The Saga of Miles Forrest

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
Miles has recently had a run in with the marshal of Silverton, a man he did not know.  Silverton had a reputation of not being able to keep marshals.  Miles was doing the rounds of the county that Sheriff Gold normally did.  There is something strange going on, and Miles can feel it, but nothing tangible has come his way as of yet.  Let’s go back to Silverton, and the Saga of Miles Forrest in those thrilling days of yesteryear.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
       Before I left Hawk with Giles to take care of I asked him how many deputies Marshal Johnson had and was told that all told there were five.  Walking from the livery down Greene street toward the Wells Fargo office, I thought about that number.  For a town like Silverton, that was not an overabundance of deputies, but at the same time it was a little unusual.  
       It had been my custom that whenever I was in Silverton that I’d stop in at the Wells Fargo office.  In years past I had worked from that office, and wanted to see who was there now, and to pass the time.  When I walked in there was a young man sitting at a desk behind the counter in front, but I didn’t see anyone else.  Perhaps they were out of the office.
       “Can I help you?” came the voice.
       “I’m lookin’ for Tom Shuman or Morgan Appleby,” I replied.  “I’m Deputy United States Marshal Miles Forrest.”
       He jumped to his feet, eyes wide open, rushing to the counter.  “What’s happened?” he cried. 
       I was taken a little back not expecting this reaction.  “Whoa, there son, as far as I know nothin’s happened,” I countered, then asked again.  “Is Shuman or Appleby around?”
       “I don’t know a Shuman,” came his reply.  “Mr. Appleby is in the office with Dale Courtney.  He’s a new agent, came on when I did.”
       Giving him one of my grand smiles, I inquired, “And who might you be?”
       “Ron Barnes,” he said, reaching out his hand, his demeanor now calmed.
       “Do you think he’ll be long?”
       He hesitated in answering causing me to think that there may be something wrong.  He looked back at the closed door, then to me, rubbing his chin.  It looked as if he was trying to figure out what to say.
       I stepped to the edge of the counter then moved on toward the door.  “Hey, you’re not allowed behind the counter!” he hollered moving toward me.
       Ignoring him I pushed him aside, knocked hard on the door then went in.  Morgan was lying on a sofa, his face bruised and battered.  The other man was holding a cup of coffee.   Morgan saw me through eyes barely able to open.  “Miles, is that you?” He asked, then groaned as he tried to sit up.
       Pulling a chair up, I sat down in it next to Morgan.  “Looks like one of those mules from up at the mines gave you a good kick.”
       “Hmpf,” he muttered, then looked at the man standing next to him.  “You can go now, Dale.  I want to talk with Marshal Forrest.”
       He looked at Morgan, then nodded at me.  After he set the mug on the desk, he took his leave.
       “So, tell me, who worked you over?”
       He sighed as he turned his attention to me.  “The marshal has his methods of running the town; hires thugs to extort money.  I told him that Wells Fargo would not play their game,” he paused, touching the corner of his lips as he tried to smile.  “A couple of them grabbed me, worked me over, and left me outside the office where I lay most of the night until Courtney and Barnes found me this morning.”
       I was a mite concerned.  “Seen a doctor?”
       “Left about an hour ago.  He thought I might have a broken rib, but wasn’t sure.  Mostly he cleaned off my face, told me to lie down and rest.”
       “I’ve met the marshal,” I told him.  “I was not impressed.”
       “You go easy, Miles.  He’s not one to be taken lightly.”
       I told him why I was in Silverton, about Charlie Gold’s new baby and the problems that Marta had.  We had a nice time chatting, though I know it hurt him some to speak.  I told him that I’d be back around to see him, but I needed to go up to some of the mines to check on them.
       “We haven’t had any problems since you helped work out that problem with the workers,” he paused, then said.  “I guess you’ll find out when you visit them tomorrow.”
       I wanted to ask him more, but I could tell he was worn out.  He told me that Barnes and Courtney would help him get home.  Patting him on the shoulder, I took my leave.  “Take care of him, I’ll be by tomorrow to check,” I told the two in the outer office.
       Walking out of the office, I noticed across the street down toward the station a deputy leaning against the side of the building.  I walked back up the street toward the cafe where I normally eat when in town.  I had just sat myself down, when…

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
Miles Forrest was in Silverton checking on the community and was confronted by the deputy marshal of Silverton.  He had heard some information that didn’t quite settle with him, so he began to prod the deputy.  That is, he did until the town marshal came in the door.  Join us for another thrilling adventure from the days of of yesteryear in the adventures of Miles Forrest.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
       Before I could get anything out of my mouth, I heard the growling voice of the marshal.  “What’s a U.S. Marshal doing in Silverton?”
       I met him eye to eye, and I already knew that this wasn’t going to be a fun confrontation.  “First of all it’s none of your business!” I barked back, then added.  “Second, I’m not sure that I approve of your greetin’ or from what I hear of your treatment of prisoners.”
       He finally dropped his stare.  “None of that pertains to you!  What we do here is none of your concern and, in fact, out of your jurisdiction!”  He moved around me to stand beside the deputy.
       Turning to face him, I observed that he had hanging jowls, and was starting to bulge a little over the belt.  However, he carried his gun well, and I could see by his hands that he was or at least had been a rough and tumble guy by the scars on his knuckles.  “As I explained to your deputy, the badge I’m wearin’ says that I do have jurisdiction here.”  I stopped to let the words linger.
       He didn’t say anything, just turned to put his hat on the rack by the entrance to his office.  Turning his back on me he walked in his office and shut the door.
       Of all the gall.  I started after him when the deputy stepped in front of me, he hand on the butt of his gun.  “Sonny,” I said with warning.  “You begin to pull that gun and you’ll never see another light of day.”  He smirked, but he did move his hand away.  “Now, get out of my way!”
       I don’t know if it was stubbornness or loyalty to the marshal, but Deputy Cunningham didn’t move.  He wasn’t as big as the marshal, but was taller.  I reckoned it was time for a lesson in proper etiquette.  I moved the Greener slightly which was in my left hand.  His eyes went to it and I hauled off and clobbered him on the jaw with my right.  He staggered some, but didn’t fall and his hand started toward his gun.  This time I swung the Greener up and caught him under the right side of his chin.  He didn’t stagger, he simply fell to the floor with a thud.  I went past him and barged through the door.
       Upon entering I was greeted by the marshal sitting behind his desk, this time, however, he had a pistol in his hand.  “I don’t know who you think you are, but no high-tone U.S. Marshal is going to treat us thataway.”
       Perhaps he thought I would stop upon seeing the pistol.  I noticed it wasn’t cocked so I took my changes and pulled the Greener up pulling back both hammers as I did.  I had the shotgun cocked and six inches from his face before he could pull back the hammer on his pistol.  
       I smiled, “Go ahead, pull back the hammer if’n it’ll make you feel better.”  I don’t know if it was my smile or the two big eyes from the shotgun staring at him, but he set the gun on the desk.  I moved away from him, but kept the Greener pointed at him.
       There was anger on his face, but he didn’t say anything which was probably good on his account for I doubt he could say anything that would please me right now.  “Now, Marshal Johnson, since you’ve already met Mr. 12-gauge Greener, I’ll introduce myself.  I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Miles Forrest and I’m temporarily workin’ Sheriff Gold’s circuit.  I just stopped by as I entered town to introduce myself,” I paused, not removing my smile.  “I trust that this cordial greetin’ will not happen again.”
       He nodded and sort of relaxed.  “I’m on my way to meet some old friends.  You may know them:  Joe Hoskins, Chadwick Morgan, and Jakub Brewlinski.”  When I mentioned Jakub’s name his eyes widened for a second.  “My plan is to be here a couple of days,” I hesitated, then continued, “or maybe longer.”
       I finally uncocked the shotgun and brought it down to my side.  “I’ll be around…I want to see you again an’ we’ll continue our discussion before I leave.”
       Without further adieu I turned and walked out of the office, stepped over the deputy and out the door.  My next job was to get Hawk to a livery, brushed down and fed, then get myself a room.  There were a couple of liveries in town, one near the train station, the other up the other end of Greene Street.  I rode by the Grand Hotel again and was tempted to get a room there, but I knew the county budget wouldn’t allow it.  A block over and two blocks down from the livery was a nice place I’d stayed at before, I’d stop there before getting Hawk a stall to see if there was a room.
       “A dollar and a half a night,” said the desk clerk.  For that price I was tempted to camp out up in the hills.  I knew this was a mining town and money flowed easily, but a dollar?  I took a room, then went to take care of Hawk and was shocked again;  dollar to feed and take care of my horse.  
       “What’s your name?” I asked the hostler as he took the reins from me.
       He frowned the wrinkles forming on his forehead.  “Why yuh askin’?  he asked.  
       “I sorta like to know the name of the man who’s robbin’ me,” I said then added a smile.
       He regained his composure, “Giles,” he said then swallowed.  I saw his eyes see my badge.  His eyes widened, “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
       “Guilty conscience?” I inquired following him into the livery.  I wanted to talk with him some more.  I know this was a rich mining community, but I thought the prices might be a little too high.  Hmmm…

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on

Silverton, one of the richest strikes in history.  The mines were pouring out both gold and silver, but that brought in an element of lawlessness, evil, and wickedness on a large scale.  The city boasted not only of its richness and wickedness, but of its commercial growth.  It hosted four hundred buildings containing two banks, twenty-nine saloons, several hotels, dance halls, and theaters.  The town itself was split in half along Greene Street with the law-abiding church-goers on one side and those that dealt in vice on the other.  It was into this town we find Miles Forrest entering as acting sheriff for Charlie Gold.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
       It had been a while since I’d been in Silverton.  New buildings had sprung up; a cafe here, a laundry there.  There was a new bakery I could see as I rode down the middle of Greene Street and they had finished the Grand Hotel.  In years past I had spent quite some time in this town, back when the mines were just opening.  The last time I was here Big Bob Phillips was marshal, but I heard he had been killed.
       I rode Hawk up to where I knew the jail to be and tied him off.  The jail was not near large enough to hold all the miscreants that needed to be in there.  It consisted of two floors with six cells on the top floor and three on the bottom, along with an outer office and a smaller one for the marshal.  There was a man sitting at a desk with his head down on folded arms on the desk.  I didn’t know whether to smile or feel pity.  I guess there wasn’t any reason for the man to catch up on some sleep, but it just doesn’t look good when someone enters and finds the law asleep at a desk.
       “Mister,” I said with raised voice.  “I’m looking for the marshal!”
       The man jerked awake, and I thought for a moment he was going for his gun.  “Whoa, man, take it easy,” I said, trying to calm him.
       He brought one hand to his head, as if to hold it up, and possibly clear it.  “Uh, uh, sorry, but who are you?”
       “Deputy United States Marshal, and acting sheriff Miles Forrest,” I explained.  “I’m here for Sheriff Gold who is currently incapacitated.”
       His eyes finally found mine, and he didn’t make any offer to shake my hand.  “Uh, the marshal’s not here right now.  What do you want him for?” he asked in what I thought was a little belligerent manner.
       “You have a handle?” I inquired.
       He eyed me over before answering.  “Curt Cunningham, I’m the deputy.”
       “The marshal allow his deputies to sleep while on duty?” I questioned again.
       A frown appeared.  “If we have a rough night, and there’s nothing happening on the streets, why, yes he does as if that is anything to you.”
       “No, no, that’s between you and the marshal.  What did you say his name was?”  I was getting tired of playing this little game.
       “Todd Johnson!” he blurted.  “Why are you here anyway?  This is not your jurisdiction!”
       I didn’t like the fact that he was getting a little huffy with me.  “Son, if you had been listenin’ I told you why I was here.  An’,” I opened my vest to show him my badge, “this badge says that I do have jurisdiction here.  Mind tellin’ me where I can find the marshal?”
       He scratched at his head, then looked up at the clock that was handing on the wall.  “Well, he’s either home, or up on Blair Street releasing the drunks from last night.”
       I had a puzzled look on my face from his last statement so he began to explain.  “We don’t have enough room in the cells for all the drunks so we either tie them to a rail or handcuff them to one.  They sleep it off and are released the next day.”
       “What happens if it rains?”
       “They get wet!” he smarted off to me and I came close to giving the brash young buck a good thump.
       “What about in the winter?” I continued my questioning.
       He sort of sneered, then said, “You better ask the marshal that, he would know more about that.”

       If I found out that they had been negligent in their duties and people had died, I’d make sure they paid the cost.  “Get me the keys, I want to look in the cells.”
       His arrogance appeared again, “They’re hanging over there on the wall.”
       That about did it.  I almost always carry my Greener with me and this was no exception.  I slammed the barrel down on the desk, that gained his attention.  “Get the keys for me!”
       His lip curled up in a snarl but he got up from his chair and fetched me the keys.  “Lord give me patience,” I silently prayed.
       There was nothing I could really do about the condition of the cells which I found filthy.  I don’t mean they have to be pristine, but they should be cleaned out once in a while, blankets aired out if nothing else.  However, if men died, I could deal with that.
       As I handed the keys back to the deputy, a man entered.  “Marshal Johnson, this is…”

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
Miles is on his way to Silverton to check on the communities in the area as Sheriff Gold remained in Durango caring for his wife.  Miles enjoyed riding Hawk and traveling in the fresh air of the high country.  But, when evening came, he had an unusual experience.  Let’s go join Miles back in the days of yore along the trail.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
       I kept my eyes closed when I woke up the next morning.  I laid still, listening.  There was a Camp Robber Jay nearby up in a spruce, and I could hear the stream cascading over the rocks not far away.  Other than that everything was quiet so I opened my eyes, filling my hand first with my pistol.  My head was against my saddle and the blanket from my bedroll was over me.  
       Leaning forward, I looked around.  I picked up the blanket, then looked some more.  Sitting on a rock where I had built a small fire was a cup.  Standing to my feet, I glanced over at Hawk.  He was munching on some tender sprouts that were up in the early spring.  I turned my gaze up toward the hills on either side of the road.  What had happened?
       Holstering my gun, I went over to get a fire started for morning coffee and a bite of breakfast.  Seeing that there were still a few live coals left I added some kindling, and began to fan it with my hat.  I had to smile as I wondered how many fires had I fanned to flame with this old hat over the years.  It didn’t take long to get a small blaze, so I placed some more kindling on the flame then added a few larger pieces from a broken branch.
       I put some bacon in a small skillet, and took out a day-old biscuit from the diner.  Soon, I had the coffee boiling and bacon fried and was ready for a quick breakfast while still pondering the events or dream from last night.  My plan was to make it to Molas Pass, which was a little over twenty miles away.  It shouldn’t be too much of a problem unless there was an obstacle along the way.  
       The air was cool enough for me to put on my heavier jacket and turn up the collar.  At least it was clear with no sign of rain or snow, but up here in the high country that could change in a matter of minutes.  Hawk was satisfied to plod along, not even showing a desire to trot.  It made me think that Hawk wasn’t used to the high altitude any more, plus the fact he was getting older.  That made me pause in my thinking…that meant I was getting older as well.
       All along the road there were rivulets of water coming down from the higher elevations.  The road wasn’t wet, but along the edges it was.  Hawk took his time walking pretty much down the middle of the road.  There were a few times when we had to give way to wagons coming from the opposite direction, but we didn’t have to stop.  The drivers always waved, and I gave them a salute back.  I can remember when this road was crowded with wagons going and coming, but the railroad put an end to the heavy traffic.  Oh, there were still plenty of wagons and pack mules, but not like it was before the trains came.
       I stopped a couple of times in the morning for Hawk to drink from a stream, and to give him a breather.  At noon, I pulled off to a little pond, made a fire for coffee and ate the last ham sandwich that Molly had packed.  I drank deeply from the cold stream water that flowed into the pond, then went to work on the ham sandwich while waiting for the coffee to boil.  It wouldn’t take long, I used only enough for one cup of coffee.
       We easily made it to the summit of Molas Pass where the sun was shining brightly.  I wanted to camp a little ways down, that way I could be in Silverton the next morning.  Moving down off the pass we passed into shadows, and the temperature dropped.  It seemed that the sun was going down rapidly, being away from the setting sun.  The whole canyon was in the shade.  I looked for a place where there was a spring runoff for fresh water to camp.  In a few minutes I was reining Hawk into a grove of aspens, mixed with a few evergreens.  I took care of Hawk, then went about camp business.
       That night after finishing my supper, I leaned back against my saddle when I heard a noise.  It was very faint and I was sure it was footsteps.  I jumped when I heard the voice.  “Slowing down, Miles,” came a soothing voice.  “But that’s to be expected at your age,” which was followed by a little chuckle.
       I didn’t see anyone, but I could hear the voice, and felt a presence in the camp.  “I won’t bother with your coffee, I had some last night and I don’t reckon it’s any better tonight.”
       Then He appeared, haunched down across the fire.  “Fire’s dying down; there’ll be a need to stir the embers to get a flame.”  I leaned forward picking up a stick stirring up the embers and adding some larger pieces of wood to it.
       “Life’s sort of the same way.  We get used to going along, then sometimes dissatisfied with the direction of our lives and we forget the gifts that I have given.  Remember, all this was started with a small flame in an upper room back in Jerusalem.  The fire will continue, but you have the duty to stir yours up.”
       I could see Him stand and start to move away into the aspens.  Wait!” I hollered.
       He turned, and I thought I saw a smile.  “When you get to Silverton, I’ll do some stirring for you.  I want to see your flame burning brightly again.”
       I hit the side of my head a couple of times.  I knew I wasn’t seeing things, but it had been many years since I had been visited that way.   The first thing that came to my mind was when the Lord visited Abraham.  That was the last thing until…