In his visit to Silverton, Miles had uncovered some abnormalities.  His plan was to report them to Sheriff Charlie Gold when he returned to Durango thinking it best that the sheriff should handle them.  After he had a confrontation with Marshal Johnson he was followed by one of the Marshal’s deputies.  When speaking with Jakub Brewlinski and the Wells Fargo agents, he found that there was an attempt at extortion.  The locals refused to discuss the situation.  Now, while walking back to his room, he noticed not one, but two deputies watching him.  Join me in another exciting tale from yesteryear in the Saga of Miles Forrest.

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       I had decided to go back to the Wells Fargo office to see how Morgan was doing, but that was soon placed aside as I turned my head to see the deputy who had been following me rush at me.  I sort of stooped down a bit, then when he got to me, I raised up swinging the Greener connecting with his jaw.  I heard a crack and he went down with a thump in the street.  

       The man from the alley then came at me, his gun already drawn.  I wouldn’t have time to draw mine, if he planned on firing.  I didn’t see the third man; he had been in the alley across the street.  His gun roared.  Ignoring the deputy who was coming at me, I pulled my pistol, then fired at the man who shot.  Bullet hit flesh and I saw him stumble, then on his knees pushed himself back into the darkness of the alley.

       The third man stopped, still holding his pistol.  I wondered at the delay, but I had already shot one deputy, so I turned to face the other.  He raised his hands; I don’t likely know the reason why since he had the drop on me.

       “Don’t make sense killing a U.S. Marshal,” he declared.  “Can I come check on Jack?”

       “Holster your gun,” I commanded.  “If you think you have a chance, feel free.”

       He placed his pistol in his holster then slowly approached me.  I nodded toward the man lying in the street.  The deputy stooped down to examine him.  “You walloped him good, Marshal.  I thought his head was goin’ to come right off his shoulders.”

       “He’ll live, but he’ll be eatin’ soup for a while,” I said then went to him, grabbed the back of his collar.  “Come with me!”

       I pushed him down the street toward the Wells Fargo office.  I reckoned I’d be able to talk with him there.  He stopped to point toward the other alley.  “I need to check on Phin.  I know you shot him,” he cajoled, then softened.  “He could be dying.”

       “Tough choice, he made,” I remarked, then pushed him forward with the barrel of the Greener.

       Arriving at the Wells Fargo office, I opened the door allowing the deputy to enter.  He went straight to a chair while the agent, Barnes, stood there with his mouth open at the intrusion.

       “Morgan not around?” I was concerned about my friend.

       Barnes shook his head.  “His head was hurting, and when he tried to walk, he was too unsteady on his legs.  Dale took him home and was going to stay with him through the night.”

       I nodded, then went to see my culprit.  “You got a name?” I snapped.  “I want to remember you when they send you to the pen in Canon City.”

       He turned white as a sheet.  “Prison?”

       “Assault on a federal officer, part of a conspiracy with intent to kill.  I’d say you’re looking at a minimum of ten years.”

       “There wasn’t supposed to be no shootin’.  I don’t know why Phin pulled his gun to shoot,” cried the deputy.

       I touched his cheek with the Greener pushing his face to look at me.  “Seems to me that you had a gun in your hand as well.  What would you have done if I had decided to shoot at you first?”

       He swallowed deeply a few times and I thought he might pass out.

       “I recall that the Good Book says, “Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein:  and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.”  I stared at him, but he couldn’t maintain eye contact.  “Looks as if that stone is ready to smash you.”

       “We was just followin’ Marshal Johnson’ order,” he said, when through the door burst Marshal Johnson…

Silverton!  A town bursting with gold fever, as well as any vice a person could think of.  One of Miles’ friends had been beaten up by a couple of deputies.  He had reservations regarding Marshal Johnson, but not enough proof to take any action yet.  Join us as we continue reading about the life of Miles Forrest in those thrilling days of yesteryear.

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       I had just given the waitress my order and taken my first sip of coffee when the deputy came in.  For sure, I knew I was purposely being followed.  I didn’t give the satisfaction of acknowledging him, but finished my coffee then asked for some more while I waited for my supper.

       The porterhouse steak was excellent, plus the potatoes and cabbage filled me up right nicely.  I was cutting a piece of raisin pie when another deputy came in to sit next to the first one.  I watched them chat, their eyes once in a while moving my direction.  The pie was good, and I had one more cup of coffee before going on my way.  Darkness had descended on the town, and I wanted to walk the streets to get a feel for the atmosphere.

       I awoke the next morning.  I was tired, due partly to the altitude and my walk last night.  I moved up, in, and through almost every saloon on Blair Street and a few others besides.  Boisterous, loud, each oozing with debauchery and vileness causing my stomach to sicken as I checked them out.  One thing for sure, Johnson seemed to have control of that element.  If a fight broke out, it didn’t take long for a deputy to arrive on the scene.  As a Deputy U.S. Marshal I didn’t have to face this element very often.  It was the domain of the sheriff or marshal.  And somewhere during the stroll I lost track of the man assigned to follow me.  

       After breakfast my plan was to go up to some of the large mines, see Brewlinski, Morgan, and Hoskins.  Then I’d ride out to some of the smaller camps, nose around a bit, the head back to Silverton.  I was greeted by Giles when I picked up Hawk.  He made the morning pleasantries and after I mounted he moved in closer.  “I’d walk in the street rather than the boardwalk,” he warned, then quickly moved away, slapping Hawk on the hindquarter.

       I pondered what Giles told me as I rode the short distance.  I noticed a fence with a gate in front of the mine, that was new, and unusual.  Approaching the gate two armed guards came out to stop me, one holding a Winchester, the other a double barrel.  

       “We don’t tolerate no strangers here,” barked the guard with the shotgun.  “Be on your way,” he ordered, waving the shotgun around.

       Now I don’t understand the weaving and waving of the barrel.  I just level mine, cocked it, and pointed it at the guard.  “Seems we have ourselves a standoff.  All I want to do is see Jakub Brewlinski.”

       The guard seemed in a quandary as to what to do.  He didn’t want to take his eyes off of me, but finally turned to the other guard.  “Go get the Supe.  Who shall I say wants him?”

       “Tell him Miles Forrest brings him greetin’s.”

       I was hoping that he’d get here soon, as my arm was getting tired holding the Greener out.  The guard at least had two hands on his shotgun.  “You mind if I dismount?  I’ll put away the Greener, and I’d appreciate it if you’d lower yours.”

       Not waiting for an answer I dismounted, letting the Greener drop to my side.  “You got a name?”

       “What’s it to yuh?” he said with a snarl.  

       I don’t know why he was acting the way he was.  I was a peaceable man, but he seemed to act like he’d slept in a mattress full of bedbugs and was just itching to do something.  “Always like to know the name of a person I might have to put in the graveyard.”

       That caused him to bristle up some.  But I decided to give him a smile.  It was at least fifteen minutes before the other guard came back with Brewlinski grumbling at him.  He looked and saw me.  “Baskins!  Put away that shotgun!  That’s Miles Forrest, a U.S. Marshal.”

       Lowering his weapon, he remarked.  “He didn’t tell me he was a U.S. Marshal.”

       Walking through the gate I said, “You didn’t ask, and it’s Deputy U.S. Marshal.”  I then followed Brewlinski up to his office.

       Entering his tiny office, he pointed to the stove.  “Coffee’s still hot if you want some.  Grab a cup, then you can tell me why you’ve come for a visit.”

       We talked a little about Charlie and Marta, the thinking and actions of the miners since the strike had ended.  Then I asked, “Why the gate and the guards?”

       “To keep Johnson and his hooligans out.”  He then told me of Johnson’s attempt to get money for protection.   “The owners, and I might add, I agree with them, told him to go soak his head.  We don’t need protection from the likes of him,” he paused once, to get up and fill his cup.  “He tried to stop a shipment once.  We had it loaded in wagons headed down to the depot when his men stopped us in the middle of Greene Street.  Our guards simply leveled their weapons at the marshal and his crew and they let us pass on by.”

       I told him about what happened to Morgan Appleby.  We were both shaking our heads.  Jakub said, “I can understand him wanting to bully the local merchants, but to take on Wells Fargo, or the Lucky Dollar MIne.  I know he’s an arrogant sort, but that’s just plain idiocy.”

       We chatted some more, and I told him I needed to continue on my way.  I was going to see Hoskins and Morgan, and ride around some.  “Be careful,” he warned.  “I don’t think they’d venture too far from town, but yuh never know.”

       The day was long and uneventful, but I came away with an abundance of information.  It wasn’t part of my jurisdiction, but I decided to write it all down and turn it over to Charlie.  I wasn’t passing it off, but it was his jurisdiction and therefore his responsibility.  After leaving Hawk at the livery, I remembered Giles advice and walked down the street to my room.  There was a deputy standing against the wall of the Bently Hardware, and when I passed it I thought I saw movement in the alley.

       Then it happened…

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.

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       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…

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.

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       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…