Parson, come on in,” I said, then began to introduce him to Upton Shaw.
    “Shaw, you might want to ask the preacher about the man you’re seekin’.  He knows most everyone in the community,” I suggested to the bounty hunter.
    Reverend Robinson accepted the poster and began to scrutinize the weak drawing of Conrad Keim.  He shook his head several times as he was saying, “hmmm, hmmm.”  “There’s no one in town by that name that I know of, and I sure don’t recollect seeing that face.”
    The was a grunt that sounded almost like a snarl from Shaw.  “I reckon a preacher wouldn’t lie,” he snapped glaring hard at the preacher who returned his stare.
    “Preacher, why don’t you stop by the diner and I’ll treat you to a piece of pie.  Molly baked some butterscotch pies this mornin’.”
    A large smile appeared on his face.  “I’ll sure do that.  Listen, the new pastor just arrived.  Mind if I bring him by as well? I’m taking him around town to meet the folk.  I want him to get started off right.”
    “Yeah, I heard you and Lucy were leavin’.  I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m sorry you are.  You sure have been the Lord’s blessin’ to the folks here,” I said.
    “That’s mighty nice of you to say, Miles.  We tried our best, but the Lord has called us on to a new church in Cortez.  We hope to build a fine congregation there, plus we are going to minister to the Navaho and Pueblo in the area,” the Reverend informed us.
    Shaw cleared his throat.  “If you two bleeding hearts don’t mind I’ll be leaving,” he paused then looked at me.  “Perhaps someone in town has seen him.  I’ll see you again Marshal.”
    I told Rev. Robinson to go on back to see Parsons.  “When you’re done come on down.”  Then I turned my attention to Shaw as he was walking toward to doorway.  “Shaw, come down to the diner; I’ll treat you as well.”  He gave a little grunt then walked on out heading for the saloon just up the street.  Oswald Dierker was still bartender and running the place until a descendant of Olson could be found.
    “Make sure the door’s shut when you leave,” I hollered then walked out.  I walked up the street, not really following Shaw, but I want people to see that I’m up and around and that I notice when a stranger comes to town.  Awareness is really a major part of the job.  People just naturally act some better when they know the marshal is around.
    It was close to noon when I arrived back at the diner.  The town seemed busy with people going about their daily lives and business.  I checked with Doc Jones to see how the wounded man was doing.  It looks as if he was going to pull through barring infection.  
    The diner was busier than usual.  As Molly brought me a large bowl of chili and some of Emelda’s fresh made tortillas I asked her about it.  She shrugged, “Guess the town is growing.  There’s a few faces that I haven’t seen before.”
    I looked at those she mentioned and didn’t see anything threatening or unusual about them.  They weren’t miners for sure.  I grabbed her arm when she started to leave.  “Miles, I’ve work to do!”
    “Just want to let you know that the Rev. Robinson is bringin’ the new preacher around to visit.”
    A concerned look appeared on her face.  “I wish he wasn’t leaving.  It’s hard to break in a new preacher.”
    “Molly, just remember Who is in charge.  All will work out all right,” I stated.
    She gave me a little wave.  “Oh, I know that.  I just was fond of Lucy and I enjoyed the preacher’s sermons.  Just have to get used to a new preacher.”
    “Be sure to save some of that butterscotch pie,” I warned her.  “They’ll be expectin’ a piece.”
    “Is that right?  I’ll save at least two pieces then,” she informed me getting my attention.  So I gave her what she wanted, a pouty face.  “Maybe, there’ll be enough for three,” she laughed then went back to work.
    I was just finishing up my chili when Rev. Robinson and two other men walked through the doorway.  One was a tall, husky man, broad in the shoulders, wearing the typical black attire of a preacher.  The other man was smaller, definitely not a minister.
    Reverend Robinson spotted me for he knew I had my table reserved back near the stove and gave a wave walking in my direction.  There was a private coffeepot I keep on the stove so I didn’t have to be bothering Molly or Marta for refills.
    I stood as they approached.  “Miles, this is Rev. Chapman.  He will be taking over the congregation for me,” he paused while Chapman reached out his hand to shake mine.  “The other man is Clyde Hoffner, the Reverend’s cousin.  He helped with the Reverend’s move.”
    They had just seated themselves when Upton Shaw walked in the diner…

 I had just come out of the diner and was standing on the boardwalk when I watched him ride down the road past the diner and on toward the town square.  I recognized the type, not hard in my line of work and for as long as I’ve been doing it, but he was slumped down in the saddle.  Perhaps he had a long ride and was just tired.  I decided to follow him.
     The stranger reined in at the Sheriff’s Office, dismounted and went inside the office.  I could hear him yell, “Sheriff!  Sheriff!”  He then began to talk with Nick Parsons in the cell, but I couldn’t make out the conversation.
     That is, until I entered the office.  He was fuming and cursing.  “What kind of a place is this?” He said to no one in particular unless he was addressing Parsons.  “No sheriff, no deputies!”
     He turned to leave and was startled to see me standing in the doorway.  His hand moved to the butt of his gun.  It hadn’t been that long of a ride to dull his reaction. 
     “Can I help you?” I asked, calmly holding the Greener in my left hand.
     “Looking for the Sheriff!” he exclaimed.
     “Sheriff’s up in Silverton on his monthly rounds to the minin’ camps,” I replied.
     There came an oath, then he roared, “What about a deputy?  If he’s out running ’round the countryside there ought to be a deputy in the jail.  Why there’s a prisoner, where’s the deputy?”
     I put my hat on the edge of a desk that I had assumed for the office of town marshal.  Mateo and I shared it when we were in the office, which was a rare occasion.  “Sheriff doesn’t have a deputy,” I replied after I sat down behind the desk. 
     “What about a town marshal?  Where’s he at?”  He questioned a little more calmly but still agitated.
     Pulling at the end of my mustache and twisting it.  “Well, the marshal’s deputy is out for lunch.”  I was going to keep edging him along some.  “Perhaps I can help you.”
     “Any place I can get something to eat?” he asked, “And a place to stay?”
     “Just down the street, on the plaza is the Durango Hotel.  Good as any to stay in town.  There’s a great diner you passed on the way in.”
     “You watched me come in?”
     “That’s sorta part of my job as town marshal, to be aware of strangers when they come to town,” I stated.
     He cursed again; I might have to find a bar of soap, thump him a good one then stick it in his mouth.  A person should have a better working of the English language so that he doesn’t have to get profane.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he snapped.
     “I asked if I could help you, but all you could do was cuss and ask for the Sheriff.  Now, if you’ll state your business I may be able to help,” I informed him speaking calmly.
     “Marshal, I’m Upton Shaw.  I’m looking for a man,” he muttered.
     I squinted my eyes a bit causing my forehead to wrinkle.  “Might this man have a name?”
     “Conrad Keim,” he replied.  “I have a poster on him.”
     “Hmmm,” I breathed, “bounty hunter.  I don’t recognize the name.  Is there a face on the poster?”
     Reaching in the left-hand lower pocket of his vest, he took out a paper which he proceeded to unfold then handed it to me.  “Wanted:  Dead or Alive for Murder, Arson, and Robbery–State of Kansas.”
     I didn’t recognize the picture.  I had recently come across a man by the name of Conrad, but he didn’t really have any resemblance to the face on the poster.  However, that wasn’t unusual.  “He’s not wanted in Colorado,” I simply said, then added, “but no, I don’t recognize the face.”
     “That’s why I’m here, to take him back to Kansas.”
     I sat up in my chair, “Just remember he’s wanted in Kansas, dead or alive, not Colorado.”
     The bounty hunter seemed unfazed concerning my warning, then his head turn to see who was at the doorway.  I followed and saw that it was the preacher.
     “Preacher!” I exclaimed.  It was always good to see E.B. Robinson, the minister of our church in town.  Not only was he a good preacher but he cared about his flock.  “Come in here.  What are you doin’ down at the jail?”
     “I told Nick that I’d stop by to see him,” he said, then in a more hushed tone.  “How’s the man he shot?”
     “From what I last heard he’s still holdin’ on.  Maybe you might want to visit him.  He may be in dire needs of some of your words for his soul…”

That’s why God’s Word commands us to be sober!” exclaimed Doc Jones.
    Doc had joined me for supper at the diner.  Mateo had agreed to let me treat him to supper.  Of our now foursome, Charlie Gold had to travel to Silverton.  He makes a trip up there at least once a month, sometimes more.
    “And soberness means more than not being drunk!” Doc continued on.  “It means to understand that life is serious; God gave us this life to be living for Him, not to be foolish!”
    Mateo glanced at me, but mostly he kept his gaze upon Doc.  I don’t think that he had heard such talk before so he waited for Doc to at least catch a breath before venturing in.  “Does that mean fiesta is out?  Don’t the God above want us to be happy?”
    Doc didn’t hesitate.  “Fun in moderation, never foolishness.  Do you think that Nick Parsons is happy right now knowing that his foolishness might have killed a man?  Waiting to see if that man dies, for that will determine if he is hung or not?  No, we are to enjoy life, so fiesta at times is fine, but soberness is still required,” he paused to look at Mateo.  “Are you catching any of this?”
    “I think so,” came his slow reply.
    I was sitting there listening, sipping at my coffee.  This seemed to be Doc’s show and he was relishing in it.  “Mateo, have you ever been drunk?”
    That brought a little laugh from Mateo.  “Si, only once.  Luciana lowered the broom on me.  ‘Never again!’ she ordered.”
    “You mean she lowered the boom,” I interrupted trying to explain for him.
    “No, she lowered the broom.  It cracked in half over my head,” he said touching the top of his head.  “She then told me to look at how it could affect Alejo and Enrique.  Never again have I touched el licor.”
    “What are the man’s chances?” I asked Doc concerning the wounded man.  “Ever find out what his name is?”
    “I dug the bullet out; that’s the good news.  However, I don’t know if it clipped his lung or not, and he lost a lot of blood.  I would say, if he rests and infection doesn’t set in he has a decent chance.  Again, I don’t know if the lungs were hit.  He could be slowly bleeding inside.”
    “Marshal,” interjected Mateo, “I’ve been reading, and since it was purposeful it wouldn’t be first degree murder.  If the stranger dies, might not Mr. Parson get off with a prison sentence?”
    Doc gave him a questioning look, along with his perpetual frown.  I had a grin, I was pleased that Mateo was taking his position seriously.  “It depends upon the prosecutor, what he charges him with,” I paused to take a sip.  “Also upon Judge Klaser.”
    “It seems sad that one foolish event could change a man’s life forever,” stated Mateo.  “Does Parsons have a family?”
    I glanced at Doc, “I really don’t know.  He doesn’t work regularly.  He hires out to ranchers as he needs the money or during roundups.  He’s done some work in the mines.”
    Doc responded, “If he has family, they’re not around here.”
    Concern was showing on Mateo’s face.  “Maybe we should try and find out.”
    Smiling, I slapped Mateo on the shoulder.  “Sounds good to me, go ahead.”
    The concern left and was exchange by a touch of fear.  “But, Marshal, he doesn’t like me, like Mexicans.  Plus I’m the man who arrested Him.”
    “Perhaps, you may change his mind…”

My mind was stewing over Conrad as I sat drinking coffee.  He was too young to be someone I knew from Texas.  Cheyenne maybe…
    “Marshal, yuh better come quick!” hollered Slim Wilkins bursting through the door of the diner.
    I had finished my supper and was drinking coffee waiting around for Molly and Marta to finish with the last of the customers and clean up.  Emelda had already gone home for the night; if anyone came in now wanting to eat they would have to eat what was left warming on the stove.  
    Holding my cup in my hand, I looked up at Slim.  “Why?  What’s goin’ on?”
    “Nick Parsons, just shot down a stranger over in the Dug Out and yur new deputy is goin’ ta git himself kilt!”
    “Simmer down, Slim.  Mateo can handle the situation,” I said, then thought to myself.  “He better.”
    Slim looked flustered when he came in now he was flabbergasted when I didn’t jump up.  “Aren’t yuh gonna go?” he said, the wrinkles in his forehead seem to fold over one another.
    “Tell you what, Slim.  As soon as I finish my coffee, I’ll head on down to the jail to meet him.”

    There had seemed to be some sort of altercation in the Dug Out Saloon.  It was at the end of the main road out of town, not one of the more popular or better dives in the town.  It seemed that this stranger had been steadily drinking and happened to bump into Parsons.  Parsons was a pretty good worker; he’d worked some in the mines, hired out to the ranches during roundups, worked the fields during harvest, but never really settled into something steady.
    There was a mean streak in him though.  If he had a few drinks in his system, it was likely to come out.  Usually nothing comes of it, but this time he had shot a man.  Mateo had been doing his rounds and was across the street when he heard the shot.  Running to the Dug Out he slowed as he came to the door, glanced inside before entering and saw Parsons with a gun in his hand and the stranger laying on the floor.
    “Mister Parsons, put the gun down,” ordered Mateo after he entered the saloon.  “You’re under arrest.”
    Parsons dropped his arm, but continued to hold the gun.  He slowly turned his head toward Mateo’s voice.
    “You!” commanded Mateo pointing out a man, “go get Doc Jones.”  Then to another sitting at a table closest to the fallen man.  “You! Check to see if he’s alive.”
    Mateo’s attention never wavered from Parsons as he gave the instruction.  “I said to put the gun down!” he said forcefully.
    Parson’s slowly moved a step toward the bar partially facing Mateo.  “No Mex deputy tells me what to do.”
    “Now you can drop your gun, or I can shoot you.  Your choice,” responded Mateo.
    “Nick, why don’t you just drop your gun and go along with the marshal,” suggested Kenner the bartender.
    “Last warning, I won’t speak again, and you can be lying next to the man you shot.”
    That brought a laugh and a grunt from Parsons.  “You’re not that fast.”
    “Try me,” answered Mateo.
    Maybe some of the whiskey was wearing off and he was sobering up.  He looked at the man laying on the floor, Blood now coming out from under him.  Through the door burst Doc Jones who immediately went to the man on the floor without a glance at Parsons or Mateo.
    Doc looked up, rubbed his whiskered face.  “Some of you guys get him over to my office, immediately!  There’s no time to lose if this man lives.”
    Parsons had uncocked his gun and now let it drop to the floor.  He looked at Mateo then nodded.

    I timed it just right for I met them coming down the boardwalk to the jail.  Nick was hanging his head.  “What’s the charge?” I asked.
    “Right now drunk and disorderly, plus attempted murder,” he paused then added, “possibly murder.”
    When Mateo said that, Nick Parsons jerked his head up, then let it slump again.  “Nick, why?”
    Mateo looked directly at me, his face solemn and firm.  “It’s the liquor.  It changes a man…”