The Saga of Miles Forrest

The half-pot of coffee I made Dr. Webb,  chug down didn’t seem to faze him much.  He was able to mumble some, mostly about the nightmares he faced.  He would be coherent for a spell, then wander off into the horrors of the War of the Rebellion.  After that he might speak of the atrocities on humans made by his fellow man.  I was able to gather from him that he remembered removing a bone from a man’s hip.  He said he had to dig some as the bullet was lodged in his hip.  The man would have a permanent limp.
    From what the doc told me, Shaw must be in town or in one of the nearby camps.  His wound was bad enough to keep him from traveling.  I pondered for a moment what it must be like to live in the world where the doctor lived.  One of nightmares, madmen, and horror.  I tried to tell him that there was a better way–finding the Lord.  When I said that he scowled, and I thought he was going to throw the mug at me.  Like the prodigal, a man must come to his senses.
    I walked out leaving him at the table.  Pulling on my moustache a couple of times I thought how I might come to find Shaw.  He wouldn’t know anyone here, but there were those that would hide a man if they knew he was running from the law, and there were also those good Samaritans who would help a person in need.  I’d start asking around, but first I would go up and find Frank Black.
    For a small town, Silverton was extremely busy.  There were wagons of people going and coming with supplies.  Ore wagons, moving to and from one of the smelters.  People walking the street, visiting one or more of the various shops in town.  Amazing what gold and silver can do; at least temporarily.  As I rode Hawk up toward the end of Greene Street, I caught a glimpse of Rev. Chapman talking to the proprietor of a grocery.  He gave me a wave, then went back to his conversation.
    There was one run-down saloon, the Empty Diggings.  I had to smile a little; proper name for a saloon.  A place to take your money, take your hope, and leave you broke.  Draping the reins over the rail, I started for the door.  There was a motion at the entrance that have me a start–a rat ran across the boardwalk and then under it.  I shook my head; that fits for this place sure looks like a rat’s hole.
    Entering I stepped to my right, a lesson I learned with the Texas Rangers.  It gave my eyes some time to adjust to the darkness and this place was dark.  I’d be afraid to consume anything from here, but the place was half-full.  Mostly down and out miners, now without hope and just bums.  There were a couple of worn out ladies of the night strolling among them.  What a place; a good showcase for the results of a life of sin.
    Since it was so dark, it took a minute or so for my eyes to begin to adjust then I moved up to the bar.  A man wearing what was once a white shirt with an apron that was similar in color but stained with beer and whiskey and who knows what else came up to me.  Wiping out a glass he set it in front of me.
    “Lookin’ for Frank Black,” I said pushing the glass away.
    The bartender frowned when I did so, “This is a bar, you drink at a bar,” he said curtly.
    Reaching inside the pocket on my vest I pulled a little pouch out and threw him two-bits.  “Here, this will pay for a clean glass.  Now, I’ll repeat myself just once, I’m lookin’ for Frank Black.”
    He turned to walked away.  I picked up the shot glass and flung it at him catching him on the back of the head.  He gave a yelp, then grabbed the back of his head.  Quickly he reached for a shotgun under the bar, that is, until he heard me cock the Greener.  
    “I wouldn’t,” I warned, “just tell me where I can find Frank Black.”
    Allowing my eyes a quick glance around the room, I found that the eyes of the customers were on us, except one drunk slouched at a table sleeping.
    “Mister,” came a voice from the side where two old miners were sitting.  “There’s a room upstairs.  I imagine the Black might be in there.”
    Nodding, I then spoke to the bartender.  “Take the shotgun by the barrel and place it gently on the bar.”
    When he had done so, I walked by picking it up.  I wanted to whack him alongside the mouth just for a reminder to answer a civil question.  Looking around the room once more I started toward the stairs carrying both shotguns.  At the top of the stairs, I removed the shells from the bartender’s gun and set it against the railing in the corner.  There were two rooms which I figured might be Black’s office and his living quarters.
    I knocked on the door with the barrel of my Greener.  A few seconds later, I knocked again a little harder.  Moving down the hall to the other door I didn’t waste time with a little tap, I banged on the door.
    “Mason!  Go away!” came a voice.
    I banged louder, if I wasn’t let in the next time I would smash it open.  The door jerked open, “I told you Mason,” he snapped, then saw I wasn’t Mason.  “Who’re you?”
    “Name’s Miles Forrest,” I said pushing my way inside his room.  As he turned to look at me, I asked, “Are you Franklin Blackstone?”
    His eyes flickered for a moment, then looked downward.  That’s when I noticed his vomit covered shirt.  He must have slept in his clothes, which I reckoned he did most nights.
    “You’ve got the wrong man.  Never heard of a Blackstone.”
    I tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn’t meet my stare.  “You don’t know a Jessie Blackstone, or a young boy by the name of Connor?”
    He started to say something, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and moved back toward his bed.  On the table by the bedside he reached to open a whiskey bottle with only about a third of it remaining.
    “You’re Blackstone, or were!” I barked.
    “Another life,” he stammered in a low voice then started to take a drink.
    I hit the bottle with the barrel of the Greener, smashing it sending glass flying.  “There’s a little boy named, Connor who was very disappointed that his dad was not there to meet him at the train station,” I replied with disgust.
    His eyes opened wide, partly in surprise, partly in horror.  “They’re here?”
    “They’re in Durango.”
    Putting his face in his hands, he muttered, “I can’t…”