If you see a poor person being oppressed by the powerful and justice being miscarried throughout the land, don’t be surprised!  For every official is under orders from higher up, and matters of justice only get lost in red tape and bureaucracy.  Even the king milks the land for his own profit.”  –Ecclesiastes 5:8-9 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

     Charlie agreed with me that we had nothing substantial to hold John Smith.  He was told that his boss, Jesse Moreland, ought to seek out more reputable men, local ranchers or cattle buyers.  There was indeed a market to be had in bringing beeves up to Silverton.  

     I spent most of the day Saturday in bed, or sitting in a chair watching Star, Two-Bits, Hawk enjoying the sunny weather and pasture.  They definitely need to be ridden more though Hawk was beginning to show some age.  Sunday I made it to church and Parson Chapman and his wife, Betty, insisted that we have dinner with them after the service.  I didn’t want to be such a bother, but they both insisted.  She fixed a ham with pintos along with some potatoes and on the side some cornbread, not fancy, but filling and tasty.  Betty said she dared not make a pie with Molly there so she made a chocolate cake instead.  After dinner we had a fine time chatting.

     “Miles, you look weary,” stated the Parson while we were enjoying cake and coffee.

     “Well, Honey, he was shot,” declared Betty, after wiping some chocolate icing from the corner of her lips.

     “No, no, it isn’t the weariness of the body I’m speaking of.  It’s the weariness of the soul, the heaviness of the spirit,” replied the preacher with concern.  “I’ve seen your body Miles.  You’ve collected plenty of scars and if I’m not mistaken there are more in your soul than appear on your body.”

     I didn’t say anything.  He was the preacher after all, and he was right.  I was weary and tired and worn.  I gave a deep sigh, then looked the preacher in the eye.  “Parson, why do you do what you do?”

     It kind of took him back, for he straightened up, then rubbed his chin.  “Because I’m called.  Because there’s a need.”

     I nodded my head, then looked over at Molly and smiled.  “I could say the same is true of me.  There is a need for rightful justice.  Somebody has to do it, and you’re right, at times it seems like there’s no use, nothing is changing,” I took a deep swallow of coffee.  Betty reached for my cup to refill it.  “Parson, when I get to feelin’ down in the dumps, I think ’bout ol’ Jeremiah down in the mire.  You”re a preacher, why didn’t he quit?  He had to be worn and tired and depressed.”

     The preacher just nodded his head; nothing needed to be said.

     Monday, Wallace McGinnis stood before Judge Klaser’s court.  His lawyer wanted a stay, but the Judge denied him.  One thing for the Judge, he believed in the right to a speedy trial.  He sentenced McGinnis to five years in the state penitentiary.  When Charlie was escorting McGinnis back to the jail, the Judge motioned for me to join him in his office.

     I followed him in, and after he took off his robes, he reached down in a cabinet for a bottle of what I thought the label said was, “scotch.”  He took one swallow from a glass he had poured, then put the bottle back in the cabinet.  He didn’t bother to offer me any knowing that I didn’t partake, but he did glance my direction and offered up an excuse, “After a case such as this, I afford myself one drink.”

     “Miles, are you able to take McGinnis to Canon City?” he asked while looking me over.

     “I can sit on a train, if that’s what you’re askin’?

     He gave a little grunt, then smiled.  “Guess that’s what I’m asking.  I know you’re upset over the verdict, but Miles, there was no evidence to hang him, or to even say that he ordered someone killed.  Perhaps, he’ll learn his lesson in the pen.”

     Looking at him, I remarked, “Judge…” and left it at that to which he shook his head slowly understanding what I meant.  Then I added, “How many people reject the free offer of the heavenly Father’s grace?”

Dreaming all the time instead of working is foolishness.  And there is ruin in a flood of empty words.  Fear God instead.”  –Ecclesiastes 5:7 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     I tried to get comfortable, but that’s hard to do on those old wooden bench seats in the passenger car.  I used my jacket, and Osian gave me a blanket to help cushion my hip as I sort of slouched down on the seat.  The conductor frowned that I was taking up two seats, but my badge made him not say anything, just grunt.  John Smith was with me and I will say he helped me up the steps and into the car.  I didn’t handcuff him, but also didn’t give him a gun.

     Osian had brought us to the station in a carriage he picked up from one of the liveries in town.  I appreciated the fact that he personally drove me to the station and didn’t delegate it to one of the deputies.  If he survived, he’ll make a good lawman.  Bill Martin, according to Doc Minton, would be laid up for over a month, and probably longer before he could go back on regular duty.  He could help out Lucious in the jail, and do paperwork for Osian.  Then again, he might decide that his marshaling days are over.  I wasn’t able to see him before I left, but told Osian I’d be back in a couple of months and that the Sheriff would be making his scheduled rounds.  But I also told him that if there was something urgent not to hesitate to contact me.

     Molly would be waiting for me when the train came into the station as I had sent her a telegram, or had Lucius do it for me.  I also sent one to Charlie telling him that I was bringing John Smith with me.  I had sort of come to the thinking that he should be set free.  I gave Charlie the name of Jesse Moreland, the rancher who Smith said he worked for.  I’m sure Charlie would be checking that out.

     “Thank you Lord,” I muttered a short prayer as the train pulled from the station.

     “What was that?” questioned Smith, turning partially around as he was in the seat in front of me.  “Were you talkin’ to me?”

     I smiled, adjusting myself.  “No, just a little prayer thankin’ the Lord that I’m on this train headin’ home.  I remember the time when it took two days to get down to Durango.  I wouldn’t be able to make that ride in my current condition.”

     “Hmpf, from what I heard Doc say you shouldn’t be makin’ it now.”

     Shakin’ my head, “Nope, it’s time to be gettin’ home.”

     He was still looking back at me.  “You have something else on your mind, Smith?”

     “Uh, Marshal, I just want to thank you for not makin’ me ride in cuffs.  They’re not comfortable, an’ well, it’s downright embarrassin’.” 

     I looked him right in the eyes, holding my stare for several seconds before answering.  “Mr. Smith, I’m takin’ you at your word.  I’m hopin’ you’ll not disappoint me and make me shoot you before we get to Durango.”

     “No, Marshal, you can trust me,” he paused and was silent, still looking back at me.  Then he spoke again, “And I reckon yur right, the Lord is good.  I could be dead.  You could be dead,” he paused, then shaking his head he turned back around.

     I was plum tuckered out.  My wounds hurt, especially the one over my hip.  I couldn’t find a position where I was comfortable and able to find relief.  I had to trust Smith, and the Lord, for I knew I would sleep most of the way.  The Greener was leaning against the side of the car not far from my head and I laid my hand on the butt of my pistol.

     I woke up at the water stops due to that blasted horn blowin’, but went right back to sleep and didn’t wake up until the stop at Hermosa.  From there it wasn’t far into Durango.  Arriving at the station, I saw Charlie with Lucas waiting.  I couldn’t see Molly but I was certain she was there.  Smith had to help me to my feet as I was stiff from sitting and my hip was throbbing.  He grabbed my shotgun, and my eyes opened wide, waiting.  “It’s alright, I’m just carryin’ it for you.  Put your arm around me shoulder.”

     He had the Greener and if I put my good arm around his shoulder, I would be helpless.  Guess I had to trust him.  I prayed silently, “Lord, don’t let me be wrong.”

     As soon as Charlie saw me on top of the steps, he rushed to help Smith get me down.  Once reaching the platform, I took the Greener from Smith who released it willingly, then looked for Molly.  She was walking toward me from where there was a buggy.  My face lit up with a big smile.  Such was the reason for coming home.  “Come here,” I said, opening my arms.  She hesitated, looking me over and worried about my wounds, then gently pulled me close to her.  Oh, the comfort, that did more for my aching wounds than any salve the doctor could have given me, and it calmed my soul much better than laudanum ever could.

     “Let’s go home, Miles.  I’ve stew on the stove, and Emelda sent up some of her cheese enchiladas.”  We moved slowly to the buggy, with Lucas following behind.  Between the two of them they got me situated.  Lucas told Molly that he’d be up in a little while to take care of the buggy.

     I groaned as I sat back, but there was a smile on my face…

In such cases, your mouth is making you sin.  And don’t defend yourself by telling the Temple messenger that the promise you made was a mistake.  That would make God angry, and he might wipe out everything you have achieved.”  –Ecclesiastes 5:6 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Looking toward the sound I saw Digger crawling toward me, leaving a trail of blood.  He had a look of resignation on his face along with a few pieces of buckshot.  Raising his pistol he fired, then groaned.  The bullet went over my shoulder smashing into the door frame.  There was a smile on his face as he tried to lift the gun again.  I took a step toward him, my foot coming down on his hand that was holding the pistol.  

     His face in his sleeve, I could hear him mutter.  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.  McGinnis had it all planned out, then you showed up,” he dropped his head and I figured he was dead.  Then I heard what sounded like chuckling.  Digger lifted his head and smiled at me.  “Dawson wasn’t very good was he?”

     I looked down at the broken man, “No, he wasn’t.”  Digger laughed, then his eyes went glassy and his head dropped.  This time I knew he wouldn’t raise it.  I went to take my boot off his hand when I noticed blood on it.  Another drop fell, then I remembered that I was shot.  Weakness came into my knees and I felt I was going to fall, so I grabbed a chair to plop myself down in.

     Suddenly I was tired.  I was hoping it was just the effects of the fight wearing off and not from loss of blood.  The door opened with Sparky Boyd arriving with Doc Minto right behind him.  Doc came to my side.  “No, check on Martin first, I’m alright.”

     “Stay beside him,” I heard him order Boyd, then he shuffled over to where Martin lay.

     When I opened my eyes, I realized I was lying on my back with the ugly face of Osian Beavin looking down at me.  “Glad to have you back with us, Marshal,” he said, with a smile.  “You lost some blood, and, I might say, you added to your collection of scars.”

     I started to sit up, but the pain hit me and Osian put his hands on my shoulders to keep me lying down.  I moaned, then asked, “How’s Martin?”

     “He’ll be all right,” he stated, then added, “I’m going to have to give him vacation pay as he won’t be working for a month or so.”  He looked away from me.  “Doc, get over here, he’s awake.”

     There was the presence of another man at my side.  “You settle down,” came the order, and I knew it was the doctor.  “You were shot in the fat under your left arm.  That bullet went right on through.  Then you have a nice groove just over the hip bone on your right side, so just take it easy.  You’ll be all right as long as infection doesn’t set in.  I cleaned the arm the best I could; just don’t move it around for a while.”

     “Osian, did anyone survive?  You said Bill was going to make it.”

     Doc Minton answered for him.  “Deputy Martin took a bullet in both shoulders, and another in the side which was stopped by his ribs.  He’ll be okay, but won’t be working for quite a spell.  He’s resting, in fact that’s what you should be doing.”

     Turning my head, I looked around.  “Where am I?”

     “It was best that you and especially Bill weren’t moved around.  I took the liberty of closing down Boyd’s Pool Hall to use as a temporary hospital with the help of Marshal Beavin.”  He started to turn away, then stopped, stepping back to me.  “I will tell you that Mr. O’Brian is still alive, but barely.”

     “I need to get back to Durango, I have to be at the trial on Monday,” I blurted to no one in particular.  “What day is this?”

     “Friday, you’ve been out for two days, and I’ll tell you that you’ll not make that trial.”

     “Marshal, you’ve got to get me on that train tomorrow.  I have to be there.”

     Osian came to me and we looked at each other.  A small grin appeared, and he touched my shoulder then moved away.  I was alone, when I felt the presence of someone else coming near me.  I reached to my holster for my gun; it was there.  But then I felt flowing from that presence a peace and I took my hand away from my gun.  I wouldn’t need it in His company.  I knew who was there with me and I closed my eyes…

It is better to say nothing than to promise something that you don’t follow through on.”  –Ecclesiastes 5:5 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     I saw the welcoming committee.  My eyes first caught Dawson standing with his back against the bar.  When I entered he straightened up.  There were two men sitting at a table in front of Dawson slightly over to his left.  To the left of them was a man standing, then over to the far right were two more.  It was not a good situation.  I breathed a prayer.

     “Come in, Marshal.  We’ve been waiting for you,” came the words from one of the men sitting at the table.  He was the only one that was semi-dressed up, all the others were wearing range clothes, light jackets or vests.  And Dawson…he wore a black vest with a red shirt with dark pants.  His thumbs were in this gunbelt and there was a smirk on his face.

     I was hoping that Martin would move in to my right, but he knew I was right handed so he chose to go to the left.  The Greener was in my left hand, not good.  I didn’t know if I could fire off a shot holding it only in my left hand.  I pulled back both hammers, just in case.  

     “Who do I have the privilege of talkin’ to?” I asked the man at the table.  My eyes moved from him back to Dawson.  I didn’t think that Dawson would make a move until the man was finished with his spiel.

     He didn’t look like he had the qualities that McGinnis possessed, but I reckoned he was trying to take over the gang.  

     “Mike O’Brien,” he snapped while giving me a smile.  “Fellow sitting beside me is called ‘Digger,’ and don’t worry about the others.”  He didn’t bother to mention Dawson.

     I liked the fact that he wanted to talk.  Now, if I knew what I was facing when I entered, knowing that they were waiting to do me harm, I wouldn’t bother with the talking.  I’d cut loose with the Greener and let it speak for me.  “Always nice to know, whom I’m buryin’,” I replied, then glanced at the others.  “Hope you boys have some identification on you.”

     When I said that, Dawson took a step forward.  O’Brian put up his hand; he wanted to talk some more.  I was doing some mental planning.  I’d take out Dawson first then concentrate on the table, and hoped that Martin was up to the job.

     “Sure glad to know your name.  I’m sure that after the trial on Monday, I’ll be back up here to arrest you.”

     Slamming his hand on the table, O’Brian shouted, “McGinnis won’t make it to trial, and you’ll never make it back to Durango.”  He jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over and fired a pistol he had been holding.  That’s opened up the game.

     I felt the bullet hit me, and it caused me to raise the Greener up.  Firing, I blasted O’Brian and Digger who were still sitting at the table.  I was able to hold on to the shotgun, and one thing about buckshot you don’t have to aim.  I could hear other shots being fired, but my eyes went to Dawson who had drawn his gun.  He fired first at Martin.  That gave me time to draw my pistol and fire two quick shots at him, both hitting him square in the breastbone.  He fell back against the bar, his gun going off again but the bullet hit the ceiling.  My eyes went to the right.  I fired, hitting one man in the neck, the other shot at me, but ran out to the back.  

     A sound came from my left, a man was on the floor trying to raise his gun to shoot at me.  I fired, putting an end to his intentions.  That’s when I noticed that Deputy Martin was on the floor, his head in a pool of blood.  Glancing around at my opponents, I then dropped to check on Martin.  “He stood by me, so Lord help him,” I prayed kneeling to check on him.  He was still alive, but unconscious.  

     I raised my head to see if anyone was in the room that could fetch the doctor.  I saw a man peeking his head out from behind the bar.  He had been hiding there during the fight.  Standing, I cocked the pistol pointing it at him.  “Don’t shoot, I have nothing to do with them.”

     “They call me ‘Sparky.’  I own this place.”

     “Sparky, why don’t you run for Doc Minton.”

     He took off, and as he passed by me, I heard the sound of…