will solicit your suggestions. Then, visit with Denver Police Chief, the Arapahoe County sheriff, then the US Marshal for their help. These two would be a good arrest for any Colorado lawman,” Pope said.
“First off, avoid the current police chief. He works very closely with Soapy Smith. Same for the sheriff. I don’t know about the marshal. We have a bad situation here in Denver. A couple of crime bosses run the city. They have for several years.”
“Who is Soapy Smith?” Sarah asked.
“Jefferson Randolph Smith runs gambling, prostitution and protection in Denver. He started with a con game with money hidden inside the wrappers of bars of soap. Hence his name. He would gather a crowd and sell specific bars to his henchmen in the crowd. They would find a dollar bill or a five and yell out. The crowd would get excited and Soapy would say “the one with the hundred-dollar bill is still in the basket! How many will buy a bar to find it? Generally, every bar would be sold. If the hundred dollar bill was found, you can rest assured it was by one of his men.
He owns three saloons and more brothels. He also has some front businesses. He has even used fake telegraph services in the past. He’d take money for a fee and often to ‘transfer.’ The telegraph is not hooked to a wire. The telegrams don’t leave his premises. There are few complaints because folks don’t realize their money or wires never went through.”
“Maybe we should talk with him,” Pope said.
“You could try. He’s got connections, a temper, and a fast gun though.”
“Such attributes have not hindered us in the past,” Pope stated matter of factly.
“You might want to have Hume wire the governor to run an outside investigation of your deaths just in case. The local one would make Smith come out a hero. I guarantee it,” the manager said.
“Let’s wire Hume. But, instead, let’s ask for a five-hundred dollar bribe to Smith for information leading to the apprehension of both,” Sarah suggested.
“If I went into his place, I’d take a letter copy of the reward instead of cash,” he said.
“Let’s wire the chief detective now. We can write up the reward notice while we are waiting.”
“You are pretty confidant.”
“If my figures are correct, we will have recovered a gross of almost eighteen-thousand of the total treasure taken of twenty-three thousand after the reward,” Pope said.
The manager took out his cypher book and converted the te
legram he had jotted down into code. He signed it “J. Pope S. Watson” in code.
They adjourned to two desks which were temporarily assigned to them. Pope and Sarah planned the strategy they would use to convince Smith to accept the offer of the reward.
Hume always arrived early to his office. By mid-morning, he was at peak operation.
It did not surprise either detective to receive a reply by ten AM.
“Pope offer two fifty. Stop. Three if reqd. Stop. Hume.”
Sarah had left the amount blank and added two hundred fifty dollars to it. They took the document down the street to a printer and had him set and run forty copies of a typical Wells Fargo wanted poster. They would take one to Soapy Smith. If he did not bite, they would post the other thirty-nine around town. They would especially post it near saloons, brothels and cigar stores. They would be places Black and Hazeltine would frequent.
Howard gave Pope some places to look for Smith. Sarah went, but was going to serve as backup outside. This time, she did not plan to breach a saloon door.
Soapy Smith was in the third of his saloons they checked.
He was a medium height man about thirty years old. He had dark hair, a dark vested suit, and a heavy dark mustache. He looked like the businessman he was. Once one looked closely into his eyes, he would see dishonesty and violence. They showed a man who would con or knife someone as soon as he would look at them. The fact Pope did not see guns in the suit suggested he would be unable to pull quickly if needed. Pope spotted the butt of a Remington double derringer protruding from his left vest pocket. The observation suggested he was left-handed. If the little Remington was his everyday carry, he was only dangerous for the first five feet or so, Pope opined.
Pope brushed aside some thugs and walked up to their boss.
“Who the hell are you? Walking in here like it’s you who owns the place instead of me,” he said to Pope.
“I am John Pope. I work for Wells Fargo. I have a deal for you. The thugs were in my way of offering it to you. Want to hear it?”
“You’re already spouting off. Pray continue.”
Pope handed him one copy of the wanted poster.
“I understand you are in touch with everything happening in Denver. If you know these two men, or can locate them, it would be worth two-hundred fifty dollars to me.”
“Apiece?” the con man countered.
“Together. They are not worth two-fifty apiece.”
“So, all I got to do it ask around, find out where they are and let you know?”
“Yep. But I have to arrest them, too.”
“What if they kill you?” Smith asked.
“Very unlikely. The gunman of the two used to pack a .32. Not the type fellow I’d be worried about.”
“He could get lucky. Or the other one, while you was focusing on the gunsel.”
“Occupational hazard for a Wells Fargo detective, Mr. Smith. I’ve come up against better than these two. I had the wanted poster run because I am tired of riding around in cold weather looking for them.”
“Wal, if you get too cold, I have some places you can drop by and warm right up.”
“I understand you do,” Pope said, smiling, but with no intention on acting on the invitation.
“I might ask around,” Smith said.
“I’d appreciate you asking around. We are set to distribute hundreds of these wanted posters in two days. It would be much better for me to deal with one man with sources than a bunch of yahoos with an itching for ten months’ worth of cowboying money,” Pope said.
He nodded at Smith and turned, walking out the door to Sarah.
“Everything alright out here?” he asked.
“I was just offered twenty dollars for five minutes.”
“I thought the Minute Men were just during the American Revolution. I guess there are still a few around,” he said.
“You know twenty bucks for five minutes is two-hundred forty dollars an hour?”
“Considering it, are you?” he asked just before she slugged him in the chest in front of a bunch of drunks. It gave them far more enjoyment than Pope. Sarah could punch really hard, mad or not. He was barely months into healing from two gunshot wounds, which she realized as she hit him, though too late to pull her punch.
He did not say a word to her or even look accusingly. He just stared at her. He saw a tear in the corner of one eye. Sarah interlaced her arm in his and said, “Let’s go home, partner.”
“Where is home?” he asked.
“The Windsor Hotel at 18th and Larimer,” she responded as they walked. “Or, under a tarp on the trail, or a dead man’s ranch house. Wherever you are, silly.”
They went into the Wells Fargo office the following morning after a quick breakfast at the hotel.
There was nothing from Soapy Smith yet. They figured they would give Smith until at least late afternoon before writing him off and hitting the streets with posters and questions.
Before lunch, the chief of police showed up at the Wells Fargo office. He was a man in his mid-fifties with a florid complexion and a pot belly. He wore an expensively cut suit in a really ugly plaid material. He wore his star prominently on the left lapel.
“Howard, where are those damned detectives?”
Both rose.
Pope walked over to him and looked down.
“There is a lady present. I would appreciate it if you tone down your cursing, Chief.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” the self-important politician asked.
“I am someone you don’t want to mess with,” Pope said quietly in his deep voice.
“I am scared to death,” the sheriff said mockingly.
“Maybe you are smarter than you look after all. You should be scared. Now, how can we help you?”
“What gives you the right to come into my town and start looking for people?” he asked.
“It’s what we do all over the United States. We arrest and bring to justice people who rob Wells Fargo and our customers. The two we are after are wanted for murder, train robbery, stage robbery and cattle rustling. We are looking for results not credit. You should be glad we are doing your work for you,” Pope said.
With a “humph!” the portly lawman turned on his heels and strode out of the office.
“Well, certainly a conversation which went exceedingly well, I’d say,” Marcus Howard remarked.
“Would you rather Sarah have shot him? I noticed she was tapping the butt of her .44. The fat-ass chief’s danger awareness was so bad, he never knew.”
“If she had shot the pompous little prig, it would have done a service to the fine folks of Denver,” Howard said.
“I’ll keep it in mind for next time,” Sarah said.
Howard turned to Pope, smiling, and asked “What’s it like traveling with someone so dangerous?”
“I stay terrified all the time,” Pope responded. Sarah said nothing but wondered if she did come off too quick to deal harm. She still felt badly about hitting Pope near a grievous wound. Sarah wondered if his laconic humor masked other more worrisome feelings.
If so, she knew, finding out would take all off her interrogatory training. Pope was a silent man, and it was hard to probe his real feelings.
“I wonder if Soapy Smith told the chief about the two we’re after. Or maybe the printer who printed the wanted posters did?” Pope asked, generally in Howard’s direction.”
“Could be either. Lots of people want his favor. He has a long history of granting it to the most undeserving of them. This city needs to have its house cleaned, Pope, and sooner than later.”
Towards the end of the day, a man who would be identified as a gambler anywhere in the West walked in. He spotted the two detectives and headed straight for them.
“Friend of mine said to give either of you this here paper,” he said.
Sarah read it and nodded to Pope. Reading it upside down, he saw it was the wanted poster and a hotel address followed by Soapy Smith�
�s signature was on the bottom.
Pope handed the man two-bits and he left.
“Know the address?” Pope asked Howard, showing him the poster.
“Yeah. It’s just on the wrong side of town from the saloon where you found Soapy. He probably owns it. I don’t know whether it’s a brothel or hotel nowadays,” Howard said. “Probably both,” he added.
“Let’s hit it tonight around midnight. I’m thinking we should offer to take a couple of city policemen with us and let them get the credit. Hume knows who’s behind it. The publicity the two of us are getting is going to ruin our ability to properly do our jobs,” Pope said. Sarah agreed.
Howard was dumfounded the detectives were going to share credit with the city police.
They had a quiet dinner at the hotel and walked over to the police department around ten o’clock.
They asked the desk sergeant for a senior detective and one appeared shortly.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. He was a large middle-aged man who looked like he could handle himself in a brawl. A brawl which did not last too long and did not require running.
Pope handed the wanted poster to the detective after identifying himself and Sarah.
“You can see what charges these two are facing. Hazeltine is sure to hang. Black will probably get twenty years hard time in Wyoming.”
“Isn’t this something for the US Marshal, being across state lines and all?” the local detective asked.
“Probably. But why don’t you take the credit and then have the marshal take the prisoners off your hands after you get the newspaper coverage?”
“Are they both shooters?” he asked.
“We don’t know for sure. We do know the evidence says Hazeltine killed one and shot two. I don’t mind taking him. It’s what I, or rather, we do,” Pope said, nodding to Sarah.
“She shoots too?” the detective asked.
“She does. And fast and straight.”
“Let me get a couple of my bulls to go along,” the detective said, disappearing down the hall. He returned with two other detectives. Both were the size of a bull. They carried shotguns.
“Do we have warrants?” he asked the two from Wells Fargo.
Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2) Page 10