As I opened my coat to show my badge the shot rang out. I immediately fell to the ground, by belly trying to scrunch under the snow. I saw the marshal fall, and the man that was standing behind him just stood there with his mouth ajar.
“Get down, stupid!” I yelled.
I didn’t know where the man was from, but it was apparent that he had not been in the West long, and especially in these rough and tumble mining towns.
“Blast it!” the marshal exclaimed. “Shot bloodied up my leg.”
Here we are, two lawmen, lying down in the snow at the edge of the street. The dapper had crouched low, but would not lie down. “Get down!” I ordered again.
He crouched a little lower. “Don’t want to ruin this suit.”
“A bullet hole, and some blood streaming out will ruin it sure ‘nough, and maybe your life as well.”
Still he refused. I sort of crawled around so I could get a look at where the shot came from. There was no place to go without standing up, so the marshal and I just laid there, looking and waiting.
“How’re you doin’?” I asked.
“Bleedin’, but not sure how bad.”
With him bleeding and not knowing how bad it was, I knew I had to get him inside so someone could check his wound. “Mister,” I said to the stooped-down man. “Help me with the marshal. We’ve got to get him inside.”
“But, he’s all…”
“Help me, or I’ll make sure that suit of yours gets dirty.”
I’ll swan, I never saw the like. What kind of folk is the world producing nowadays?
He came over and helped me pick the marshal up. “I think I can walk, just give me someone to lean on,” said the marshal.
I was watching from where the shot had come from, but didn’t see any type of movement. There were not even very many spectators as a shooting in Silverton was not that all uncommon. We got the marshal into the restaurant, and found that someone had sent for a doctor.
I decided to wait until the doc arrived, but did notice there was quite a bit of blood. Ordering a cup of coffee I sat down by the table where we laid the marshal. “As I started to tell you Marshal, my name is Miles Forrest, Deputy United States Marshal, and also badged by the Secret Service of the United States.” I showed him my badges. I was just up here checking on some of the mines and the mill and their shipments.”
“The guy shooting at you?” he asked.
“Second time. He misjudged when I opened my coat; it made me look bigger than I am,” I said pausing as my coffee had arrived and I took a sip. “Yesterday,” and I pointed to my coat and the torn shoulder, “someone took a shot at me.”
By now the doctor had arrived and told the marshal to take off his pants. “Can’t, hurts,” he moaned. “Plus there’re too many people around.”
“You’re wearing longhandles,” replied the doc.
Finally, with some help the britches came off. The doctor wiped off the blood as best he could. “Fortunate,” said the doc. “The bullet just put a groove right below your hipbone. It didn’t penetrate. As soon as I patch you up, you’ll be good to go.”
“Want some coffee?” I asked.
“I want something stronger than coffee,” the marshal said. “By the way, I’m Callen Calhoun; folks call me CC.”
“I didn’t see anyone, but then I was laying down on my stomach. Ifn you’re alright, I’ll be leavin’. The train will be departin’ and I still have to get my horse to the station.”
Finishing my coffee, I started out, but stopped at the door; I ain’t nobody’s fool. When I reckoned the coast was clear I started walking to get Hawk and load him on the train. A good shooting; always a way to start a day, but aside from the foolishness, that was twice someone had taken a shot at me and missed. I was sure thanking the Lord.