And don’t make rash promises to God, for he is in heaven, and you are only here on earth. So let your words be few.” –Ecclesiastes 5:2 (NLT)
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The man remained unconscious the remainder of the trip, except for a few moans that escaped him. Because the conductor had wired ahead from the last water stop, Doctor Minton was there with some men and a wagon to take the man to his office. We didn’t speak, I just gave him a brief nod. The conductor had everyone leave from the other end of the train which caused a few people to curse and complain. Guess they’re always be those around that any little thing will ruffle their feathers. I watched Dawson step down from the car and was waiting for me.
“They ought to make those illegal,” he growled, pointing down to my Greener. “Or maybe just do away with those who carry them.”
“You have a point to make?” came my reply a little sharply.
I had noticed that his hand was on the grip of his pistol, so my thumb rested on the hammer of the shotgun. He said something I didn’t hear then moved on down the platform while I watched them load the wounded man in the wagon. “Doc, let me know,” I hollered, to which he gave a slight wave and drove off.
In times past I would walk up and stop in at Wells Fargo. I had spent many a day in that office when I worked for the company. Drank coffee and chatted with the workers, but all the ones I knew are gone. Either found different work or was transferred somewhere’s else. I still couldn’t resist looking in the window as I passed by. For good or bad that job gave me the chance to become a marshal.
It was when I turned on Greene Street that I noticed I was being followed. I walked a couple of blocks then turned back south on 14th Street, then quickly entered a store. The man stopped, not seeing me on the street. I watched from the window of the store I entered, some kind of ladies’ boutique shop. The man was confused, looking up and down the street then looking at the signs above the shops.
“Ahem,” came the high-toned sound. I didn’t look from whence it came, just waved for it to be quiet.
“Don’t be brushing me off, Mister. If I can be of help I would be glad to do so, if not I would kindly ask you to please leave the premises,” came a sort of squeaky-whining voice.
The man came to the entrance and as he started to move beyond the store I stepped out behind him. From the store, I heard, “Well, I never…” The fellow I was behind must have heard it as well, for when he turned he saw two black holes of my Greener in his face.
It sorta unnerved him, shotguns have that effect on people. “Don’t say anything, just answer my questions. If you understand, nod your head.”
He nodded, causing me to smile. “First of all, who are you?”
“Jim Edwards, deputy marshal.”
“Any proof? Show me a badge.”
Slowly he opened his vest where there was a badge hanging on his vest. “Second question, why were you followin’ me?”
“We heard there was an altercation of the train, a man shot. Then I saw you an’ that other fellar talkin’. So I started following you, whilst Deputy Greer followed the other man.”
I lowered the Greener to his relief. “Take me to Marshal Beavin. Oh, and relax,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m United States Deputy Marshal Miles Forrest.”
“Marshal Forrest, I’m sure glad to see you. Osian’s back at the jail.”
Within minutes we arrived at the jail. There was a deputy at the desk to the right with another back at a small table back by the cell area. I recognized the latter, “Hiya, Lucius, see you’re still up and walkin.'”
Beavin must have heard from his office. “Marshal Forrest!” came his booming voice. “Am I glad to see you. Sit down, Martin, get the marshal some coffee.”
The man at the desk got up. “Take my chair, Marshal. Coffee’s comin’ right up.”
He handed me the coffee and I took a sip. It was hot and strong, but not too bad considering it had been sitting on the stove for a spell. I took another sip looking over the rim at the four men. “You’re all lookin’ healthy,” I said moving the cup from my mouth then wipin’ my moustache with the back of my hand. “Any troubles?”
“Mostly drunks and fist-fights, nothing serious,” came the quick reply from Deputy Martin.
I could sense there was something else. “And?”
“It seems that someone is trying to put McGinnis’ gang back together,” voiced the marshal. “So far nothing to pin on them, just barroom talk.”
“Do any of you know a Vess Dawson?”
It became quiet, too quiet. I took a deep swallow of the coffee, waiting. “Uh, well, we’ve heard of him…”