Shooting For Justice by G. Tilman (top 100 novels txt) 📗

whitetail doe crossed the trail ahead of them and Scout took off in hot and loud pursuit. Pope grinned. He loved the sound of a good hound on the trail. And fresh venison. He let this one go and decided he and Grandpa should go out and bring home a couple bucks soon. The season was almost right for hunting, though he knew the mountain man preferred tracking dinner in the snow.

Pope whistled for Scout, who returned disappointed his pursuit had been cut short.

They stood on the precipice overlooking the Pacific. It was the spot where everyone carefully rode their horses down during the trail trip with the Lanes.

Pope did not give any particular thought to the frisky younger Lane as he looked out. He was here for a reason.

A constituent told him there was odd activity in this area. Small boats rowing in from larger ones offshore.

Offloading materials on the beach, where other men waited. Then, the men on the beach hauling the probable contraband up the steep slope and away.

With ports nearby, this practice was surely some sort of smuggling. Drugs perhaps, more likely items bypassing trade tariffs. He would like to catch them in the act.

Pope had his deputies stop by here on a frequent basis patrolling.

So far, the beach had been empty, on everyone’s checks. Pope doubted the deliveries would be made during darkness. The landing of a small boat in the surf was treacherous on a bright, calm day. As was transiting the steep clifflike slope up from the beach. Especially when one was hauling a load uphill.

The sheriff determined he and his deputies would continue watching. It would come together when it was time. Patience would pay off. Pay off as it did with most things legal and illegal.

Pope enjoyed the solitude. He took in and savored the smells and sound of the surf for a while. He had to force himself to turn Caesar back towards San Rafael.

He wanted to swing by Sausalito before calling it a day, so the three headed southwest. Pope stopped at a spot on a high cliff. It was at the northernmost Marin Headlands and overlooked San Francisco. He saw the ferry coming and Alcatraz Island between the point and the city beyond. Turning seaward, the view was magnificent as the Pacific stretched out, seemingly to infinity.

Pope turned Caesar towards Sausalito and rode on, doffing his hat in town as they rode through. He liked the job Marks Jewelers had done crafting his new gold sheriff’s badge. It glinted at every speck of sunlight as he rode down Caledonia Street slowly before leaving the town and heading for San Rafael some eight miles away.

He checked in at the office. There was nothing of great importance for him from the chief deputy regarding goings-on in Marin County. Pope headed for the hills and home.

The next morning, Pope rode to Tiburon after court.

Sarah went to her office and began laying out a route for investigative trips related to claims against the company.

Midmorning, the telegrapher called out for her and said she had a “Most Urgent” telegram coming in from Wells Fargo headquarters. She knew it would be from Hume.

“Should I decipher it?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” Sarah replied.

Several minutes later, he brought the plain language version over. He had transcribed it in readable cursive. Telegraph operators were required to be able to always write in a clear hand so there were no mistakes.

“Black Bart robbed stage halfway between Schellville and Napa on the Napa Road. The driver thinks he winged robber. He hacked a mark on a tree close to the road at robbery site. Respond with all due haste and begin crime scene review. Unknown whether location is in Sonoma or Napa county. Do not advise sheriffs. Morse and I are on the way. Hume.”

“This is it,” she thought. “My big one. Alone.” Sarah felt very odd in not asking Pope to accompany her. She knew, though, it was a credibility moment for her. Despite her experience as a detective, this was a major opportunity to prove herself.

“Wire Hume back. Say I am on the way now.” She looked at the big Northern California map on the wall. It was twelve miles between the two places.

The trip up to Schellville appeared to be about twenty-four miles. It would take her two or two and a half hours with Kate going as fast as Sarah would want to push her for the distance.

She changed from her dress to the riding skirt, blouse and vest she kept at the office. She put on both guns and pinned her badge on the vest. Going out to the hitching rail, she placed the new sawed off in the front holster she had a tackle maker craft for her.

Sarah knew she had her investigative kit, Dietz lantern, and extra ammunition in one saddlebag and camping and cooking gear and some food in the other. She stopped at the café and picked up some biscuits and sliced meat.

Riding past the sheriff’s office at a fast trot, she saw Caesar was not there. Pope must have left for Tiburon already.

She picked up the speed a bit once she got out of town. Like Pope, she had begun to talk with her horse and planned her strategy aloud for the next two hours and fifteen minutes.

Schellville was small enough she passed through it without slowing down. She calculated she should start looking for the scene in about half an hour.

She slowed Kate a bit and began to watch for a man on foot as well as the scene.

Morse and Hume had developed a profile of the man known as Black Bart over the past seven years.

The stage robber always operated alone, though he used painted, tapered sticks as fake rifle barrels pointing at the place where he stopped his stages. These were the illusionary rifle barrels he claimed were covering passenger as well as Wells Fargo jehus and shotgun messengers. Nobody in twenty-eight robberies had ever