I turned off at Mancos to head on up toward Telluride.  There was snow all around, but the main roads were well traveled with supply wagons and stagecoach.  It wasn’t until I headed out of Dolores that the road had only been traveled by horse or mule.  
    There was no real concern in my mind about Charlie and why he was delayed.  Why, there were a number of reasons a sheriff could be delayed, including this winter weather.  Charlie knew how to take care of himself, but that doesn’t mean accidents can’t or don’t happen.
    I decided to stay the second night in Rico instead of sleeping out in the cold.  It was my plan to get up early and get on over Lizard Head Pass.  It was about ten miles to the summit.  I had talked to some of the locals and they said a person could make it over, but it was not open for wagon traffic yet, another couple of days if the storms held off.
    The clouds began to creep in and I didn’t like the look of it.  I surely didn’t want to get caught up on the Pass when the storm hit.  Just as that thought came to my mind, the snow began to fall.  Large, fluffy flakes began falling slowly at first, but before long it was hard to see up to the next bend.  About what I figured was two-thirds of the way I saw a man staggering in my direction.  He took a couple of steps, fell, then picked himself up and leaned against a boulder next to the edge of the road.
    Upon seeing him, I gave Hawk a nudge with the heel of my boot to hurry him just a bit faster.  The snow was coming down harder now and soon would cover the trail broken by previous riders.  As I approached I could see the man was hurt, blood was on the shoulder of his coat.
    “Miles!  Miles, it that you?” exclaimed the man.  “Thank the Lord, Miles!” he began to stumble in my direction.  It was Charlie.
    Hawk must have sensed the urgency for he picked up his gait.  In seconds I was next to Charlie and I quickly dismounted.
    “Charlie!  What in the world happened?” I asked looking at his arm.
    “Ambushed,” he murmured, “about a mile on up the trail.”
    “Can you ride?”
    He nodded.  I went to the pack mule, throwing off some items that were not essential; took some to pack on Hawk, then Charlie mounted.  “Are you sure?”
    There was no answer, he just gave the mule a kick and turned him back down the trail toward Rico.  I looked up and saw nothing but snow coming down.  We needed to hurry.
    A couple hours later, Charlie was barely hanging on, but we came into the camp of Rico.  He was almost unconscious as I helped him off the mule where he then fell into my arms.  I have carried, half drug him into the small hotel.  There was a fireplace blazing so I didn’t bother taking him to a room, but laid him on the floor in front of the fire.
    “Hey there,” came the voice of the clerk.  “You can’t leave him there!”
    I glared at him.  “Get his coat off, heat some water.  I’m goin’ to care for the animals, and will be back.”  I rushed on out, mounted Hawk, grabbed the reins from the mule and took off toward the livery.  I could barely make out the outline of the building and it was all closed up.  Dismounting I began to bang on the door.  After several minutes the door opened and not waiting for an invitation I took Hawk and the mule inside.
    “Look after the mule while I unsaddle my horse.  I’d be obliged if you’d rub him dry and get him some oats, I’ve got a wounded man to look after back at the hotel.”
    The warmth of the fire must have helped revive Charlie some for his eyes were open by the time I got back.  The clerk had his coat off as well as his shirt.  He was washing the wound when I approached him.
    “He’s fortunate.  Another hour out there and he would have been done in,” the clerk informed me.  “We don’t have a doctor here in Rico, but I’ve cleaned the wound.  Here, lift him a little so I can get a bandage on him.  I had to cut him some as the bullet was just protruding from the skin.”
    From what I figured, the heavy coat must have slowed the bullet from going all the way through.  It was better than for me or the clerk having to dig around in his shoulder for it.
    We got him patched up; he still hadn’t said anything, but his eyes were open and he was breathing normally.  “Say, friend,” I addressed the clerk, “do yuh have any coffee?”
    “I’ll get some directly,” he replied, “just help me make him as comfortable as possible.”  He stood going over to a small stove by the counter.
    Soon his was back with a cup of hot coffee.  I lifted it to my lips.  “Hey!  I thought that was for me!” came the raspy voice of Charlie.  I finally had his attention.
    “I needed to check it out first.  Make sure it was too hot,” I responded lowering the cup to his lips.  He reached with his right hand, taking the cup from me.
    He took several small sips, for it was hot.  Handing me the cup, he asked, “What in the world are you doing up here?”
    “Marta was gettin’ worried, so I told her I’d go look for you.”
    “Thank the good Lord, and Marta, that you showed up when you did.”
    I gave the cup to the clerk, nodding at him.  He took the clue then headed back to refill the cup.  “Any idea who shot you, Charlie?” I questioned.
    Groaning a little, he moved to relieve the pressure on his shoulder.  “I could guess, but that’s all it would be.  I had some trouble with a group while in Telluride.  Shot one, put another man in jail…they had some friends,” he uttered, then licked his lips when the clerk returned with the freshly filled up.  “What day is it?”
    “Tuesday.”
    He took a deep swallow this time.  “If we leave tomorrow morning we can make it back by Christmas Eve.”
    “Yur crazy!  We can’t travel in this storm.”
    He gave a little smile.  “It’ll stop sometime tonight.  Plus I promised Marta I’d be back before Christmas…”

Doc, do you think Mr. Foster is going to make it?” questioned Molly with sincere concern in her voice.
    We were sitting at what I considered “my table” at the diner.  Last week, Wilson Foster, fell in her place of business, hitting his head, and hadn’t been able to gain consciousness for any length of time since then.
    “It’s hard to say, Molly.  Very little is know regarding apoplexy,” answered Doc, then he ran his thumb over his nose in a flicking motion.  “I don’t think his problem is from the knock of the head; it’s something more serious than that.  I know that in some of the hospitals back east they are doing some surgeries on the arteries in the neck,” he continued grabbing the sides of his neck and bringing his fingers together.  “It seems that there is a build up in the arteries that can cause paralysis and even death.  Stroke, they’re calling it now.  I think that’s what happened to Wilson.”
    “Well, can anything be done?” asked Molly.
    Doc seemed fidgety today, this time he scratched the left side of his head.  “I don’t know, Molly.  I just don’t know.”
    Molly began to shake her head, “Poor Elizabeth.  What will happen to her?”
    It was now my opportunity to speak.  “Darnelle can run the store…”
    “She’ll have to!” interrupted Doc.  “Wilson won’t be up for a long time,” he paused, “if ever.  I don’t know if he can even speak.  Elizabeth will have to spend her time taking care of him, or send him to Denver to one of those homes.”
    “Oh, Doc, no!” cried Molly.  “That would be terrible.  Well, we need to pray for Mr. Foster.”
    “Edith has been helping Elizabeth, but she can’t keep it up.  She’s supposed to be home tomorrow,” he informed us then looked at me.  “I’m glad you thought of Mrs. Blackstone.  Darnelle can surely operate the store, but she’ll need help.”
    I had just taken a sip of coffee.  “It wasn’t my idea,” I replied.  “Molly thought of her.  She’ll work while Connor’s in school.  He can do some work as well, chopping wood, sweeping, things like that.”
    Doc grabbed his hat and coat and was putting them on as he walked to the door.  We had another three inches of snow last night.  He turned to look back at us, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “It’s cold,” and walked out.
    “Poor Mr. Foster,” mulled Molly.
    We sat there quietly for a few seconds when Marta came to the table.  “I will only take a minute, but I need to talk with Senor Miles,” she said.
    “Go ahead, Marta,” uttered Molly.  “I’ll take over your tables.”
    As Molly left, Marta took her chair.  “Senor Miles, I am worried about Charlie.  He should have been back three days ago,” she said wringing her hands.  “I am fearful that something has happened to him.”
    “Most likely the road’s just closed.”
    “No, Senor,” she was in tears, holding her hands to her chest.  “I feel it here, something has happened.”  She looked at me pleading.
    I pulled at my moustache.  Molly has meandered in our direction and heard Marta’s plea.  “Miles.”
    Putting my hand on Marta’s I nodded.  “I’ll head out tomorrow.  Standing up I picked up the Greener, put on my hat and told Molly.  “I’ll need to get a mule and supplies.  See you for supper…”
       **********            
p.s.  Those of you who enjoy The Saga of Miles Forrest should be interested to know that there are two full-length novels about the adventures of Miles.  They are:  Return From Tincup; and Winter of the Wolves.  They may be purchased from Amazon.

I don’t like it when Charlie has to go up to Telluride, especially at this time of year,” muttered Marta.
    It was a slow time of morning.  The rush was over at the diner with only two customers now sitting, nursing their coffee over at a corner table.
    “Marta, have you, uh, and Charlie ever thought of him resigning and becoming town marshal?” asked Molly.  Both of the ladies were sitting with me.  This was a rare occasion.  Emelda said she wasn’t able as she had to be getting food ready for the lunch crowd.  “Miles only agreed to serve as town marshal until the end of the year.”
    Marta took a sip of coffee, made an ugly face looking at me.  “I don’t think he’s thought of it; I know I haven’t.”  She dropped her gaze to her cup, then looked up again.  “But Miles, what if they still want him?”
    I pulled on my moustache a couple of times.  I had really not given much thought as to what I’d do for regular work after the first of the year.  I doubt if Foster would want me to continue in the capacity as town marshal.  It was nice not having to travel much, and I hadn’t been contacted in several months for a job in my position as Deputy U.S. Marshal.  As far as travel, that job was worse than county sheriff.  Truth is, I was becoming more of a homebody.
    “Listen, Marta, if Charlie wants that job, and the city councilmen will hire him, have him go for it.  It won’t phase me,” I assured her.
    Getting up I went grabbed the coffeepot on the little stove behind me motioning toward her.  Marta quickly covered her cup with her hand, which brought a giggle from Molly.  “Well, here’s the Parson,” I said watching him enter the diner, “he’ll have a cup with me.”
    He took off his hat as he approached the table.  “Ladies…Miles,” he greeted us with a smile.
    Molly, got up as I put the cup on the table for the preacher.  “It’s time for Marta and me to get back to work,” she explained.  “Reverend.”
    The parson and I watched as they got up and left the table.  “I didn’t mean to run them off, Miles.”  He sat down, then took a sip of coffee.  I got a grimace, but not like the one from Marta.  I pulled at my moustache again, thinking that perhaps I should clean the pot.
    Reverend Chapman had stepped right into the vacancy left by Rev. Robinson.  His wife, Betty, was not quite the social person that Lucy, the wife of Rev. Robinson was.  One thing for sure, the new Parson Chapman was around the town, checking on folks and he didn’t shy away from the Mexican section of town either.
    “Coffee’s a little stout this morning, Miles.  What did you do different?” he inquired after taking a long swallow.  He looked toward the large window in front of the diner.  “Starting to snow again,” he said taking another sip.
    There was already a little over a half foot of snow on the ground.  But again this is December at the base of the San Juans.  “I went out to see Mr. Keim yesterday,” he told me.
    Looking over the rim of my cup, I raised my eyebrows waiting for him to continue.  When he didn’t, I asked, “And?”
    “He’s moving around some,” he emptied his cup.  Lifting it he asked, “Mind if I fill it?”
    He was up heading for the pot before I could take it from him.  I hated to be a poor host, but then I thought; it couldn’t be that bad if he wanted a refill.
    Taking his seat, he countered with a question of his own.  “Think you’ll ever find Shaw?”
    This time I pulled at the other side of my moustache.  “My thinkin’ is that he’ll show up again.  He might hold up for the winter in Silverton.  It might depend on whether he has any money or not, or” I paused a moment, “if he has found any new friends.”
    I looked at the Parson, “Did Thompson say anything regardin’ Langston?”
    Shaking he head, then jerked as the door burst open, startling him to spilling his coffee.  It was Darnelle.
    “Miles!  You have to come quick, it’s Uncle Wil!” she was frantic.  “Go to the store, I’m going after the doctor!”
    The Parson and I looked at each other for a moment, then I grabbed my coat and shotgun and we both rushed out to Foster’s store.  Upon our arrival a few minutes later there was a few folks standing around with one kneeling by Foster.
    “Check on him,” I ordered, “while I move these people out of the way.”
    I was in the process of moving the little crowd to one side of the store when Doc Jones rushed in with Darnelle.  The man who was by Foster gave way to the doc who requested that he and the preacher help turn Foster on his back.  Doc first undid his collar and removed the tie, then began to exam him.
    Standing by Darnelle, I asked, “What happened?”
    She was frightened, “I don’t really know.  I was with Mrs. Yardley, helping her with some material when I heard a loud clunk, then a thud.”  I looked around to see if she was in the crowd, none of which had left.
    I could see Rev. Chapman praying with his hand on Foster’s shoulder, as Doc went through his preliminary exam.  “He’s breathing,” explained Doc.  “From that knot on his head, I think he must have knocked himself out as he hit the counter when he fell.  I need to get him to my office.”
    “Darnelle,” I said taking her by the arm.  “Why don’t you close up shop, go get Elizabeth and take her to Doc Jones’ office.”
    She nodded, then I turned to help shoo the onlookers out.  Two men had gone over over to help carry Foster to Doc’s office.  As they passed me, I saw Wilson open his eyes briefly, his eyes widened, then…

Where do all these people come from?”, questioned Charlie Gold as she lugged a bucket full of cups back to the kitchen.  Molly’s Thanksgiving dinner had turned into quite the occasion.  It was originally for the miners who were laid off from the big mines during the winter months, but had grown into doings for the entire town.
    Sheriff Gold has been relegated to carrying clean dishes back to the kitchen; he was joined by the new preacher in town, the reverend Chapman.  I asked him to come as a guest, but he ended up clearing the tables and going outside to pick up dishes as we didn’t have room enough to seat everyone.  It had fallen my task to be the lowly dishwasher.
    I was glad to see that Mateo and his family came.  He wasn’t quite up to walking around much so he was sitting with a pair of old boots at the doorway.  They were for donations.  Some paid, some did not, but Mateo was there to make sure that none of the sots had sticky fingers.  Molly and Marta were busy along with Emelda and Edith Jones.  I was happy to see that Mrs. Blackstone and Betty Chapman had volunteered.  She had the job of dishing out the stew or chili.  
    Molly meandered through the tables making her way to me.  “Miles, what are we going to do next year?”
    “Give them broth,” I replied along with my biggest grin.
    “Oh, you’re terrible!” she exclaimed.  “But isn’t it wonderful.”
    Nodding at her, I inquired, “How many pies did you and Emelda make?”
    “Thirty-six, and we cut them into slivers to dish out,” came her reply, then added, “I don’t know how many gallons of stew and chili we ladled out.”
    “Good thing ol’ Grizz came by with that bear and elk.  Yuh know, I think that’s my first taste of bear chili.”
    Molly noticed when my smile dropped and my face became somber.  “What’s wrong?”
    “The newly elected, or should I say re-elected councilman and leader of the humbug committee is approaching,” I stated, then did my best to reapply my smile.  “Did you get plenty to eat Wilson?”
    “I didn’t come to eat,” he gruffly replied.
    “Oh, that’s a shame, Mr. Foster, surely you want a piece of pie.  I think there’s some chocolate left,” said Molly turning on the charm.
    He brusquely turned from her, “Who’s making sure the town is safe?  Why ruffians could rob us blind!”
    “This is all the dishes I could find outside,” interrupted Rev. Chapman.  “Oh, hello Mr. Foster.”
    Foster turned beet red.  One of these days, he’s going to explode.  “Good job, Parson.  Why don’t you join your wife.  Grab a piece of pie before it’s  all gone.”
    He nodded at Foster when he turned to leave.  “Have a good day, Mr. Foster.”
    “As I was saying before being rudely interrupted by that new minister, who is protecting our town?”
    Flinging a dishcloth over my shoulder, I dropped my rag with a plop in the basin; some of the water splashed up on Foster.  That didn’t make him happy, but I did smile.  “Well, Wilson, it is Thanksgiving, and if I’m not mistaken, every store in town is closed.  The saloons agreed not to open until this evening, so I reckon most everything is safe.  Probably safer than if you were in your store.”
    “‘Cuse me, oh, I didn’t notice it was you, Mr. Foster,” uttered Charlie then looked at me.  “Finished with this bunch?”
    “Take them, Charlie.  All I have left at the moment are those the Parson brought.”  I then turned my attention to Wilson Foster who again had turned red with the new interruption.  I glared at him, “Wilson, why don’t you go home to the missus and Darnelle.”  It wasn’t a question, but a strong suggestion.  “It is Thanksgiving.  Gather them together and count your blessin’s.”
    “Bah!  How you became a marshal I’ll never know,” he steamed.
    I gave a big smile, “If I remember right, the first time it was because of your suggestion.  Oh, don’t be frettin’ so much.  I’ll be out of your hair come the first of the year.  Then we’ll see who protects Wilson’s Mercantile when Sheriff Gold is out of town.”
    “I’ll not be talked to that way!” he yelled.
    Coming from around the washtub, I poked my finger in his face.  “You’re not worth a thump,” I said with disgust.  “Get out, I’ll not have you spoilin’ this get-together.”
    He started to huff, “Don’t, just git!” I ordered.
    A couple of hours later, the doors were shut, the place was cleaned.  The group of us: Doc and Edith, Charlie and Marta, Mateo and Luciana, Parson Chapman and his wife, even Emelda was there.  We were a tired, but satisfied group.  A thankful bunch.  We were drinking coffee…but there was no pie.