There was already a small group of people gathered by the time I reached Dr. Webb’s place.  I went inside with some dread of what I would find.  My fears were realized when I saw the doctor, lying on the floor near the chair where I had last seen him.  It appeared that Dr. Webb killed himself with a bullet in mouth going out the back of his head; the gun was lying on the floor near his hand.
    On the desk, I noticed a notebook with pencil next to it.  My curiosity took over so I opened the little book.  Scrawled out on the page was the line, “The demons were too much!”  Suicide note?  I wondered, for some reason it all looked too tidy.
    “Get out of my way!” I heard a rough voice bark.  “Get out!  Mike, get these people out!”
    I left the book open as I turned to look at the commotion.  “Forrest, what are you doing here?” the rough voice of the town marshal, Asa Stokes, rang out.
    “Howdy, Asa,” I acknowledged him.  “I was just visitin’ with the doc this mornin’.  I’m lookin’ for a fella.”
    Marshal Stokes, stooped down to look at Dr. Webb.  “Those nightmares finally got to him.”
    Asa Stokes had been marshal in Silverton for six months now.  That’s just about the longest anyone has lasted.  The town was rough, not only with miners, but the evil that came with a rousing gold and silver camp.  Marshals were either killed, or they moved on to greener pastures, plus the fact that the winters were vicious.
    “Asa, there’s a note on the table,” I said pointing at it.  “Do you know the Doc’s writin’?”
    It seemed a growl came from him as he stood then picked up the note.  “Plain as day, don’t yuh think?”
    I shrugged.  “Your jurisdiction,” I replied, but then added, “Mind if I look around some?  I can’t be long, I have to catch the train.”

    An hour later I was on the train with Rev. Chapman sitting next to me.  I was staring out the window pondering when I felt the touch on my arm.  “Miles, Miles, are you all right?”
    “Oh, sorry, Parson, I was just thinkin’ how it just happened that I was talkin’ with the deceased doctor this mornin’ then findin’ him dead.”
    His face was grim when he answered, “Suicide is hard.  Why do you think the doctor did it?”
    I gave him a stern look then cocked my head.  “You don’t think it was suicide?” he asked shocked.  “But from what you told me…the evidence.”
    “That’s just it, the evidence.  Parson, there’s just somethin’ gnawin’ in my gut that it was too clean an’ neat.”
    We both quieted down, listening to the clickety-clack of the train moving along the rails.  Then I inquired, “Say, Parson, what was that package I saw you carryin’ up to Black?”
    He looked startled, so I gave him a grin.  “So you were watching me?”
    “Nope, just happened to see you walkin’ up the street with a package under your arm, then head into the Empty Diggin’s.  Curiosity got the best of me, so I went to the entrance and saw you walkin’ up the stairs.  Only Black lived up there.”
    “After what you told me, I thought he might want a couple of new shirts,” the reverend replied humbly.
    I nodded my head.  “Parson you’re a good man,” I stated, then thought of the coming week.  “Say, I expect to see you and your lovely wife, Betty at the fixin’s on Thursday.”
    A puzzled look showed on his face.  “Fixings?”
    “Why, Molly and I, mostly Molly, have been havin’ a feed for the town every Thanksgivin’ and Christmas.  If you’ve walked the streets you may have noticed that there are more people than normal.  Lots of down-an’-out miners and miners that have been laid off for the winter.  We always have dinner for them on those days.”
    “I didn’t know.  Yes, yes, we’ll be there.  What should we bring?”
    “Bring yourselves.  It’s not much, mostly venison or elk stew, plus plenty of pie,” I uttered.  “You’ll sit at my table.”
    He was smiling.  “It will be nice for Betty.  She hasn’t been out much since we arrived.  It would be good for her to get to know Molly, and who was the other lady?”
    “Marta, and Emelda is the cook.  Doc Jones and Edith will be there, Marta’s husband, Charlie, and I hope Mateo shows up with Luciana and the boys.”
    He leaned back in the seat.  I heard the train give a long whistle, we were coming into Rockwood.  I looked out the window, the snow was falling heavily now.  We got out of Silverton at just the right time.

It was beginning to snow as I entered the restaurant of the Grand Hotel.  Reverend Chapman was already seated, waiting for me.  I hadn’t seen Langston, but then again, we hadn’t made any plans to be with each other.  Langston went his way, I went mine.
    “I just arrived, Marshal,” said the preacher joyfully.  He seemed always to be that way, but reckon that’s the way all Christians should be, but we aren’t.
    The waiter was there before I was seated.  “You gentleman want coffee?”
    We both nodded yes, then I sat down.  “Parson, this supper’s on me.  Anything you want.”
    The menu boasted of beef steak, elk of various cuts, stews, venison, trout.  There was a variety of side dishes as it was early fall and the potatoes and other vegetables hadn’t gone bad yet.  There was a soup that I had once before when I was in Louisiana, French Onion.
    “I’m goin’ to have a porterhouse smothered with onion, fried potatoes, sweet potato, and try some of that soup,” I informed the preacher and the waiter as he was now standing beside me.  
    “Perhaps you would like some oysters?” he suggested.  “They arrived early in the week, came all the way from New Orleans.”
    Shaking my head, I muttered, “I’ll pass.  Parson what’ll you have?”
    Handing the menu to the waiter he responded, “Just give me the same as the Marshal.”
    “We have biscuits, cornbread, or I can bring a loaf of sourdough bread,” he offered.
    “Bread!” piped up the preacher, then he added, “If that’s all right with you.”
    Smiling I replied, “Bread it is,” then pointed to the empty coffee cup, “and keep the cup full, please.”
    After he left I began to tell Rev. Chapman of the situation with Dr. Webb, and then of the ordeal with Frank Black.  I did tell him that Black was indeed, Mrs. Blackstone’s husband.
    “So he’s a derelict?” inquired the Reverend.
    “Most certainly.  Shame a man get himself in that lifestyle.”
    “Marshal, man is bent to go to the devil.  That’s why it is our duty and responsibility to help as much as possible.  The liquor, shame, lack of self-respect, failure, greed, those are all reasons that despair and depression come into a man’s life.”
    I took a sip from a freshly poured cup.  “Not the best,” I uttered, “certainly not like Molly’s.”
    We had a nice time chatting over a good supper.  There was talk of Durango and what he would like to see accomplished there for the Lord.  He mentioned the need of missions work needed in Silverton.  I told him of Molly, how we met, then my job as an officer of the law.  I asked him what happened to his cousin, Clyde Hoffner and was told that he was working on a ranch over closer to Cortez.
    “Parson, I think it best that we leave tomorrow.  This time of year a snow could put us up here a few days.  Usually they can get the tracks clear, but it might be delayed a day or so this time of year.”
    “Oh, yes, I must be back before Sunday.  What do you suggest?” he asked.
    “Let’s plan on leaving on the afternoon train.  I’m goin’ to ask around in the mornin’ for Shaw’s whereabouts.  I don’t expect anyone to come forth, but it doesn’t hurt to ask, and who knows, I might come across him,” I stated.  “I’ll meet you at the station at 2:00.”
    The reverend got up to leave then the waiter brought my bill.  “Two dollars!” I exclaimed loud enough for those at nearby tables to hear me.  I’ll have to tell Molly to raise her prices.  I put two-bits on the table for a tip and I thought I heard a grumbling as I left.
    The next morning I began to check some of the boarding houses in the area.  The air was brisk and snow had accumulated a couple of inches overnight.  As I was riding up on Greene Street I saw the preacher coming out of a clothing store with a package.  I stopped Hawk so I could see where he was going for it looked as if he were on a mission.  He walked right into the Empty Diggings Saloon, so I dismounted out front and walked in.  As I went through the entrance Rev. Chapman was walking up the stairs to Black’s room.  Black opened the door and there was some discussion before the preacher went in and the door closed behind him.
    I went back out to continue my search.  It went just as I expected.  Most had not heard of an Upton Shaw, others, well, if they had they concealed it well.  Just before noon it began to snow harder.  I rode on down to the station to get tickets and for them to go ahead and load Hawk.  I decided to walk to the Wells Fargo office, chat with the boys, then grab a bite to eat before it was time to board the train.
    Just before entering, shot were fired.  That was unusual for this part of town.  I glanced toward the direction of the shots.  They were in the direction of Dr. Webb’s office.  Turning I started in that direction…

The half-pot of coffee I made Dr. Webb,  chug down didn’t seem to faze him much.  He was able to mumble some, mostly about the nightmares he faced.  He would be coherent for a spell, then wander off into the horrors of the War of the Rebellion.  After that he might speak of the atrocities on humans made by his fellow man.  I was able to gather from him that he remembered removing a bone from a man’s hip.  He said he had to dig some as the bullet was lodged in his hip.  The man would have a permanent limp.
    From what the doc told me, Shaw must be in town or in one of the nearby camps.  His wound was bad enough to keep him from traveling.  I pondered for a moment what it must be like to live in the world where the doctor lived.  One of nightmares, madmen, and horror.  I tried to tell him that there was a better way–finding the Lord.  When I said that he scowled, and I thought he was going to throw the mug at me.  Like the prodigal, a man must come to his senses.
    I walked out leaving him at the table.  Pulling on my moustache a couple of times I thought how I might come to find Shaw.  He wouldn’t know anyone here, but there were those that would hide a man if they knew he was running from the law, and there were also those good Samaritans who would help a person in need.  I’d start asking around, but first I would go up and find Frank Black.
    For a small town, Silverton was extremely busy.  There were wagons of people going and coming with supplies.  Ore wagons, moving to and from one of the smelters.  People walking the street, visiting one or more of the various shops in town.  Amazing what gold and silver can do; at least temporarily.  As I rode Hawk up toward the end of Greene Street, I caught a glimpse of Rev. Chapman talking to the proprietor of a grocery.  He gave me a wave, then went back to his conversation.
    There was one run-down saloon, the Empty Diggings.  I had to smile a little; proper name for a saloon.  A place to take your money, take your hope, and leave you broke.  Draping the reins over the rail, I started for the door.  There was a motion at the entrance that have me a start–a rat ran across the boardwalk and then under it.  I shook my head; that fits for this place sure looks like a rat’s hole.
    Entering I stepped to my right, a lesson I learned with the Texas Rangers.  It gave my eyes some time to adjust to the darkness and this place was dark.  I’d be afraid to consume anything from here, but the place was half-full.  Mostly down and out miners, now without hope and just bums.  There were a couple of worn out ladies of the night strolling among them.  What a place; a good showcase for the results of a life of sin.
    Since it was so dark, it took a minute or so for my eyes to begin to adjust then I moved up to the bar.  A man wearing what was once a white shirt with an apron that was similar in color but stained with beer and whiskey and who knows what else came up to me.  Wiping out a glass he set it in front of me.
    “Lookin’ for Frank Black,” I said pushing the glass away.
    The bartender frowned when I did so, “This is a bar, you drink at a bar,” he said curtly.
    Reaching inside the pocket on my vest I pulled a little pouch out and threw him two-bits.  “Here, this will pay for a clean glass.  Now, I’ll repeat myself just once, I’m lookin’ for Frank Black.”
    He turned to walked away.  I picked up the shot glass and flung it at him catching him on the back of the head.  He gave a yelp, then grabbed the back of his head.  Quickly he reached for a shotgun under the bar, that is, until he heard me cock the Greener.  
    “I wouldn’t,” I warned, “just tell me where I can find Frank Black.”
    Allowing my eyes a quick glance around the room, I found that the eyes of the customers were on us, except one drunk slouched at a table sleeping.
    “Mister,” came a voice from the side where two old miners were sitting.  “There’s a room upstairs.  I imagine the Black might be in there.”
    Nodding, I then spoke to the bartender.  “Take the shotgun by the barrel and place it gently on the bar.”
    When he had done so, I walked by picking it up.  I wanted to whack him alongside the mouth just for a reminder to answer a civil question.  Looking around the room once more I started toward the stairs carrying both shotguns.  At the top of the stairs, I removed the shells from the bartender’s gun and set it against the railing in the corner.  There were two rooms which I figured might be Black’s office and his living quarters.
    I knocked on the door with the barrel of my Greener.  A few seconds later, I knocked again a little harder.  Moving down the hall to the other door I didn’t waste time with a little tap, I banged on the door.
    “Mason!  Go away!” came a voice.
    I banged louder, if I wasn’t let in the next time I would smash it open.  The door jerked open, “I told you Mason,” he snapped, then saw I wasn’t Mason.  “Who’re you?”
    “Name’s Miles Forrest,” I said pushing my way inside his room.  As he turned to look at me, I asked, “Are you Franklin Blackstone?”
    His eyes flickered for a moment, then looked downward.  That’s when I noticed his vomit covered shirt.  He must have slept in his clothes, which I reckoned he did most nights.
    “You’ve got the wrong man.  Never heard of a Blackstone.”
    I tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn’t meet my stare.  “You don’t know a Jessie Blackstone, or a young boy by the name of Connor?”
    He started to say something, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and moved back toward his bed.  On the table by the bedside he reached to open a whiskey bottle with only about a third of it remaining.
    “You’re Blackstone, or were!” I barked.
    “Another life,” he stammered in a low voice then started to take a drink.
    I hit the bottle with the barrel of the Greener, smashing it sending glass flying.  “There’s a little boy named, Connor who was very disappointed that his dad was not there to meet him at the train station,” I replied with disgust.
    His eyes opened wide, partly in surprise, partly in horror.  “They’re here?”
    “They’re in Durango.”
    Putting his face in his hands, he muttered, “I can’t…”

Langston stood next to me and Rev. Chapman as we waited for our horses to be unloaded.  He leaned toward me, I think hoping the parson wouldn’t hear and asked, “Where’s a good place to get a drink?”
    “Blair Street is a couple streets up, and you can find all the rotgut you want,” I replied a little loudly, more for the parson’s benefit.  “Last I heard there were forty saloons in Silverton.  You could drink all day and more if you wanted to visit them all.”
    “Mister Langston, you surely won’t be doing your mind and body any good by visiting those dens of iniquity, and they will work worse havoc on your soul,” piped in the Reverend.
    Langston gave a little cough, then said, “Reckon you’re right, Preacher, but I ain’t got my soul saved yet, and the four hours on that train gave me a powerful thirst.”
    I grabbed the reins of Hawk while Langston mounted.  He gave a little wave and rode off.  I wanted to mount but thought I ought to walk along with the parson.  The Wells Fargo office was only a little over a block away and I like to stop in to say hello to the guys who worked there.  
    Only Dick Fletcher and the new man Gilcrist were in the office.  After introducing them to Rev. Chapman, Dick informed me that Morgan Appleby was visiting in Denver and might start working somewhere along the Front Range.  He wiped hair from the front of his face tucking it under the visor, then said, “Miles, you know this office needs at least three men.”
    There was no need for a reply, for he was right, so I just nodded my head.  “Say, I’m looking for three men and was wonderin’ if you guys might be able to help me out.  First, there is a man wanted, Upton Shaw…”
    “What’s he wanted for?” interrupted Gilcrist.
    “Does it matter?” I answered curtly.  “But if you insist on knowing he shot the deputy marshal in Durango and a fellow by the name of Conrad Keim.”  I didn’t go into any detail nor tell him that I expressly told Shaw to desist in his search.
    “Go ahead,” said Dick.
    “The word is that Shaw stopped to see a doctor in Silverton.  I’m also interested in finding a man with the handle of Frank Black.”
    “That would be Dr. Webb,” blurted Gilcrist.  I looked at Dick who sort of rolled his eyes.  Giving a slight grin I was beginning to understand why they needed three men to work here.
    Gilcrist continued, “The doctor has a place down a few blocks on Empire Street.  Want me to go fetch him?”
    Dick was looking at me and shaking his head.  I took the hint, “No, I want to see him in his office.  Dick, what about Black?”
    I could tell he was thinking, then, of course Gilcrist blurted out again, “There’s a Black that has a run-down saloon up on Greene and 18th Street.”
    As we stepped back out on the sidewalk, Rev. Blair asked, “Are there any churches in Silverton?”
    I pulled on my moustache to think on what he said.  “Parson, there are two churches to my knowledge; a Congregational and a Catholic.”
    “My, my,” he muttered, “Two churches and forty saloons.  Seems like there’s work to be done here in the devil’s playground.”
    “Parson, I’m goin’ to visit the doc, then go see this Frank Black.”
    “Go on, Brother, where shall I meet you?” he inquired.
    “Call me, Miles.  I’ll plan on meeting you at the Grand Hotel, say around four o’clock.”  With that I mounted Hawk, the called out to him.  “You be careful, Parson.”
    Within a few minutes I was outside the doctor’s office noticing a sign, “Wilbur Webb, M.D.” and next to his office which I reckoned was his residence was a building that carried a sign indicating hospital.  Looking at the layout I was thinking that in a place such as Silverton he probably had quite the business.
    Normally I don’t tie Hawk, but decided to this time, then walked in the office.  “Be right with you!” called a voice from a back room.
    In a few seconds a squat, wobbly man with white shirt with stains on it, and pants held up by suspenders walked out.  I noticed that he seemed to stagger a little until he placed his hand on the edge of a bookshelf.  
    “What can I do for you?  You don’t look sick, and you’re standing, so what is it that ills you?”
    “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Miles Forrest, and I’m lookin’ for a man you may have treated for a bullet wound in the leg,” I informed him.
    “Bullet wound!  Do you know how many bullet wounds I treat in a week?  Bah, get out and leave me alone.”  He turned to go back to room when he stumbled and fell.
    Rushing to him, I lifted him up and sort of half carried, half drug him to a chair.  He wasn’t hurt, but I quickly could tell his problem from the smell.  He was drunk.
    “You sit there!” I ordered, then went to the stove.  I put in a few pieces of wood to heat it up, then began to look for a coffeepot.  “Where’s your coffeepot?”
    He looked at me, sort of with a half-glazed, half angry stare.  “Back room…but I don’t want any coffee!”
    Ignoring him I went to look…