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…

Howdy, Parson,” I said as Rev. Chapman approached where I was sitting at the table.  “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
He sat down as I went to the counter for a cup then poured coffee from the pot that was sitting on the stove behind me.
    After I set the cup in front of him, I went to the corner where the kitchen began.  “Molly, the Preacher is out here, I’m sure he’d like a piece of pie.  Come on and join us for a few minutes.”
    I had just barely set myself down when Molly came out from the kitchen with one slice of pie for the parson and a cup of coffee for herself.  “Hello, Brother Chapman,” she said cheerfully then sat down looking at me.  “Don’t give me those forlorn eyes.  You had a piece not twenty minutes ago.”  She turned to the preacher, “Hope you like butterscotch.”
    He sort of stammered a thank you, saying, “Well, I wasn’t expecting this, but I’ll greatly enjoy it.”  He bowed his head for a short prayer with Molly joining him.  I learned many years ago to practice what the Good Book said, “to watch and pray.”
    “Mmmmm, this is delicious, Sister Forrest,” the reverend declared.
    After taking a couple of bites, he sipped his coffee.  “Parson,” I began as he lifted the cup, “the coffee is always on the stove if you ever want a cup.”  I took a sip myself, then wiped my moustache with the back of my hand for which I received a frown from Molly.  “Now, I’m a-takin’ it that you came to see me and not just eat pie.”
    He gave a broad grin, then shoveled another forkful of pie in his mouth.  I watched him, then turned to look at Molly who was also watching with delight.  She was the best pie-maker I ever come in contact with and that even included Momma who could bake a pie.
    Reverend Chapman finished his coffee, then cleared his throat a couple of times.  I offered him another cup to which he shook his head.  “I heard you were going into the mountains and I wondered if I could tag along.”  It was not a question, nor a request.  It was more an indication that he was going.
    “I’m goin’ up on a manhunt; it might not be pleasant.  Plus, a storm could come in and it could get mighty cold.”
    “Do they have a church in Silverton?” he asked ignoring what I had told him.  “I haven’t been up there yet, and I figured going with you would be safer, plus you could tell me about the country and the town.”
    I glanced at Molly, her cheerful face now gone somber.  Sighing, I said, “Why not.  I’m goin’ to get my horse now, the train leaves in an hour.”
    He had a confused look on his face, “Horse?  I thought you said train.”
    “I’m takin’ my horse, Hawk, up with me.  I might need to check some of the communities in the area.”
    “You’re going after the man who shot Mateo, aren’t you?” he asked interrupting me.  
    I nodded, then added, “I’m also lookin’ for a man who goes by the name of Frank Black.”
    The Preacher stood up to come behind me.  Placing his hands on my shoulder and that of Molly he began to pray for God’s will to be done, for our protection and Molly’s safety while I was gone.  When finished he declared, “I’ll see you at the train station.  Sister Forrest, thank you for the delicious pie and company.”
    We watched him walk out the door and through the window saw him pick up a small bag along with a heavy coat.  He was prepared for the trip.  I had to smile and looked at Molly who was just shaking her head.
    “Miles, it unsettles me when he calls me “Sister.”  I don’t feel as old as that makes me sound.”  That brought a chuckle to me but she continued.  “You be sure to get him back here by Sunday for service.”  With that she got up, bend down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.  “You be careful,” she muttered then left for the kitchen.
    Within the hour I was watching as Hawk was loaded on the train.  I was anxious to be riding him up in the high country again.  It had been a while.  As I was watching two men walked up to me.  One continued on to load up a horse while the other man stopped to talk with me, so I turned to greet him.  “Hello, Mr. Thompson.”
    “Mind if my man, Langston, goes up with you?  He might be of help.”
    “He can go where he wants, but I won’t have him ridin’ a vengenace trail for you,” I said staring into the eyes of Thompson.
    He replied with a nod, “he only wants to help.”
    It so happened that Kyle Langston, the Reverend, and I were getting on the train at about the same time.  I sat down by a window and as the train pulled out of the station I saw Mateo, on his crutches walking along the platform.
    “What is he doin’?” I wondered…

All fine–STOP–hope all is well with you–STOP–Gibbons says, thanks–STOP” signed, Covney.
    Well, that was a relief, thank the good Lord.  “Molly!” I hollered, “I’m goin’ to the office to see Charlie.”  Before leaving I asked Thompson how long he was going to be in town, telling him to see me before going back to his ranch.
    As I walked across the street Solly came out of his store and grabbed me by the arm.  “Take a look up at Foster’s and Newsome’s, you’ll see a sight,” he said with a broad smile beaming on his face.
    Nodding at him I hurried my walk some.  Turning the corner I glanced up the street to see folks walk around carrying posters, women mostly.  They read:  Vote Out Newsome, Vote Out Foster.  Another read, UnChristian Practices.  John Newsome was standing outside his store, hands on hips watching the display.  I started walking his way.
    Wilson Foster must have been looking through his store window for he rushed out just as I reached Newsome.  “Marshal, you have to stop this, this, riotous act!”  When he said that I glimpsed Darnelle carrying one of the signs.
    “Have they done somethin’ wrong?” I questioned.  “Have they tried to stop anyone from enterin’ your stores?”
    Foster bellowed, “That’s just the point!  No one will enter!”
    I looked at the little parade outside, then asked, “Has anyone been threatened?”
    “They’re threatening us,” piped up Newsome.  “Look at those signs!”
    “I don’t see anythin’ threatenin’ written on them,” I replied, then grinned before addin’ to my thoughts.  “Kinda makes good sense to me.”
    I thought Foster was going to have a conniption fit.  Newsome got red in the face.  “We’ve been on the city council almost since the beginning of Durango.  Now, because of a Mexican getting shot we have this on our hands.”
    Now that statement gave me the urge to thump him along side the head, but I controlled myself.  “No, the problem is your greed.  Why the two of you would steal pennies off a dead man’s eyes then argue about it.”
    If possible, Newsome turned even more red.  Hmmm, I wonder if he’d been guilty of that.  
    “Well!” snapped Foster.  “What are you going to do about it?”
    “Nothin’, they’re within their rights,” I stated then gave my biggest smile, “I wonder who is goin’ to run against you?  Election’s next month.”
    Seeing Darnelle with the group gave me a new thought.  “I guess I could arrest the instigator.  I kinda hate to throw decent citizens in with that bunch of drunkards and no-goods that are currently in jail.”
    As I started forward, Foster moved to block my way.  “Uh, maybe I was speaking a little too hasty.”
    “Let’s see if I can make some sense of this,” I said then motioned for Darnelle to come to me.
    “Marshal Forrest, it’s always pleasant to see you,” she said politely.  “Uncle, Mr. Newsome.  How can I be of help to you Marshal?”
    Tipping my hat along with a quick wink, I asked, “Do you by chance know how much money your Uncle is losin’ each day?”
    She names an amount with a smile, then added, “I don’t know about Mr. Newsome.”
    “I do!” came a yell from the doorway of Newsome’s store.  It was his wife, Jewelene.  She started our way with daggers in her eyes.  I didn’t know if they were for me, Darnelle, or Wilson and John.
    “All this is your fault!” she spluttered.  “You shouldn’t have hired that Mexican for a deputy!”
    “But Mrs. Newsome, hasn’t he kept you safe?  Didn’t he arrest some derelicts attemptin’ to steal some jewelry?  Oh, an’ that time when those cowboys came by makin’ lewd remarks to you, didn’t he stop them makin’ them apologize?”
    She began to stutter.  “Now, if I get this right, the money you are losin’ and will most likely continue to lose will be almost the salary that Mateo would get for a month.”
    I looked at them one at a time.  “That’s about right, Marshal Forrest,” perked in Darnelle along with her wonderful smile.
    “If’n I was you all I would take some time considerin’ the situation,” I uttered.  “Oh, but don’t take too long, election’s comin’ up.”
    Tipping my hat to Mrs. Newsome and Darnelle, I turned to walk away.  I still wanted to see Charlie before Thompson and his men left town.  Hurrying to the sheriff’s office I was fortunate to find him sitting at his desk writing reports from his recent trip.
    “Ah, you’re doin’ the fun stuff,” I teased and received a not too friendly look.
    “Sit down, Miles.  It’s been a while since I’ve chatted with you.”
    Taking the chair that was near Charlie’s desk I set myself.  “Sheriff, I have a couple questions.”
    He took a deep sigh.  “When you refer to me as ‘Sheriff’ I know something is amiss.”
    “Do you recall anything about a Kyle Langston?  He’s workin’ with Cecil Thompson.”
    Charlie scratched just below his ear then answered, “As far as I know that’s all he is.  I did take the time to look through posters when I heard about him.”  Now he rubbed his chin.  “Did he say how Keim is doing?”
    “All he told me was that Keim is recovering at the ranch,” I stated, then continued, “That’s more than I can say about Mateo lying in his adobe.”
    Dropping his head a bit, Charlie gave a little shrug of his shoulders, then asked, “Anything else?”
    “How about a Blackstone?  Have you come across anythin’?”
    He sighed before speaking.  “I don’t think you’re going to like what I found.  There is a Frank Black up in Silverton.  Not the most reputable of men.”
    “Do you think….”