The Saga of Miles Forrest

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
People who work hard sleep well, whether they eat little or much.  But the rich are always worrying and seldom get a good night’s sleep.”  –Ecclesiastes 5:12 (NLT)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
     As far as I knew McBride and I had never met.  He might have been in that meeting with the Governor, but I couldn’t recall him.  When my foot touched the station platform, he started walking towards me.  He didn’t know me, but I reckoned he recognized the Greener in my hand.
     He reached out his hand, “Marshal Forrest, we finally meet.”  
     Grasping his hand, we stood for a few seconds analyzing each other.  He was a few inches taller than my five ten and he gave me a slight nod, then released my hand.  Here we stood, momentarily, two warriors both filled with scars accessing each other and now we were walking side by side.  I noticed that he was constantly glancing around; yep, a wary man was he.  I had seen a few men like him in my lifetime:  Cook, McNelly, Butler, and a few others that had that look.
     I stopped before we crossed the road that ran parallel to the tracks.  Thoughts from years past swept through my mind.  McBride looked at me, “What’s wrong?”  Then I saw that he was scanning up and down the street.  I pointed to the cafe and a saloon next to it.  “Ten years ago or so, I was involved in a shootout there.  Banker, a couple of others and a woman…” I paused, then added, “Some dead, some in the pen.”
     I nodded at him, letting him know I was ready to move on.  “You hungry?” he asked.  “I know a little place that serves a great steak with some chili verde.  You can drop your saddlebags off at the hotel on the way.”
     My eyes caught his and he smiled.  “Don’t fret, the meal is on the great State of Colorado.”
     He led me to the Fariss Hotel, a fine looking establishment and when I walked inside I saw that it was a little more extravagant than I was used to.  We walked up to the counter.  “Room for Miles Forrest,” commanded McBride holding out his hand.
     The clerk was a young man, and he had a look of malnourishment.  “Sign the register,” he said, then reached to the slot where there was a key located.  “Room 28, right up the stairs to the right.”
     McBride took the key and headed towards the stairs.  He must have read my thoughts.  “Consumption.”
     I knew that Colorado Spring and Boulder had sanatoriums for the disease, but I hadn’t come in contact with it often.  I knew that Cook’s wife suffered from it and the last I heard was up in Boulder.
     Throwing my saddlebags on the bed, I walked out with McBride.  “You taking that shotgun with you?” he questioned pointing at the Greener.
     “Part of me, seldom go anywhere without it.”
     Thirty minutes later we had almost finished our dinner, and McBride had ordered us each a slice of pie.  The coffee wasn’t bad for hotel coffee, and I reckoned the pie would be quite short of Molly’s making.  I will give McBride credit, he didn’t push or talk shop while we were eating.  We talked mostly about family, places we’d been, and folks we knew.  
     “Let me tell you the region you’ll be responsible for.  I reckon that’s what mostly on your mind.  From what I’ve gathered in our conversation you’ve a hankering to stay home more.  Well, I can’t promise you that.  You’ll have the southwest section and that would include the four corners up to Grand Junction.  Population is relatively sparse except for in your area around Silverton, however, the four corners has become a haven for outlaws.  They find places to hide in all the ruins.”
     “So I operate it similar to a sheriff with a county?”
     “You operate it the way you want as long as your presence is known and felt,” he said bluntly.  “As far as Denver is concerned, you’ll need to be here for special events concerning the Governor.”
      “And if the Governor changes his policy regarding the Rangers, what then?”
     There was a twinkle in his eyes, and a smile…

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
The more you have, the more people come to help you spend it.  So what is the advantage of wealth–except perhaps to watch it run through your fingers!”  
–Ecclesiastes 5:11 (NLT)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
      For the first hour McGinnis sat looking out the window mumbling to himself.  I heard him once, “Where is Dawson?”
     Normally I don’t reply, but I reckoned he ought to know.  “Dawson’s not comin’,”  I told him straight out.  “He’s totally incapacitated, in other words, he’s dead.”  He sort of jerked when I said that.  So I added, “Do you want to admit bringin’ him to Durango to kill someone?”
     He looked over at me, with now empty eyes.  Eyes that had no hope, eyes that took on a blank stare almost as if his soul had already left him.  He barely shook his head, then bent over placing his face in his hands.
     I didn’t say anything for quite a spell.  I offered him one of the sandwiches that Molly made me.  He did turn his head to look at it, then proceeded to stare out the window.  There were a couple of hand-pies, but he refused my offer of one of them.  He must be in bad shape.  When the conductor came by I asked if he could perchance bring a cup of coffee when the time afforded him.  He said he’d take care of it and to my surprise in a half hour a porter brought me a steaming cup.
     “Don’t know how good it is, but it sure ‘nough is hot, so’s yuh be careful,” he said with a large grin, his white teeth shining brightly against his darkened skin.  Reaching in my vest I pulled out a dollar to give him for his trouble, to which the grin got even wider.  I didn’t bother with getting McGinnis a cup.  He was in a stew.
     One time during the trip he straightened up and I thought I’d try to talk to him about the Lord and the hope that He gives.  But he just gave me that blank stare, then turned his face to the window.  He stayed that way whenever we were traveling and in the car.  Whenever we stopped, he would hold his head down, take care of business and shuffle his feet as if he were in the lowest dregs.
     When I finally turned him over to the Warden, he was in no better shape.  The Warden asked about him, and I gave him the short version, as he had all the proceedings in the file I gave him.  He looked at McGinnis, then to me.  I just shrugged.
     The train was only in the station for a couple of hours, then I would be on my way to Pueblo with my meeting.  I wondered as I heard the rhythm of the clickety-clack on the rails what the Lord might have for me, or even if this was a door through which I should enter.  I knew Marshal Blasco was retiring, but he informed me that he could not guarantee that I would be appointed marshal, and even if I was I would then have to move to Denver.
     My mind wandered back over my life.  Maybe I should have gone ahead into the horse business.  Years ago Lot Smith asked that I join him in a wild horse hunt.  I was still with Wells Fargo at that time.  Never did take him up on it.  Well, doesn’t do a person well to wonder about the “what ifs” of life.  We plan for tomorrow, but the Lord wants us to be living for the day.  The future is in His hands, and we take it one day at a time.
     Hollister McBride, of the Colorado Mounted Rangers, was supposed to meet me in Durango.  I sent him a wire from Canon City after dropping off McGinnis that I would be coming in on the next train.  I had met McBride once before with Blasco and several others in Governor James Grant’s office discussing the reorganization of the Rangers.  With the last election there was a new governor, Benjamin Harrison Eaton.  The Rangers, like a U.S. Marshal, were subject somewhat to the political game.  As a deputy I wasn’t affected so much.  I know that some of the governors in the past used the Rangers for their personal use and bodyguards.  Hopefully that wouldn’t be the case.  I would make sure that was clarified by McBride.
     As the train came into the station, I saw a tall, rugged looking man.  He was well-dressed in black, with a string tie, and he was sporting a black handlebar moustache.  I noticed that his boots were shined, and he had a black, well-kept gunbelt with a .45 in the holster that could have ivory grips.  It was Hollister McBride, better known as “Holly.”  
     “Well, Lord,” I breathed a prayer as I picked up the Greener and headed out for my appointment, “guide me.  Lead me on the path you would want me to travel…”

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on

Those who love money will never have enough.  How absurd to think that wealth brings true happiness!”  –Ecclesiastes 5:10(NLT)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
    Parson Chapman and I were enjoying a piece of pie at the diner.  Molly was in back with Marta and Emelda doing inventory.  Molly had been trying to remove herself from the daily operations of the diner.  We were chatting when through the front door came Doc Jones.  He walked wearily over to the table.
    “Howdy, Doc.  We’re havin’ some pie, should I get you a piece?”
    He shook his head and waved his hand then pulled out a chair.  “I will take a cup of coffee.”
    As the preacher greeted him I got up grabbing a cup from the shelf and poured Doc a cup, then proceeded to refill the preacher’s and my cup.
    Doc slowly reached for his cup, then took a long draught.
    “Doc, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you look kinda haggard,” I stated, watching him carefully.
    “Hmpf,” was all I got as he concentrated on his coffee.
    I glanced over at the preacher, who shrugged, then forked another piece of apricot pie in his mouth.  My piece was gone, and so quickly.  I could eat another piece, but I didn’t want to bother the ladies at work.
    “Reverend, Miles, to tell you the truth, I’m tired.  I can’t keep it up.  Durango is growing and I can’t keep up with all the patients,” then he stopped, eyeing me.  “And the ones that you, the Sheriff, and Mateo bring me.”  He stopped, finished his cup and slid it toward me on the table.  I guess that meant he wanted another cup.
    After bringing him a fresh cup, he said, “What I’m trying to say is that Durango is big enough for two doctors!”
    “Do you know of another one?” questioned the parson.
    He shook his head, then scratched his ear followed by rubbing his chin.  “There is a man in Kansas City, not a doctor but a pharmacist who might know of someone,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
    “Send him a telegram,” suggested the parson.
    “Sure, go ahead, get some help, that way you might not be so grumpy,” I said, kidding him.
    I reckon he didn’t take it as a joke, for I received a frown and a tart reply to which he added, “By the way when are you leaving?  Get you out of the way and maybe some of this bloodshed will stop.”
    He saw my expression drop as he knew my real feelings on that matter.  “Sorry, Miles, like you say I’m just a grumpy old man.”
    The preacher, always ready to use anything as an excuse to pray, reached out his hands.  He then led us in a prayer, asking the Lord to give Doc strength and a helper.  After the prayer I relayed my news.
    “I’m supposed to meet with the Governor’s representative when I pass back through Pueblo regarding the Colorado Rangers.  From what Blasco wrote to me, they are breaking up the state into regions and there is a possibility that I could be placed in charge of the southwest region.”
    Doc eyed me, but it was the preacher who spoke, “Would that mean you would be traveling only in the Southwest?” he asked, then added, “they wouldn’t pull you up to Denver to protect the Governor?”
    “I can’t truly answer that.  Hopefully the meeting will answer questions like that.  Molly gave me a list of things to ask and I’ll mull them over in my mind on the trip.  I don’t think McGinnis will be any problem.”
    “Hmpf, he won’t if he knows what’s best for him.  Five years is quite different from a hangman’s noose,” muttered Doc.
    The next morning, Mateo helped escort McGinnis to the train.  As we boarded, he grinned looking at the Greener in my hand.  “Think he’ll need a thump?”  “I doubt it, but I always try to be prepared.  You take care of things.”

      I moved on into the car, situated McGinnis, and myself.  We each had a full seat to ourselves.  I looked the car over, then…

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
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?”