The Saga of Miles Forrest

The men standing before me and the one aft were not gunmen.  They were town bullies; men too lazy to do an honest day’s work.  Now, if things didn’t change rapidly they would inherit a piece of earth measuring about six feet.  I also realized that I was in a bit of a predicament.  The two men in front of me I could handle easily enough, but with one man behind me I reckoned I’d take a piece of lead.  I just prayed that it wouldn’t hit anything vital.
       “You men sure you want to go through with this?  Nothing good will come of it.  If you kill me you’ll hang that’s certain for I’m a Deputy United States Marshal,” I said with emphasis hoping that it might cause them to back down.  
       The larger man snarled, “You ain’t that good, you can’t get all three of us.  An’ even if’n you was Hickok himself you’d be dead.”
       I reached up and pulled on my moustache.  “Maybeso, but for sure you and the fellow next to you are goin’ to die.  I might catch a bullet, but I reckon they’ll be buryin’ all three of you in the Potter’s Field come tomorrow.”
       The smaller man in front of me started blinking his eyes, and I smiled at him.  “Maybe not such a good idea it is?  You goin’ to let this mongrel send you to your death?”  He was scared, so I started to formulate a plan in my mind.  Not a very good plan, mind you, but it was all I had under the circumstances.
       “Either draw or get out of my way, I’m wantin’ a cup of coffee down at Cecil’s, in fact, you let me pass on by I’ll treat you all to a cup and a piece of pie.”
       I wasn’t ready for what happened next.  The scum of a man behind me hollered, “Gun ‘im, Lard!”  That started it.
       Throwing myself up against the wall I drew and fired at the man behind me, since he was the one who hollered.  I figured he might have already pulled his gun.  Our pistols rang out at the same time.  Thing is, he wasn’t expecting me to move the way I did and he missed, but I heard a grunt in front of me.  My first bullet hit him in the thigh, I fired too quick so I shot again, this time my bullet finding its way to smash his breastbone.  
       There was not a moment to lose.  I turned and went to my knees firing at the men in front of me.  I didn’t pay attention that the smaller of them was stooped over some.  I shot twice hitting the big man in the chest then fired my final shot into the smaller man who was holding his stomach, my bullet joining the one that was already there.  He had been shot by his partner.
       I wasn’t too worried that they would be able to lift their guns so I walked over to the two men.  The big man was on his back, eyes open wide.  The other man was on his knees, his eyes glassing over and when I approached he fell forward on his face.
       Kneeling down by the big man he was slowly shaking his head.  “I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it.”
       “You have a name?” I asked.  “I hate to bury a man not knowing his name.”  
       There was no answer so I straightened up pulling cartridges from my gunbelt to reload the pistol.  “Hold it right there and put your hands in the air,” came a voice from behind me.
       I didn’t think these miscreants could have a friend in the crowd that was now gathering.  “Take your gun and hold it by the barrel and pass it back to me.”
       I did what was ordered, I figured it was the local law.  “Now turn slowly around and put out your hands,” he ordered.
       It didn’t seem fitting for me to do so.  I left them in the air then slowly lowered them.  Seeing his badge I said, “Easy marshal.”  I moved my right hand to open my jacket showing him my badge.
       “You still shot those men, badge or no badge!” he flared up at me.
       “Seemed like the thing to do as they were ’bout to do me in.”
       He looked down at the three dead men.  Then from the crowd several individuals walked up to him.  “We all saw it.  This man was in a real pickle,” said an older man.  “He did what he had to do.”
       Reluctantly he handed my gun back to me.  “Tell me what happened, then I want a full report.”
       “Marshal, I was headin’ to get some coffee.  Why don’t you come with me and I tell you all about it.
       An hour later and several cups of coffee downed, Marshal Bill Turner was satisfied.  “You don’t know their names?” he inquired.
       “I asked, and all I know was that the big man was called ‘Lard.’  Terrible thing to put on a tombstone.”
       Another half hour and I was back up at the boarding house where I found Molly sitting on the porch with Ma Jones.  “Your day go all right?” she asked me.  “I heard some shooting, and Ma assured me that it happened all the time.
       I pulled on my moustache and smiled…