When I opened the block door, Mateo was standing there with a wide, toothy grin holding paper and pencil in hand.  “Thought I told you to take a walk,” I barked.

     If possible, his grin got bigger and he replied, “I did.  I walked over to the desk to find some paper, figuring that you might want it.”

     “You mind standing by the cell watchin’ him?  I’m goin’ outside for a breather.  I need to think some things through.”

     He nodded then followed me inside the cell area.  “Barstow, write!  I mean write everything!  If I have to come back in here to remind you of something you left out…” I stopped there, and slightly lifted the Greener.

     “Just give me the paper,” he growled.

     “Now, don’t you be gettin’ feisty with me, or I’ll open the door and let Mateo have a go at you,” I said smiling, then paused for a moment.  “He’s worse than a cougar when he gets riled.”

     Barstow’s lip curled in a snarl, as he started to speak.

     “That wouldn’t be wise,” I informed him, then added, “Just write.”

     I walked out leaving Mateo at the block door and went outside.  The air was cool, much fresher than inside that cell room.  I sat down on the bench in front of the office.  My inclination was to go grab Martin and beat the tar out of him, but that wouldn’t settle anything except make me feel some better.  I could take Father Cisneros and Parson Chapman with me, but they’d already been through too much.

     As I was sitting there, I saw Doc Jones limping up the road.  I never really noticed that limp before.  He had told me that he was in the war and had been shot in the leg.  Wonder if the years weren’t taking a toll and it was bothering him some.

     He didn’t bother to ask, just plunked himself down on the bench beside me.  “Miles, you have a problem,” he muttered.

     “Looks to me like you’re the one with the problem.  What’s the matter with your leg?”

     He gave a wave of his hand and a look of disgust at me.  “Lester Feakes is dead.”

     My eyes widened at the news, “What happened?”

     “A fever.  There must have been an infection inside the leg.  I couldn’t see anything, but I did notice that his leg was swelling.  He was just too weak to fight it off; lost too much blood,” he informed me, then paused before adding.  “There goes your witness.”

     “You can write down what he said, and we can both sign it.”

     He grunted, “Second-hand information, it won’t stand up in court.”

     “It’ll still weigh on the mind of the jurors when they hear it,” I said, then continued, “But I think I’ve got the clincher.  Mark Barstow is right at this moment writing a full confession.”

     Doc’s eyes got wide, he scratched at his ear, then questioned me, “You didn’t thump him, did you?  That’s called coercion, you know.”

     It was my turn to smile.  “No, I didn’t thump him.  Wanted to, didn’t even threaten him.  In fact, I didn’t hardly talk to him at all.  I just asked Mateo for the keys when he blurted it was Amos Martin behind it all.  After I get the confession, I plan on goin’ up to have a talk with Martin, and then provide him a comfortable cell.”

     He was shaking his head.  “Miles, I just don’t understand the evil that gets in a man’s heart.  I can work on the outside body, cut out a tumor, remove a bullet, but I can’t remove the cancer that gets in the soul.”

     “No one can, Doc.  That’s up to the Great Physician,” I paused.  “Trouble is folks have to accept Him and many, because of that evil reject the grace and healin’ that He has to offer.”

     We sat there quiet for several seconds, when the door to the office opened.  There was Mateo who reached out handing me two pages of written paper.  “Read it over Miles…”

Lester Feakes regained consciousness and immediately asked about the welfare of his brother.  Doc glanced at me, then went to the side where Feakes was laying.  “I hate to bring you the bad news, but your brother is dead.”

     His eyes blinked several times, but then stayed open and stared upward at the ceiling.  Doc and I both waited for several seconds, then the man spoke.  “I knew we shouldn’t have bothered with the priest and preacher.  I knew it would be the death of one of us.  Bart…he was reckless, and…” he closed his eyes.  We both thought that he went back to sleep.  But after a period, he began to talk again.  “We were stone broke, not a penny to our name.  That’s when Barstow found us and offered us an easy job.  We were just supposed to throw a scare into some individuals.”

     The eyes closed, this time a tear coming from one.  Doc leaned close, then checked the man’s pulse.  I nodded for Doc to continue.  “Son, why were you told to scare someone?”

     Opening his eyes again, he began, “Barstow said that a man wanted to find his daughter.  She had run away and the priest and preacher both knew where she was.  Barstow said we would get a hundred dollars if we got the information needed, and gave each of us ten dollars.”

     “Let me tell you something, Mister.  The young girl in question is happily married and left of her own free will,” I said sternly.  

     His eyes closed in a grimace.  “All for nothing,” he muttered.  “All for nothing.  Bart killed for a lie.”

     I was now standing on the other side of the bed.  “Who was the man that hired you?”

     He opened his eyes, “The only person I know is Mark Barstow.  I don’t know who hired him.”  He became quiet, blinking his eyes several times, he spoke very softly, almost reverently, “I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.  I know that won’t bring Bart back, but…”  He closed his eyes.

     “Miles, let him be,” remarked Doc.  “He can’t tell you any more, and he’s in bad shape,” he paused, “I don’t know if he’ll even pull through.”

     “I think I need to go have a talk with Barstow,” I snapped, then started to leave.

     Doc reached out to grab my arm.  “Miles,” he began with a shake of his head.  “Control yourself.”

     I smiled, “You mean just little thumps?”  Then I turned leaving the office and heading up to the jail.

     The walk did me good, I was able to say a little prayer to calm myself, but I wanted a confession from Barstow.  By the time I reached the jail, I had calmed, at least somewhat.  Mateo was still there, putting Barstow’s belongings in a bag, then into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

     Motioning with my head, I had him follow me to Barstow’s cell.  Fortunately there were no other people in jail for I intended to get information from Barstow.  I wanted to know who paid him to terrorize the priest and pastor.  I also wanted to find out who scarred Hawk.

     I didn’t enter the cell, but looked at Barstow sitting there on the bunk.  “Come to let me out?” he smirked.

     “No, come to tell you that you have a long stretch waitin’ for you in Canon City.  Lester Feakes said you were the boss, the man behind the threats and beatings,” I paused briefly.  “Beating a Catholic priest won’t bring you a light sentence, and the cutting on my horse, well…”  I turned to Mateo, “Hand me the keys.”

     “Are you sure?” questioned Mateo.

     “Hand me the keys!” I ordered.  “Then go take a walk for about twenty minutes.”

     “Yuh, yuh, can’t do that Marshal!” stuttered Barstow.  “I know my rights!”

     Placing the key in the lock.  “What about the rights of Father Cisneros and Rev. Chapman?  What about my horse?  Don’t you dare talk to me about your rights!”  I turned the key.  That did it.

     “It was Martin!  Amos Martin wanted his daughter back!”

     I stopped and gave him a hard look.  “I want a confession down on paper.”

     Locking the cell, I turned to the outside door of the cell block.  When I opened it…

Do you think they’re the ones who have been doing all the terrorizing?” came the sincere question from Molly as we sat in the diner drinking coffee.  The morning rush was over and I had been to the jail to check on the occupant and found him in a sour mood.  In a few minutes I planned on going to see Doc Jones and his patient, hoping that he would be able to talk.

     I took a long swallow of my coffee finishing the cup before answering Molly.  “I’m almost positive.  I’m hopin’ that this Lester Feakes will shed some light on it.”  Pausing I stood to grab the coffepot from the stove to fill my cup again.  Molly declined, putting her hand over the cup.  Sitting back down, I continued, “They may be doin’ the threatenin’, but I want Martin.  He’s the instigator.”

     Molly was shaking her head.  “Why is he so set against his daughter’s happiness?”

     Taking a sip of the almost scorched coffee, I grimaced, then answered, “Because he’s a mean, bigoted man.  He cares only ’bout himself.”

     “This is terrible,” I muttered, taking another sip.

     “You made it, and besides you don’t have to drink it,” laughed Molly looking at my expression.

     I took one more deep swallow, finishing what I had poured, then said, “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

     There were two tables with customers and I watched as Lola went around filling their cups.  I smiled, thinking of the coffee I had just tasted hoping that the big pot from the kitchen wasn’t as bad.  Lola was working out well.  Though young, she had a mind to work, and her smile was an aid to her work.  

     She came by as I stood to leave.  “Senor Marshal, can I fill your cup?”

     I hesitated for a moment before Molly jumped into the conversation.  “Miles, don’t you have to go see Doc?”

     Winking at Lola, I remarked, “Next time.”

     “I will clean your pot so it’ll be ready for you when you come back,” she said in her soft tone.

     Going out the door I almost bumped into Cecilia Baxter, one of the town’s widows.  Excusing myself, I watched for a moment as she walked towards Molly, then went out and across the street.

     Doc was in his office when I walked in.  He didn’t look up from what he was doing; looked like he was counting pills.  “How’s the patient?”

     He put up a hand, continuing to count until the bottle was full.  “He’s in bad shape, Miles.  I don’t know if he’s going to make it or not.”

     “Has he come to?”

     Doc nodded, “He’s in and out of consciousness.  You can go check.”

     Feakes lay there, pale as the sheet that was covering him.  Doc followed me in and went up by his head.  “Mr. Feakes, this is Doc Jones.”  I saw eyelids flutter, but they didn’t open.

     I sighed in frustration.  “Doc, if he comes to try to find out if Amos Martin is behind this.”  I turned to walk from the room, “I already lost one witness to death, I’d like to keep this one alive.”

     As I left the room I heard a feeble voice, “Is Bart dead?”

Doc went to work on the man, shaking his head and muttering as he cut to get the bullet out.  Barstow and I stood by watching, there was nothing either of us could do.  Sometime during the operation, I heard someone come in the door, it was Mateo.

     “Miles, you need to come with me,” he said, touching me on the shoulder.  I looked at Barstow and Doc, then walked out with Mateo.

     “Take a look in the wagon,” he advised me as he pulled a tarp away from some gear and boxes.  One caught my attention–dynamite.  I looked at Mateo, who gave a grim smile, then pulled something from the corner that I thought were rags.  Instead, it was a sack with two holes in it for eyes; just like the ones that the men were wearing who attacked the Parson.

     I reached out my hand for the mask, placing it in my belt behind my back.  “Let’s go an’ have a talk with Mr. Barstow.”

     Going back inside, I told Barstow to come out with us.  He hesitated, but Doc said that he didn’t need any help, the man was out cold, and Doc had also given him some chloroform.

     When we got back outside, I took him to the wagon.  “You’ve got dynamite,” I stated.

     “What’s so unusual about that?” he asked warily.  “We use it in the diggin’s.”

     “We?” questioned Mateo.  “Who’s your partner?”

      “Uh, well, I meant I use it.  I had a partner, but he left an’ went off somewheres.”

     Reaching behind my back, I pulled out the mask, “Do you normally wear a mask while workin’ your claim?”

     He started to say something, but decided against it.  “You’re under arrest,” I informed him matter of factly.

     “For what?” he shouted.

     “Right now, suspicion.  When Doc’s patient comes to, I reckon we’ll have more reason to hold you.  Mateo, cuff him an’ take him to jail.”  I pulled his gun from the holster and checked him for other weapons while Mateo applied the handcuffs.

 

     Rev. Chapman stood stoically behind the pulpit.  I could tell he was in pain, not only from the injury, but also in spirit.  “I’ll not keep you long today,” he began, “and you’ll not see my exuberant self as I have to keep my actions to a minimum, but I do want to speak to you.”

     He went on to tell the congregation of his and Betty’s ordeal, of the soul-searching he had been doing.  I thought his text was unique, he read from Hebrews the ninth chapter.  “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.  So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation.”

     “Friends, the Grim Reaper comes!  None of us know the hour of our death or, as in my case, the hour in which we might take the life of someone else.  I’m still not through seeking the Lord over my deed yesterday, but I am at peace knowing that my Lord knows and understands.  I am at peace knowing that I protected my dear wife from un-fathomable trauma.  However, the truth of the matter is that you, and I, will one day face the Lord.  The man who lay dead on the floor in my home went straight to the judgment.  ‘After this the judgment.'”

     I got to hand it to the preacher, he didn’t let any of us off the hook.  He told us that we need to search our souls to make sure that we are ready for we know not when our time may be up.  We don’t know when the Lord is going to call us home or allow the Reaper to take our lives.  “Be ready,” he exclaimed, “after this the judgment.”

     All that Sunday afternoon the chorus of the closing hymn stuck with me. “Foot-prints of Jesus that make my pathway glow; We will follow the steps of Jesus where’er they go.”  Thinking of that chorus, I decided to walk down to Doc’s.  Because of his patient he wasn’t able to attend services.  Molly had prepared a basket of fried chicken for me to take to him, and had even made a buttermilk pie for him and Edith to enjoy.  I thought of snitching one of the biscuits, but I was already full from the fare she fed me.  While I went to Doc’s, Molly was going to see Betty.  She was at church, but was very demure and didn’t visit after service.

     “Come in, Miles,” Doc greeted me.  “What’s that you’re carrying?”

     “How’s the patient?” I asked, not handing him the pie.

     “Bad shape.  Oh, he’ll live, but he’ll limp the rest of his life.  It’ll be a couple of months before he’s able to walk.”

     “He able to talk?”

     “Wait until tomorrow, Miles,” advised Doc.  “I will tell you this…”