Silverton, one of the richest strikes in history. The mines were pouring out both gold and silver, but that brought in an element of lawlessness, evil, and wickedness on a large scale. The city boasted not only of its richness and wickedness, but of its commercial growth. It hosted four hundred buildings containing two banks, twenty-nine saloons, several hotels, dance halls, and theaters. The town itself was split in half along Greene Street with the law-abiding church-goers on one side and those that dealt in vice on the other. It was into this town we find Miles Forrest entering as acting sheriff for Charlie Gold.
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It had been a while since I’d been in Silverton. New buildings had sprung up; a cafe here, a laundry there. There was a new bakery I could see as I rode down the middle of Greene Street and they had finished the Grand Hotel. In years past I had spent quite some time in this town, back when the mines were just opening. The last time I was here Big Bob Phillips was marshal, but I heard he had been killed.
I rode Hawk up to where I knew the jail to be and tied him off. The jail was not near large enough to hold all the miscreants that needed to be in there. It consisted of two floors with six cells on the top floor and three on the bottom, along with an outer office and a smaller one for the marshal. There was a man sitting at a desk with his head down on folded arms on the desk. I didn’t know whether to smile or feel pity. I guess there wasn’t any reason for the man to catch up on some sleep, but it just doesn’t look good when someone enters and finds the law asleep at a desk.
“Mister,” I said with raised voice. “I’m looking for the marshal!”
The man jerked awake, and I thought for a moment he was going for his gun. “Whoa, man, take it easy,” I said, trying to calm him.
He brought one hand to his head, as if to hold it up, and possibly clear it. “Uh, uh, sorry, but who are you?”
“Deputy United States Marshal, and acting sheriff Miles Forrest,” I explained. “I’m here for Sheriff Gold who is currently incapacitated.”
His eyes finally found mine, and he didn’t make any offer to shake my hand. “Uh, the marshal’s not here right now. What do you want him for?” he asked in what I thought was a little belligerent manner.
“You have a handle?” I inquired.
He eyed me over before answering. “Curt Cunningham, I’m the deputy.”
“The marshal allow his deputies to sleep while on duty?” I questioned again.
A frown appeared. “If we have a rough night, and there’s nothing happening on the streets, why, yes he does as if that is anything to you.”
“No, no, that’s between you and the marshal. What did you say his name was?” I was getting tired of playing this little game.
“Todd Johnson!” he blurted. “Why are you here anyway? This is not your jurisdiction!”
I didn’t like the fact that he was getting a little huffy with me. “Son, if you had been listenin’ I told you why I was here. An’,” I opened my vest to show him my badge, “this badge says that I do have jurisdiction here. Mind tellin’ me where I can find the marshal?”
He scratched at his head, then looked up at the clock that was handing on the wall. “Well, he’s either home, or up on Blair Street releasing the drunks from last night.”
I had a puzzled look on my face from his last statement so he began to explain. “We don’t have enough room in the cells for all the drunks so we either tie them to a rail or handcuff them to one. They sleep it off and are released the next day.”
“What happens if it rains?”
“They get wet!” he smarted off to me and I came close to giving the brash young buck a good thump.
“What about in the winter?” I continued my questioning.
He sort of sneered, then said, “You better ask the marshal that, he would know more about that.”