Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2)

by G. Wayne Tilman

  The district attorney himself served as prosecutor. As a politician who stood for law and order, he could not turn down the publicity of a big case ending in a hanging. He was convinced “hanged by the neck until dead” would be the verdict.

  The prosecutor and defense counsel made their opening statements.

  Pope was called an hour before the probable lunch break.

  “Detective Pope, state your name and make a brief statement of your experience as an investigator.”

  “My name is John Pope. I serve as a detective with the Wells Fargo company. I have served in this capacity for about a year. Prior to Wells Fargo, I was a police officer, then detective with the San Francisco Police Department. I was there for eight years.

  I was sent to Wyoming with my partner, Detective Sarah Watson, formerly of Pinkerton’s. We were charged with investigating a series of stage and train robberies in the area. We did so and brought the robbers to justice. Then, before we returned, the office here was robbed. The manager, a female customer, and a town constable were killed by the robber.”

  “Objection!” the defense attorney yelled. “My client has not been found guilty of those shootings.”

  “Detective Pope, upon what do you base your conclusion the defendant committed those crimes?” the judge asked.

  “I base them on the admissions of the defendant during questioning. The admission of all the murders was witnessed by the sheriff, chief deputy, Wells Fargo Detective Jake Bell, and Detective Watson.”

  “Continue your statement,” the judge ordered.

  “Detective Watson was named interim manager and I began to track down leads. We developed the chief suspect to be the defendant. I followed his trail for days during the late fall and winter and lost it when he started using trains. His travels were erratic. I even later went to Bowie, Texas and interviewed his parents. I was convinced we had the right suspect.”

  “How did you close in on your suspect, detective?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I requested our main office construct a list of places he was seen after leaving here. Detective Jake Bell did the sheet listing sightings by name, Kid Taos, or someone with a similar method of operation. We found he had numerous murder and other warrants from other states and territories. Detective Bell arrived in Cheyenne with his sheet and we posted sightings in date order on a map of the Western United States.

  While we were following up a lead, he was spotted in Denver. The informant said he was headed north. Cheyenne was the logical place. Based on the mental profile we had established we were pretty certain he was coming back to rob Wells Fargo again.

  We raced him here and apprehended him robbing the office and holding Detective Watson hostage.”

  “How did you apprehend him during the robbery, detective?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I tried negotiating with him to release Detective Watson and surrender. I watched his hand on his gun. He began to cock the hammer of a single action Smith & Wesson Schofield held to Detective Watson’s head. I drew and shot him in the wrist. I then sent for medical help, put a tourniquet on his arm and took him into custody.”

  “You mentioned a mental profile. Kindly tell the court what you meant,” the prosecutor asked.

  “The suspect we were looking for shot down an innocent wife and mother for the crime of walking in the door. Now, managers, whether bank, Wells Fargo or whatever, get shot in robberies. So, do policemen like the one killed during the escape. But, killing a young woman who did not represent a threat indicated to me we were dealing with a cold murderer. The answers we received to questions asked during his interview gave the profile of a person who killed with no hesitation and no remorse. He was a man able to travel, buy railroad tickets, plan a route. But he had no sense of conscience about killing or lying.”

  “Objection!”

  “Counselor, you will have your time in a minute,” the judge said.

  “Detective Pope, are you convinced we have the right man for the crimes occurring in Laramie County?”

  “Yessir. I was convinced when we were looking for him, when he turned up here again and when he confessed to all three murders related to Wells Fargo robberies.”

  “Your honor, I have no further questions of Detective Pope.”

  The defense counsel approached the witness stand.

  “Mr. Pope, and I will address you as ‘mister’ since you do not work for a bonafide police department anymore, you mentioned a mental profile. Let me ask you. Do you have a medical degree?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then what in God’s name qualifies you to develop a so-called mental profile?”

  “Training and experience in listing characteristics of people who commit unspeakable acts of violence for no reason,” Pope said quietly.

  “Your honor and gentlemen of the jury, I propose to you this private so-called detective, has no more ability to do mental profiles than my pet hound!”

  A few people in the courtroom chuckled until the judge slammed his gavel down.

  “Mr. Pope. Did you not pull your gun and shoot near the head of your partner, Miss Watson?”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t you think such an act is awfully risky?”

  “I absolutely do. However, I saw him cocking his firearm to shoot her in the head from inches away. The only way I could stop the gun from going off was to shoot him in the wrist. Had I shot his gun, a ricochet may have hit Detective Watson. It was this or she would have died on the spot.”

  “Mr. Pope, is it true your associates call you the ‘Gun for Wells Fargo?’ and you are a hired gun paid to fix things for your company?”

  Pope waited a second for an “objection,” and when none was uttered, spoke.

  “None of my friends or associates at Wells Fargo refer to me by the name you mentioned, so I don’t know the answer. As to being a hired gun? I work for one of the most respected, honorable firms in America. I am a hired investigator. My work is dangerous, so I go armed. It is my training, experience and investigative abilities for which I am hired. Not my gun, sir!”

  “Moving on, how did you coerce my client into admitting to several murders? Beat him?”

  Again, the prosecutor allowed Pope to answer without objecting.

  “I did not threaten him or lay a hand on him. You have four other witnesses on your list to cross-examine who saw every second of the interview. I asked Mr. Randolph questions without raising my voice and he answered them the same way. Ask them.”

  “In your great realm of knowledge about mental matters, Mr. Pope, do you think my client is insane?”

  “He has some characteristics of insane people and yet is fully capable of taking care of himself. As you noted, I don’t have medical training sufficient to render an answer about his sanity. I know he is too dangerous a person to allow back on the streets.”

  “No further questions, your honor.”

  “This court will take an hour recess for lunch. We will promptly reconvene at one o’clock,” the judge said as he struck his gavel against its base.

  “All rise,” Sheriff Sharples said.

  Court reconvened at the appointed time. The sheriff and chief deputy were questioned about the interview and validated Pope’s report. Witnesses to the first robbery, the shooting of the constable, and the people inside for the second robbery all testified. To a person, their remarks were damning to Randolph’s case.

  Sarah was called and questioned about being a hostage.

  The prosecutor and defense attorney gave their closing arguments, and the judge charged the jury with its responsibilities.

  The jury left to discuss what they had heard and develop a finding of guilt or innocence.

  Everyone left the courtroom. Most left for the streets and saloons, knowing the word would spread like wildfire when the jury returned.

  The district attorney, sheriff, chief deputy, Wells Fargo detectives and mayor adjourned to the district attorney’s office to wait.

  “
I am pretty much convinced they will return three capital murder convictions, as well as the other charges,” the district attorney said, confident in his prosecution and the convincing testimony of all witnesses.”

  “Detective Pope,” he continued, “you’ve been around enough to know the defense counsel was just doing his job. Nothing against you.”

  “I know. It was irritating, but anticipated, sir.”

  “Were you surprised the defense counsel didn’t call Randolph up to testify?” Akin asked the district attorney.

  “Not really. I think Mr. Randolph is a loose cannon and his lawyer knew it.”

  Like people winding down after a funeral, they joked and tried to relieve the anxiousness which accompanies a trial where people have died, and the defendant’s life depended on the finding.

  Thirty minutes later, the clerk called them back to the courtroom.

  The foreman was told to read their findings.

  “On count one, shooting Mr. McCarthy, guilty

  Count two, shooting Mrs. Paulson, guilty

  Count three, shooting Constable Hopper, guilty

  Count four, aggravated assault against Detective Watson, guilty

  Count five, robbery of the Wells Fargo office, guilty.

  The judge nodded to the sheriff, who said “The defendant will rise.” When Randolph did not, he walked over and assisted him almost gently.

  The judge spoke again.

  “Mr. Randolph. I have to decide your sentence and I am going to do it right now. There is no use in delaying. I must tell you, I have wrestled in my mind with putting you in an insane asylum for the rest of your life. I think, as the detective hinted, part of you is bent. But you seem to get by like normal people until it comes to killing someone.

  The jury has found you guilty on three capital murders. I have no option but to sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead.”

  The courtroom was silent, except for Mrs. Randolph fainting and luckily being caught by her husband. People filed out behind the news reporters who ran out.

  The sheriff and Akin led Randolph back to a cell.

  Pope, Sarah, and Bell walked out. Pope sought the Randolph’s.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Randolph, I am sorry how this went down,” he said.

  Mrs. Randolph, still tearful, looked at him a long time, then at Sarah.

  “You said you’d try to take him alive and you did,” she said. Then she addressed Sarah.

  “I’m sorry my boy threatened you and the other detective had to wound him,” she said.

  Sarah hugged her and whispered in her ear “Mrs. Randolph, the other detective is my fiancé. I am sure you can understand the pressure he was under.”

  “I guess keeping his word was real hard, young lady.” Sarah nodded. She learned from Pope a good nod beats saying the wrong thing.

  Mr. Randolph shook hands with each.

  “Go see your boy in the jail. The chief deputy is named Horatio Akin. He will arrange it,” Bell suggested as he shook the older man’s hand.

  After they parted, Bell said “I think I need a drink, anyone else?”

  “No, Jake. Not in the mood. I think I’ll take a walk.

  “Care for some company, cowboy?”

  “I would love some company. Jake, see you later.”

  They walked down the street. A reporter asked for a statement and Pope denied him.

  “How do you feel about this, John?”

  “Mixed, honey. Justice was served. He killed people and almost killed one of the only two people I ever loved. At the same time, he was not right in the head. I almost wish he went to an asylum for life. But the district attorney said they are horrible. Worse than dying. He said the hangman was doing Randolph a favor over an asylum.

  Maybe one day, there’ll be a better way. I don’t expect it anytime soon though.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you surprise me, cowboy. But, every time, it makes me love you even more. I didn’t think three minutes ago I could. But now I do.”

  “‘I do’ sounds good coming out of your sweet lips. Keep practicing it.”

  “No need. I have it down really well. I can say it in my sleep.”

  “Good.”

  They walked on. As they passed the Wells Fargo office, they looked in. Cashier Chester Lyon looked up from where he was manning Sarah’s desk and grinned and waved.

  Pope gently turned her around and guided her in the door. He picked up a telegraph message pad from Olson.

  “JHume. Stop. Kid Taos sentenced to hang. Stop. Case close docs on way. Stop. JPope SWatson JBell.”

  “Let’s finish our walk,” Pope suggested as he guided her out the door.

  His first stop was the grocer where he bought two apples. They gave one to Caesar and one to Bell’s paint. After visiting for a while with the two horses, they continued on.

  11

  The day after Kid Taos was hung, the awaited telegram arrived. It was typically laconic, as was James Hume’s fashion.

  “Pope and Watson. Stop. Return SFO immediately. Stop. Bring all gear. Stop. JHume”

  “Well, this telegram could mean anything. Almost sounds like we are being fired. But we’ve done nothing but clear the toughest cases in Wells Fargo history, so I doubt firing is the reason. You’d think he or Pridham would have the decency to let you know something about the office here, instead of just ordering us back with no explanation,” Pope said.

  “James Hume is an honorable man, John. You know it as well as anyone. He must have good reason. We should not second guess what it is. We will find out in about three days. It’s too late to leave today.”

  The following day, an assistant manager from a very large office arrived and introduced himself as the interim manager. Sarah gave him a solid orientation about the office, its staff and the type customers it has. They went by the sheriff’s office for a quick goodbye.

  Late in the afternoon, they boarded a train after getting Caesar settled in a stock car with the guarantee of plenty of feed and water.

  The train whistle blew and the wheels began to turn, taking them to their next adventure. An adventure about which they had no idea.

  “John, in the six months in Cheyenne, we have largely lived off expenses. We have saved hundreds of dollars! More than enough for a nice honeymoon!”

  “Yes. Or, to buy food if we are out of work. Caesar eats more than both of us.”

  “I think things will be alright, honey,” she said.

  After the quick run to Denver, they turned west and crossed the Continental Divide, the Rocky Mountains and several desserts. It was a good trip. They arrived in San Francisco in the morning. They hailed a hansom cab for Sarah and their luggage and gear. Pope knew Caesar needed some exercise and rode along with the cab to their rooms. He tied the big horse outside as they moved back into the now-musty rooms.

  “I’ll ride Caesar back to the livery by the office and put him up. Then, I will drop by and let the boss know we are back.”

  Pope rode to the livery and checked Caesar in to a stall. He then walked the block to the headquarters and up the steps to the bull pen. He checked in with Hume’s secretary. The man told Pope the boss was on the executive floor in an important meeting. He promised to tell Hume they were back when he returned.

  After six months absence, most of the paperwork on Pope’s desk was out-of-date junk. It took him a very short time to review and discard all of them.

  He waited for Hume to show up. Towards the end of the day, the secretary brought him a handwritten note from the chief detective.

  He took it out of the envelope and read it as the secretary waited for his answer.

  “Pope and Watson, welcome home. Get out best suits and meet me at rear door of Bohemian Club at noon tomorrow. Highly secret meeting. Share with nobody. Do not come into office first. Hume”

  “Tell him we will see him as requested,” Pope said.

  When he got back to
their rooming house, Sarah had aired out both of their rooms and moved them back in.

  “What did you learn?” she asked.

  “Nothing, really. We have a luncheon date tomorrow at the Bohemian Club with Hume and I suspect someone else. Hume does okay, but he does not swing the kind of money necessary to be a club member. He said wear out best suits. Think we need to do some shopping?”

  “I don’t know. We can take a look at our wardrobe and decide then. This is very interesting. They would not take us to lunch at some sort of club to fire us.”

  “The Bohemian Club is the most ritzy club in San Francisco. I have never been there but it’s top drawer,” Pope said.

  “This all means we are meeting with someone real important. I wonder who and why?” Sarah said.

  “As we detectives say ‘I don’t have a clue.”

  “Can I even go into this club since I’m a woman?”

  “We are meeting Hume at the rear door. I guess whoever we are seeing is not rich enough to get you in the front,” Pope said bracing for the inevitable shoulder punch. It did not come this time.

  “Or he is rich or powerful enough and this is really, really secret,” she said instead.

  “We will just go and see what it’s all about. It may be something we will have to talk about privately before accepting.”

  “I have a strong suspicion you are correct about talking privately,” she agreed.

  They did not have food in the cabinets of the kitchen in Sarah’s larger apartment, so they went to a formerly favorite café and had dinner. On the way out, they bought some baked items for breakfast.

  Towards eleven o’clock, Sarah came in with a robe and nothing else but her .44 Smith & Wesson. She put it on the bedside table on her side. A .44 Colt was already on his side.

  She snuggled in beside him and sighed.

  “I think we are about to embark on a really big adventure. One more exciting and demanding than managing an office or tracking down some poor deluded fellow. What do you think, my love?” she asked.