The Saga of Miles Forrest

I had been home just shy of a week and hadn’t seen anything of Hannah or Greta.  Molly said Hannah came around a couple of times to deliver eggs.  While I was gone Molly hired a young Mexican-Indian girl named Marta.  She said her mother might be interested in working as well.  That might add a little spice to the menu.  At least she had some help.
“Senor, more coffee?” asked Marta.
Now I’m not real good on the Spanish lingo, but with that “Senor” thrown in I figured she was talking to me.  Plus the fact there was no one else in the eatery.
“It is hot,” she said.  Then she bent close and whispered.  “I think your wife is fixin’ a surprise.”
I was sipping on the coffee when Molly came from the kitchen with a couple of pieces of pie.
“Ahhh, scutterbutch!”  I exclaimed.
“Don’t pay him any mind, Marta.  It’s butterscotch.  And no!  Both pieces are not for you and if you’ll pour me a cup I sit and enjoy a piece with you,” she paused.  “Providing you mind your manners.”
Marta left as Molly sat down and began wiping off tables.  “How’s she doin’?” I asked.
“She’s surely energetic, and so far no complaints from the customers.  I found out that she’s from over near Four Corners; her father was Navajo.”
“She hasn’t said much, but from she mentioned he died in some sort of accident.”
About half my pie was gone when a group of six men walked in.  I fidgeted a little and took the thong off the hammer of my pistol.  “Excuse me,” I said to Molly.  “I need to move this.”  I put the shotgun on my right side on the table.
“Miles, what is it?” she asked.
“Hope nothin’, but that’s the crew that had their sights on the ore wagon.  Coincidence they’re in town just now, don’t you think?”
“Well, don’t start anything,” she replied.
“Why Molly!” I exclaimed in mocked shock.  “I never start anything; besides you told me to mind my manners.”  Then I became a little more serious.  “But I’ve been known to put an end to things.”
I could see the men muttering amongst themselves, and glancing my way from time-to-time.  Using my left hand I cut another piece of pie.
The guy who spoke to me on the road stood up and came my way.  “Well, Forrest, we meet again,” and he stuck out his hand to shake mine.
I took a sip of coffee and ignored the gesture.  “Not very friendly,” he remarked.
“I am to my friends.”
“You act like that and there may be a time of collectin’.”
“Want to try now?” I asked, and shook hands with my Greener with my thumb on one of the hammers.
“I take it that’s your friend?”
Nodding I replied.  “And a good one too.”
Marta was over at their table bringing their food.  I nodded again.  “Food’s gettin’ cold.”
“Forrest, there’ll be a time comin’.”
I pretended to ignore him and ate another piece of pie–with my left hand