The Saga of Miles Forrest

Miles, didn’t you hear it?  It sounded like a wounded catamount, only more like a laugh than a howl,” swore Blasco.
    I reached down to help his stand and said, “That’s the Pale Rider–Death.”
    “Pale Rider?  Death?  What in tarnation are you talking about?” he exclaimed.
    The town marshal was only a few feet from us now.  His gun had been lowered, but when  Blasco and I started talking to each other he raised it.  “You both are under arrest!” he snapped.
    “Marshal, you’re crazy!” replied Jens.  “We’re both U.S. Marshals, you have no jurisdiction over us especially since we were carrying out lawful arrests.”
    He spat on the ground, arrogance oozing from him.  “We’ll let the judge decide that in the morning.  All I see is five dead men laying in the dirt.”
    “No, it’s decided now!” I barked raising the Greener and cocking the hammers.  The sound of those hammers being cocked made him jump.  I was sure glad that reaction didn’t cause him to pull the trigger.  “You can holster your gun, or drop it on the ground, or you can lift it an inch higher causing me to cut loose with both barrels.  Your choice.”
    “I have warrants for Frank Reston and his gang and they have just been served,” stated Blasco.  “I can add you to the list.”
    He gave us a sour look, but decided to holster his pistol.  Jens looked at the marshal, “I need two things right now:  a telegraph office and a doctor.”
    The marshal hesitated for a moment then pointing.  “The telegraph office is in that building right there.  Come on.”
    With that we started off behind him.  Jens was struggling but he hobbled along with me helping.  I had used my bandana to tie over the wound, but it was still bleeding.  The bullet didn’t go into his leg, but cut a groove across the top; it definitely needed patching up.
    Jens wrote out his telegram and handed it to the operator who glanced over at the town marshal.  I saw a nod.  He began to work the keys when Jens bounded up, took a couple of quick steps, and had his gun in the ear of the operator quick as a blink.  
    “You send what I wrote,” he barked.  “I understand how the keys talk.”
    He looked over at me, the exertion and loss of blood making him look mighty pale.  “Miles, help me,” he cried as he leaned back over the counter.
    I came to him, and he muttered, “Up on the counter, I need to lie down before I fall down.”  I helped boost him up on the counter where he could stretch out and lay flat.  “I hear one false word being sent I’ll send a bullet through your head,” he said mustering his strength.
    “Who’d you send the telegram to?” I asked.
    “U.S. Marshal for the territory in Santa Fe, Felix Wilcox.  Hopefully, he’ll or Martin will be hear soon,” he said closing his eyes.
    Looking over at the marshal, I asked, “Where is that doctor?”  He had sent a errand boy after him when we entered the office.
    I felt Jens pull at my sleeve and murmur, “Miles, who is the Pale Rider?  You said ‘Death’.  Does that mean I’m going to die?”
    His eyes were open, barely.  “No, it doesn’t mean you’re goin’ to die.  Death is one of the Four Horsemen of Judgement in the Book of Revelation.  He rode on a Pale Horse,” I paused to think of what I wanted to say.  “For some reason I have been given the ability to see him, or an illusion of him.  He sorta stalks my trail.”
    He looked at me, eyes wide open now.  “Is he stalking me?”
    “He’s a devil-worker.  He’s after anyone and everyone,” I saw that the marshal was listening to me, “includin’ you marshal.”  He gave a little jerk.  “You don’t have nothin’ to fear if you know Jesus Christ.”
    “But I. . .”