Marshal Johnson and his deputies seem to be getting the upper hand.  Their lawless deeds have moved into outright violence.  The problem is that the townsfolk will not testify against them for fear of retribution.  Somehow, Miles, Charlie, and Mateo must find a way to bring this corruption to justice.  Join with me now as we look into the life of Miles Forrest and those wondrous days of the past.

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

       The three law officers from Durango were sitting in the Wells Fargo office, joined by Agent Morgan Appleby who had recently been beaten close to death by an unknown group of assailants.  “Tell us what you know,” Miles said nodding at Mateo.

       “From what I can tell is that most of the residents and merchants, at least the ones I conversed with, look at Johnson and his office as a type of insurance policy.”

       “Extortion!” exclaimed Charlie Gold,  “Don’t they know the difference between insurance and extortion!”

       I looked at Charlie, “Let Mateo finish.”  I should keep quiet, after all this is Charlie’s jurisdiction.  Theoretically, I was a deputy under him for this trip, however, if need be my badge would trump his.

       “I talked to Mary Anders.  She and her husband Ben own a saloon, ‘Ben and Mary’s Emporium.’  I had already been thrown out of ‘Belle’s Place’ cause I was a Mexican, but Mary didn’t seem to mind,” Mateo informed us.  “I’m surprised that there aren’t more Mexicans working in the mines.  Plenty of other groups, especially Irish, German, and Welsh.  There’s a little Mexican camp to the east of town, that’s where I stayed each night.”

       “All right, back to Anders.  What did she say?” asked Charlie impatiently.

       “I heard her talking with one of her bartenders about a couple of men who died last winter.  I didn’t pretend I wasn’t listening, but when she said they were left handcuffed outside I questioned her.  I said, ‘Senora, you mean they were left outside in the freezin’ weather?  Handcuffed?”

       She looked at me, not certain whether or not to continue talking, especially since I was a Mexican.  “Mister, if you plan on staying around here this winter you better watch your Ps and Qs.  Johnson wouldn’t care whether you froze to death or not.”

       I gave her a puzzled look, “You mean he wouldn’t even put them in the calaboose?  Out of the weather?”

       “That brought a loud, very unlady-like snort from her.  ‘Mister, they’d let you freeze solid, like they did to poor old Dixie.’  Mentioning his name brought a tear to her eye.  That’s when the bartender spoke up.  ‘Yeah, he was a nuisance at times, but he really was a good sot.'”

       “Do you think she or the bartender would testify?” I asked.

       Mateo shrugged, “Maybe.”

       “But that should be part of the public record.  There should be an obituary, a coroner’s report, a newspaper article–something!” stated Charlie.

       I was just getting ready to respond when two men, wearing the stars of a deputy, walked into the office.  “Appleby, have you given any more thought to our last discussion?” asked a fairly large man.  He had longish dark hair come down from under his hat, but was otherwise clean of any facial hair.

       Morgan stood to go meet him.  “I already told you, and Johnson, that Wells Fargo doesn’t give in to blackmail or extortion!  Now get out!”

       The man grinned for a moment then it turned into a snarl.  “It’s Marshal Johnson, and you can put it down in the books under, ‘Incidentals.'”  Both he and the man with him laughed.

       The rude man looked over at Courtney and Barnes.  “It’d be sad if an accident happened to one of your agents.  I mean, didn’t you fall and seriously hurt yourself a week or so ago?”  Laughter again.

       I stood up to stand beside Morgan.  “Mister, I’d call that a threat!  You got a name?”

       “Who are you?” he asked, but I saw movement from the man with him.  He recognized that I was the one who was delivering Devlin out of town when he was shot down.

       “I’ll just call you Dummy, then!  That’ll make a nice marker on your grave.”

       He started for his gun, but I had moved a few steps closer and beat him to the draw, crashing the barrel of my pistol down across his head.  He went down with a thud.  The other man kept his hands well away from his gun.  I smiled, “You want a thump as well?”  I queried, then added.  “You got a name?”

       “Joe Foslin,” he replied.

       I nodded toward the man on the floor, “And him?”

       “Tioga.”

       I wasn’t concerned with Foslin, so I turned my head to Charlie and Mateo.  “Does Tioga ring a bell with either of you?”

       “Thurman Cavendish, goes by Tioga,” recalled Mateo.

       That brought a smile to my face.  “See ya, Foslin.  I’ll keep this here feller in cuffs.  Oh, and if you want to shoot him, he’ll be cuffed to the post outside.”

       Foslin stumbled out, but as soon as he hit the boardwalk he burst into a run.  I turned to Charlie and Mateo, “Think they’ll get my message?”

There is a lawless element controlling Silverton.  Miles Forrest and Charlie Gold are moving to curtail it or eliminate it completely.  One man is dead already, and another severely beaten.  How will Sheriff Gold, Miles and their fellow law officer Mateo Ramirez handle the situation, or can they?  Join in for another thrilling adventure in the days of yesteryear.

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

       Charlie and I stepped out onto the platform of the station.  Saddlebags over our shoulders, Charlie carrying a rifle, myself a shotgun, and as we started walking down the street our badges glistened in the sun.  It was hot, especially for this altitude.  Perhaps that’s what the Master meant when He told me at camp that He was going to stir things up. 

       We walked a block up to the Wells Fargo office.  Mateo was to join us there sometime this afternoon.  When we stepped into the office the first thing I noticed was that all three agents were there.  I went over to where Morgan Appleby was standing and reached out my hand.  His face was a sickening yellow color as it was beginning to heal from when he was beat up.  The last time I saw him, it was swollen, one eye completely shut, split lip, and was a mixture of indigo, black, and blue.  

       Morgan was a good man.  He had been at this office for Wells Fargo for some time now.  I worked with him in the past both as an agent for Wells Fargo and Deputy U.S. Marshal.  The other two agents seemed to be capable men:  Dale Courtney and Ron Barnes, who cared for Morgan when he was laid up in bed.

       I eyed him over, “One thing for sure, that ugly mug of yours is pretty as it changes colors.  How’re you feelin’?”

       Instead of reaching out to shake my hand he raised his fist as if to strike me.  I feigned fear, and then he laughed, grabbing my hand and giving it a good shake, then cringed.  “It still hurts when I laugh,” he half moaned, half laughed.  “Doc said I most likely had a couple of broken ribs.”

       Charlie nodded at the two agents then walked over to where Morgan and I were standing.  Charlie shook Morgan’s hand and asked, “You sure you couldn’t recognize any of them?”

       “Ha, I wish.  I might be able to recognize their boots though,” he said with another laugh.  He turned somber then, “There was a killing night before last.”

       Charlie and I looked at each other, he then encouraged Morgan to continue.  “Ron Ferguson, he and his wife, Carol, own a fabric store in town.  I really don’t know much of anything about it.”

       “Shot?” I questioned.

       Morgan shook his head.  “No, beat to death.  He’s a little man, didn’t take much.  I talked briefly to Dr. Staster.  Upon examination he said that Ferguson had a broken jaw, the bones around his eyes were broken, and a cracked skull.  At that time, he wasn’t sure if he was killed when his skull was broken or if some of the bones around his eyes penetrated his brain.”

       “Marshal’s deputies?” inquired Charlie.

       Morgan gave him a skeptical look.  “No one knows, but you figure.  Nothing was stolen, money was still in the register,” he said, then sighed.  “I guess we’ll really never know the whys and whats of it.  I just feel sorry for Carol.”

       “Marshal Forrest,” came the voice of Ron Barnes.  “I just made a fresh pot of coffee.  Want a cup?”

       “Yes, yes,” implored Morgan, “put your gear over on that table.  Sit yourselves down.  Ron, bring them a cup.”

       Now, I hadn’t replied that I wanted a cup of coffee, but then, who was I to refuse one?  “Beware of that first sip,” warned Agent Courtney.  “The water’s right from the Animas river, gold sludge and all.”

       Charlie looked over at him with a frown, all I did was smile.  But upon first taste, there was a metallic flavor.  Maybe…

       We were both on our second cup of coffee.  Morgan and his men went back to their work, and we waited for Mateo to show up.  I had just placed by cup on the desk next to me, when Mateo entered through the door.  He came over to us as soon as he entered the office.  Eyes wide, he began, “We’re sure gonna need the help of God…”.

Durango survived the 4th of July activities with little breakage in the town.  Fireworks were shot off, cowboys came in from the ranches firing their six-shooters in the air, only one major incident was when a firecracker almost went off in Bobby Windridge’s hand, and some yellowjackets chased Flori Littleton who had drippings from a syrupy cinnamon roll all over her.  Now, it was back to reality.  Mateo, Charlie, and Miles were ready to head back to Silverton and the corruption that would face them.  Go back with me now to those exciting days of yesteryear in the Saga of Miles Forrest.

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

       Charlie, Doc Jones, and I had finished breakfast.  Marta, Molly, had joined us, and more recently by Preacher Chapman.  We had decided that Mateo would go up a couple of days early to survey the scene.  We were both going up as Sheriff Gold’s deputies.

       “Seat yourself down, Parson, I’ll fetch you a cup of coffee,” I told him as I moved to the counter to grab a cup to fill it.  Placing it down on the table in front of the preacher, I said, “You sure did the Lord good, yesterday.  That was a fine sermon.”

       He smiled, took a sip, then asked with a smirk on his face, “What was it about?”

       “Uh, well, uh,” I heard all of them snicker at my frustration.  “It was about stirrin’ up your gift,” I finally got out proudly.  It wasn’t the first time I had heard that message in recent days.  I remembered the encounter on the road up to Silverton.  

       I looked at each of them, their smart-alek grins hanging on their faces.  “And if’n you don’t stir it up, the good Lord might do the stirrin’ for you,” I blurted.

       A puzzled look appeared on the face of Rev. Chapman.  “I don’t recall saying that in my message.”

       “No, you didn’t, but it’s true.  Somethin’ all of you who are grinnin’ ought to think about,” I stated.  That quieted them down for a minute or two.

       The train didn’t pull out for another two hours; Charlie and I went through what plans we had again, but when we were joined by our friends and family, well it was time to put plans aside for a while.  A person never knows when it might be the last time they might see them. 

       “Charlie,” asked Doc, interrupting the quiet, “Do you have any grounds to arrest that marshal and his crew?”

       “Not really, unless the merchants step forward.”

       “What about the attack on Morgan Appleby?” I almost hollered.  

       “We can’t pin that on Johnson.  I can arrest the person who beat him up, and it probably was on the orders of Johnson, but unless the deputy, whoever it was, confesses that Johnson gave him the order, there’s little I can do.”

       I nodded with resignation.  “What happened to Devlin would most likely happen to him.”  I fingered the pocket on my vest where I had stuck the telegram from Wells Fargo.  I pretty much said that I was to take care of the situation.  I hadn’t told anyone about the telegram, figured I would tell Charlie when the time was right.

       Looking over at the clock on the wall, it showed we had an hour before the train would leave.  I sat for a moment, and looked each person over.  It was good to sit at the table, breaking bread, or in this case cutting a piece of pie, with friends.  There had been laughter, solemnity, and the sober reality that we could be walking into a real hornet’s nest.  The Preacher got up and came behind Charlie and me, placing his hands on our shoulders.  He prayed for wisdom, discernment, courage, and safety.  He prayed that justice would be done, that evil would be brought to its knees.

       He nodded at us, then marched on out of the diner.  Doc scratched the side of his head, then the back of his neck.  He stared at both of us, “You two, along with Mateo, do what needs to be done, but be careful.”  He got up to follow the Parson out of the diner.

       Molly and I had been through this more than a few times, so we got up leaving Marta and Charlie alone.  They had been struggling since the birth of little Charles Lorenzo Gold.  She was more protective of him, actually almost suffocating him.  I know she was scared that something might happen.  Why, a man could get run over by a runaway wagon and killed, or hit by lightning.  I knew, Molly knew, and I think Charlie knew that we were in the hands of the Lord.  Molly had been working on Marta’s faith.

       Two hours later we were moving up the canyon.  Charlie, in addition to his sidearm, carried a .44-40 1873Winchester, and I had my Greener.  Hopefully we wouldn’t have to use them.  I don’t think it was a lack of faith, but I had reason to believe that we would.  We were to meet with Mateo at the Wells Fargo office just before it closed for the day.  I glanced at Charlie who had grim features etched on his face.  Sighing, I settled down figuring that it was time for a nap…

Tension was in the air, sparks ready to fly with flames from guns, justice was being tested.  Miles Forrest was taking a prisoner back to Durango when he was faced with the local law officers consisting of five men led by Marshal Todd Johnson.  Any sort of wrong movement could leave men dead.  Would Miles give up his prisoner and return to Durango alone?  Would he face the five men?  Go back with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear with the Saga of Miles Forrest.

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

       Out of nowhere a shot rang out.  It was not from the men facing me; a rooftop maybe.  I brought the shotgun to bear, when I saw Johnson with his hands in the air and was hollering, “Don’t shoot!  Don’t shoot!”  

       His quick reaction saved his life, and most likely my own.  The men with him had their hands up, making sure they were away from their guns.  I glanced quickly to the rooftops and saw movement on one to my left.  It was only a blur, I couldn’t tell who it was.  Tom Devlin was lying in the street–lifeless.  I saw Dale Courtney standing on the boardwalk at the corner and motioned with the Greener.  “Check him.”

       I kept my eyes on Johnson while Courtney checked to see if there was any life in Devlin.  “He’s dead Marshal,” came his report.  “Bullet right at the base of the throat and chest.”

       The anger was rising up within me.  To lose a man in my custody rankled me to no end.  To me it was a mockery of justice.  I cocked the hammers of the Greener back, leveled it at Johnson and ordered, “Untie him!”

       “He’s your prisoner, you untie him,” he came back scornfully.

       The blast from the shotgun boomed, the shot hitting the ground to the left of Johnson.  I saw one of his deputies flinch.  Some of the shot must have ricocheted off the ground hitting him.  But it did get the attention of Johnson who motioned for another deputy to help him remove the rope and lift Devlin out of the street.

       I gave Hawk a nudge with my spur.  He started walking down the street while I kept the Greener pointed at Johnson.  Thirty minutes later, with Hawk loaded in the stock car, I sat looking out the window of the passenger car as it headed down the canyon to Durango.  I was fuming inside.  When I had passed Johnson, he mumbled loud enough for me to hear, “Looks like the marshal lost his witness.”  He never looked at me, but I knew it was a barb thrust at me.

       It was all I could do to hold it in.  I began to pray that the Lord would help me to gain control.  I had several hours to think and pray about what happened, and begin to devise a plan for a return to Silverton.

       When the train arrived in Durango, I took Hawk up to the cabin, brushed him down and fed him, then walked on down to the diner.  It was about half-full with Mollie and Adela waiting on tables.  I plodded over to my regular table not even bothering to stop and get a cup of coffee.  I was weary…weary of the inner fight, the war against wickedness, and scum like Johnson preying on innocent people.

       Molly must have noticed my demeanor for she came over placing her hands on my shoulders.  Leaning forward, she kissed me on the cheek.  “How about some pork chops covered with onion gravy with some fried potatoes?”  

       Placing my left hand on top of hers, “That’d be nice.”  It wasn’t until she left that I realized that I still had the Greener in my right hand.  Something was wrong with me, for it dawned on me that I hadn’t reloaded.  I needed to wake up.

       I removed the empty shell, replacing it with a new one, then set the Greener against the wall.  Shaking my head, I got up, grabbed a cup and poured a cup of coffee.  Ahhh, it made me relax and I heaved a deep sigh.  By the time Molly brought my supper most of the crowd had left so she was able to sit beside me.  

       “Take your time–relax,” she comforted me.  “There’s a piece of apple pie in the back.  Do you want to talk about it now or later?”

       “Let me finish my supper and I’ll tell you what happened over the pie.”

       I had plans for Charlie and Mateo…