Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2) Read online

  Wyoming Shootout

  Gun For Wells Fargo II

  G. Wayne Tilman

  Wyoming Shootout

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2021 G. Wayne Tilman

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  This novel is historical fiction. Any historical figures herein are depicted fictionally in the story, other characters are purely the creation of the author.

  The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author only and not of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or any other federal agency.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-287-6

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-282-1

  Contents

  Get your FREE Starter Library

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  If You Like This, You May Enjoy: Arizona Gunmen

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  About the Author

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  Wyoming Shootout

  Acknowledgments

  Appreciation is expressed to Denise Kearns, Becca Payne,

  and Susan Stecker for their contributions as Beta readers.

  1

  Detective John Pope was irritable. He was recovering from two serious bullet wounds sustained in the line of duty as a detective for Wells Fargo & Company. His partner, Sarah Watson, had shot his attacker.

  But, the man, dying from her two bullets in the chest, aimed one last shot at Pope’s beloved Sarah. Before he could press the trigger, Pope painfully extended his one good arm from where he was laying on the floor. A trigger press put a .44 slug in the back of the man’s head. He finished the job, preventing something which happened all too often in the American West.

  Someone would be shot in a vital spot with a commonly used round nose solid lead bullet. Yet, he would live to kill the person who shot him, and then die himself a day or two later.

  Pope knew how to avoid this from training by his former mountain man grandfather, Israel Pope, from his years as a San Francisco detective and most recently his Wells Fargo experience. The solution was to shoot to disrupt the central nervous system. To instantly unplug the gunman with a head shot or any shot to sever the spinal cord. Or, to use the ten or twelve-gauge shotguns the stage drivers used.

  Bleeding out took too long when the aggressor still had a gun or knife in hand.

  These thoughts were on Pope’s mind as he hobbled around his grandfather’s remote cabin in Marin County in early autumn 1882. It was fast approaching noon.

  Pope was an action man. Being invalided was an interruption to his natural way. Being ten miles and a slow ferry ride across San Francisco Bay from his Sarah was an interruption to his happiness.

  He sat on the swing on the front porch of the cabin he and his grandfather had built by hand. His blue tick hound, Scout, sprawled watchfully beside him. Pope still was wearing a sling supporting his left arm. Having his arm immobile contributed to the healing of a wound where a bullet hit his left collar bone, breaking it. The bullet then angled upward and exited the top rear of his left shoulder. Another bullet had been surgically removed from his right thigh.

  Pope was fit and strong. He would heal if his patience allowed it.

  His grandfather had ridden into town for supplies. And, probably to send a letter to his new lady of interest, Millie. Pope grinned at the thought of the man who had raised him. Tall, slightly longish hair, bright blue eyes and a perfect handlebar mustache and beard. Pope had to admit he was a fine-looking man, even in his mid-sixties.

  Even the best investigators often miss the most obvious clues. The one Pope missed was he, at twenty-seven, looked like the old mountain man. Looked like him minus the gray hair, a beard, and a lot of knife, bullet and tomahawk scars. As of several weeks ago, he had started to catch up on the bullet scars.

  Pope could feel the hair rise on the hound’s back before seeing it. Man and dog understood each other. Then, he heard the low growl. Always a signal trouble was about to happen. The dog stood and faced southwest.

  Four riders were coming in fast. Somehow, the dog knew they meant trouble.

  “Scout, go in the house, boy!” The dog looked at him with a question in his eyes.

  “This is gonna get ugly. I don’t want you to catch a bullet meant for me. Go on, now!”

  The hound obeyed. Pope saw a wet nose appear as the dog peeked around the door jamb. But, the nose was inside.

  The horsemen drew to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  One called out to him in an obvious Irish accent.

  “Would you be John Pope?” the man said gruffly with more yelling than talking in a reasonable conversational tone.

  “I would. Who wants to know?” Pope said. While the four were contemplating the answer to this obviously difficult question, Pope was assessing the situation.

  The horses were plain brown horses with matching saddles and blankets. No saddlebags, slickers, lariats, not even a canteen. Livery horses. Ones likely to not deal well with gunfire.

  The men were city men, and their caps and style were indicative of the Irish accent he heard. He had dealt with such men as a San Francisco detective.

  Though holstered, their guns were in holsters designed to be hidden by city clothes, not worn on the trail. The odds were looking better and better as the seconds passed.

  Pope had readied himself before they got close enough to see. He knew men galloping in meant trouble. Cowboys riding up to a ranch to ask for water for themselves or their horses would not gallop in at speed.

  Pope held one revolver in his left hand, hidden inside the sling. The right-hand gun was also inside the sling, butt to the right, ready to grab.

  The four men all reached for their revolvers. It happened quickly and without notice. As was usual in Pope’s experience.

  Pope’s act of drawing the two 4 ¾ inch Colt Frontiers may have surprised the men. If they had time to notice it. He started firing both Colt’s before they could comprehend what had happened.

  There was a difference between thugs and gunfighters, Pope knew. And, these appeared to be thugs.

  But the fight could still end badly for Pope. Even blind squirrels find acorns sometimes.

  Pope had thumbed and squeezed a left hand shot and it hit one of the men in the midriff. The man screamed and bent at the waist before falling off his horse. Horses began to scream and buck.

  Pope did not notice. His attention was already on the next threat and he cocked and fired his right-hand Colt by rote.

  The two hundred grain lead bullet struck the next shooter in the head. His head snapped back, and he fell of his horse. He hit the ground with a thud and did not move. Before he hit the ground, Pope had already simultaneously cocked and fired both revolvers at the two remaining men as they shot at him. One man hit Pope in the left bicep. Pope felt an intense burn as he touched off his left Colt, missing. He fired the right one at the same time. The right gun did not miss.
r />   From the corner of his eye, he saw a sixty-pound fur blur as Scout flew through the air and knocked the remaining rider off his horse. Even Pope grimaced at the sound of bones cracking. He heard Scout snarling as he bit and clawed the man. Clearly, it had not been dog bones breaking.

  He raised himself painfully from the swing. He saw blood on the sling over his shoulder wound from the gunfight in San Francisco and on the upper sleeve from the new one. Pope picked up the cane his grandfather had fashioned for him from a cottonwood branch.

  Pope limped over to the fallen men, having to hold his cane and gun in the same hand. The gun dangled by a finger in the trigger guard. He could drop the cane and spin the gun up into shooting position in a split second. He left drops of blood in the dust as he limped between the porch and the bodies.

  “Scout! Back off, boy!” The man kicked the dog away and drew a wicked looking dagger. So, Pope shot him.

  The gut shot man was rolling in the dust groaning as he held his stomach. Nobody else moved.

  Pope had to question the man before he passed out from pain or died. Pope knew the man was going to do both. Very soon.

  He nudged the three dead men with the toe of the moccasins he wore around the cabin and often hunting. None of the three stirred. Eyes open, mouths open, they were deader than hell, he thought.

  The gut shot man looked at him with malevolence. Pope guessed his own face was not transmitting any sweetness as he glared back.

  “Patrick Riordan sent you, didn’t he?” Pope said.

  “Go to hell,” the man replied.

  “Not to rub it in, but a guy with a cane and one arm in a sling just killed four of you without breaking a sweat. So, don’t be smart with me. I’m not in the mood for it.”

  “I count three dead,” the man said.

  Pope laughed.

  “You need to count yourself, partner. You are in for a painful, awful death. No way you are going to make it to any doctor before dying. So, tell me if Riordan sent you. Clear your conscience before you meet your maker.”

  “Pope, why don’t you…” but Pope poked him in the ribs with the cottonwood cane before he could finish. The man screamed out with pain.

  “Damn! You warn’t fair!” he exclaimed.

  “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Pope commented. “Now, you were saying about Riordan?”

  “All I’m saying laddie is you will be following me to hell soon after I go. And, the woman detective. Well, she will be fun for the rest of the boys before they kill her!”

  Pope heard a horse approaching. He saw his grandfather in the distance. He was glad, because he needed to have another person hear this man’s deathbed statements about Patrick Riordan, the Irish gang leader in San Francisco.

  The mountain man swung down off his pinto and glanced around his front yard.

  “Been busy, huh, boy?” he said rhetorically. Before Pope could answer, Israel said. “How bad you hit?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look. I’m hoping the one in the arm is only a crease. The shoulder is where jerking my guns out pulled some stitches loose,” he said.

  Looking back at the wounded man, Pope said for his grandfather to hear, “So, Riordan says his boys are going to have fun with the lady detective? When is this going to occur?” Pope said.

  “Too soon for you to stop it!”

  “Who’s gonna do this for Riordan?” Pope said, not really expecting an answer.

  “Paddy and his boys are gonna have before fun killing her and you can’t do squat!”

  “Paddy O’Rourke?” Pope said, deliberately making up a name.

  “Paddy O’Brien, you dumb shite!”

  “Anything else you expect to get from this one?” Israel Pope said his grandson.

  “Not really,” Pope replied.

  The next sound was the crack of a seven and a half inch barrel .45 Colt as Israel put the man out of everyone’s misery.

  “I thought he was going to throw the sissy little sticker at me,” the former mountain man grinned. Israel had noticed the other man’s dagger on the ground ten feet away. Pope shrugged. “Yep. I thought the same thing,” he said.

  “Grandpa, we have to get to San Francisco and look after Sarah! I will probably not be able to ride, so I guess the slower buckboard is the only choice. What do you think about dropping me at the ferry pier, swinging by the sheriff’s office in San Rafael and tell him what happened. Then, sending a wire to Wells Fargo Chief Detective Jim Hume telling him his only female detective has a Riordan thug named Paddy O’Brien coming for her. And, I’m on the way!”

  “A solid plan, boy. Then, I’ll hie on over to San Francisco and back your play!”

  Grandfather and grandson grinned at each other as they had done for the almost two decades since the older man took over rearing Pope. His young grandson had been left an orphan by an Indian raid which killed his parents and little sister.

  While Israel Pope hitched the buckboard for them, John Pope washed the crease the bullet cut across his bicep. It was a glancing hit and did not penetrate. But, he thought, it sure hurts like hell! He smeared homemade black walnut salve on, wrapped a bandage around it, and tied it with one hand and his teeth.

  Pope hobbled over to his room, changed and tossed some clothes and ammunition into a carpet bag. He added more jerky for Scout to his own supply of the trail food and put cold well water into a canteen. He knew he would be needing to rehydrate and replace some of the liquid he had leaked into the dust outside.

  With a light bag and carbine in his right hand, he limped outside.

  Pope reckoned he and Scout would make it to San Francisco by dinner time, depending on the ferry schedule. Israel Pope would drop him at the Sausalito ferry first, then go on to the sheriff’s office in San Raphael to make their report. He had unsaddled the four livery horses and put them in the small corral with feed and water. The bodies lying around and scattered guns were enough of a crime scene to validate the report.

  The older man was a legend. He knew the sheriffs in Marin where the cabin and woodland was and in Alameda, where his ranch was. His word would not be questioned. Nor would the actions of his detective grandson. Pope’s prowess with handgun, rifle or shotgun had spread across the West as he brought outlaws to justice for Wells Fargo. His actions this morning would only serve to increase his reputation as the top gun for Wells Fargo.

  His grandfather helped him onto the buckboard. They nodded at each other and the mountain man shook the reins.

  The detective and dog were both dropped at the ferry dock. Pope bought a ticket and sat on a bench. He was now wearing a dress shirt, tie, dark suit and black derby hat. His suit coat bulged out on the side. Because of the wounds, he could not wear his usual in-town shoulder holsters, so he strapped on the gunbelt he wore on the trail.

  In many respects, he thought, he was on the trail. The trail of Paddy O’Brien and whoever was following him to harm Detective Sarah Watson. Pope would show no quarter. He would cast aside Wells Fargo’s policy of apprehension wherever possible.

  It was very simple. Set out to harm Sarah Watson and you die. It was as obvious as could be.

  The ferry pitched and rolled in the rough gray waters of San Francisco Bay. They skirted Alcatraz Island and headed into the city piers. Pope usually enjoyed the ferry ride but, not today. Today, he was worried for Sarah and was weak from the loss of blood.

  By now, the telegram to Chief Detective Jim Hume about O’Brien seeking to harm his former Pinkerton detective should have arrived. Wherever Sarah was, Hume would find her and surround her with the finest and deadliest detectives and shotgun messengers to be found anywhere. Paddy O’Brien may already be no more than a blot on history, Pope thought.

  The ferry docked. Pope slung both the carbine case and the carpet bag over his shoulder and limped off the gangway onto the pier. Scout was right beside him, distrustful of the assortment of humanity surrounding them.

  Since it was a weekday, Pope told the driver of the hansom ca
b he had flagged to head for Wells Fargo headquarters as fast as he could. Unless out investigating, Sarah would be in the office

  They sped through the streets, Scout’s head was out the open window, sniffing the city smells, and warning off anyone who would harm his master.

  2

  Jim Hume, the fifty-six year old legendary Wells Fargo chief detective, read the telegram quickly and summoned Detective Sarah Watson from the bull pen.

  She walked in smiling but turned immediately serious when she saw her boss’ face as he held a telegram.

  “Sarah, Riordan has had four men attack the Pope cabin up in Marin. Israel wasn’t there, but it seems he didn’t need to be.”

  Her heart sank.

  “Because,” Hume continued, “Pope killed all four according to this wire from the Marin sheriff, though it seems his grandfather sped one along after Pope shot him.”

  “Is John...” she began.

  “He caught a crease on the arm. We’ll have the details shortly when he and Israel arrive. The important thing is Riordan, the man you arrested for the kidnapping of Mattie Lane, sent them and Riordan has a man named Paddy O’Brien and his men after you. We are not going to let them get near you. They better hope the Popes don’t see them first. Riordan wants retribution. Well, he sure as hell is going to get it. At the end of a Wells Fargo shotgun!”

  Sarah had never heard Hume curse, nor had she heard such vehemence from the normally calm, deliberate man. Hume, with his friend private detective Harry Morse and Sarah’s former boss, Allan J. Pinkerton, were the three most famous detectives in America. Probably, the world.