The Saga of Miles Forrest

I heard the yell of the waitress, “Mister, you didn’t pay,” as I got to the door of the restaurant. Years of experience had taught me not to rush out a door blindly. I pulled my Schofield, and then the waitress screamed.
“He’s got a gun,” cried another woman. What did she think I was going to do, steal her pancakes?
Slowly, I peeked out and didn’t spot anything so I leaped, hoping that if there was a shot it would be right near the door. There was no shot, but when I hit the edge of the boardwalk, my feet went out from under me as I slipped on the ice. The 3 inches of snow that had fallen did little to cushion my fall, and nothing to aid my ego as I went down–hard.
Quickly I got up and ran to the corner. I as approached I moved over against the wall again and peeked around. There were a few people on the street, but not the person that passed by the restaurant. Maybe I was just imagining things. Mulling this over I went back to the restaurant.
My gun was still out as I entered and the woman gasped again. I wanted to twirl it, sort of show off for her, but that wasn’t my style. Going back to the table where I was sitting I motioned for the waitress. “I’d like another cup of coffee.”
“Are you going to pay for it this time?” she answered in a very sassy voice.
“Miss, I always pay for my meals, so what did you mean by ‘this time?'”
She was sort of taken back by that and rushed off to get my coffee. At least I thought that was what she was doing. Instead a man from the back came out with a cleaver in his hand. “Are you the one?” he asked.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“I don’t put up with trash talking to my help,” he said lifting his voice.
Out of habit I reached for the Greener, but then remembered that I left it with Molly. Then I figured I’d just get out of there, so I reached inside my coat to my vest pocket and pulled out a couple of quarters and flipped them on the table. That would more than cover my meal.
I started to walk away, but the man grabbed my coat and then gave me a shove. “Mister,” I said, “Just let it go.”
For some reason, he must have gotten a bee in his bonnet for he came at me. Now I wasn’t too worried about him, but that cleaver in his hand bothered me some. I pulled the chair from the table beside me and pushed it at him, hoping to slow him down just a mite. It did, just enough, as I then grabbed the chair where I had been sitting and swung it over my head smashing it down on his. His knees buckled an he folded to the floor.
“You’ve killed him!” the waitress screamed.
Then a man yelled out, “I’ll get the marshal!”
“Meal is paid for,” and I pointed at the table. “He’ll only have a headache.”
He was already coming to and holding his head slightly moaning.
“No you don’t. You’re not leaving until the marshal gets here,” the waitress spoke again, but this time she was holding a pistol in both hands.
“Miss, I am a marshal,” then I opened my coat and pulled my deputy badge from another of my vest’s pockets. “If I were you, I’d put that pistol down and see if you can help him.”
I walked outside and shook my head. A person would think I was in the high society section of Denver rather than the rough and tumble mining town of Silverton. Figured it was time for me to leave. I’d checked the mill that I’d come up to see. It was time to go, and I’d just go up and get my gear, pick up Hawk, and get him boarded on the train.
As I started toward the hotel, I heard a man holler, “Hey you! Hold up!” It was the marshal, with the man that went for him cowering behind him.
“Marshal,” I said, greeting him. “What can I do for you?”
I noticed that he had his gun in his hand. “Marshal, is that how you always greet fellow officers of the law?” I asked. Then I slowly opened my coat so he wouldn’t think anything amiss to show him my badge. As I opened my coat there was a shot and…