The Saga of Miles Forrest

Get rid of him!” snapped Anton Knaught to Marshal Mort Udall who had just walked in the back door.  
       “I don’t know…he’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal.  If he is killed they’ll send more down to investigate,” cautioned Udall.
       “Get rid of him!  Smash his head in with a rock, throw him down the canyon, do something, but I want him out of the way.  And another thing, I want Adams released from jail.  He doesn’t do me any good sitting in there,” came the words of a very agitated Anton Knaught who was clenching his fists in anger.
       Udall came and sat on the edge of the desk.  “Have you thought this through? he questioned.  “Adams is Forrest’s prisoner and there are witnesses as to him being involved in the attack.”
       Knaught was turning red in the face and the veins on his neck were bulging.  “Then get rid of the witnesses!  Or make up some story saying that in the confusion Adams was actually trying to help diffuse the situation.”
       “What about the kid, Baca?”
       “What?  Get rid of him as well.  Who’s going to miss a Mexican kid?”
       A grim look appeared on the face of Udall.  He didn’t like the idea of killing kids and he remembered that Baca’s father was the marshal over in Belen.  He would come around asking questions, probing for information.  Finally, he spoke, “What about Crandall and Sanchez?”
       Knaught looked up at him.  “Are they going to live?” he asked and, not waiting for an answer, went on.  “Go see them, talk with them.  If you think they may tell of our operation then get rid of them as well.  I want this thing cleaned up.”  He paused to let the words sink in, then continued, “Are you understanding me, Marshal Udall?”  
       Udall stood and started for the front door.  “Marshal!  Use the back door.  Do I have to do all your thinking for you?”  The marshal turned heading on out the back door and into the alley.  He was disturbed and didn’t know quite how to handle it.  He didn’t like what Knaught was telling him to do, but he was making a nice little side income.  He’d head on over to the doctor to see the wounded enforcers.
       I had directed Elfego to a bench across the street in front of the saddle shop as it was in the shade.  “What do you think, Elfego?” I asked, wanting him to think the situation through.
       “He is lying,” came his quick reply.
       “What should we do?”
       “Arrest him, of course.  He is a scoundrel and is hurting fine people, Anglos and Mexican alike,” he said with conviction.
       I smiled, pulled on my moustache watching Knaught’s office.  “On what evidence, my young friend?”
       He sat quietly, holding his chin in one hand.  “Maybe we could get witnesses, Mr. Green for instance.  I know most of the merchants,” he said, getting excited.
       Standing up, he was ready to go, but I continued to sit.  “Easy, easy, I want to sit just a little longer.  One thing you have to learn is patience.”
       We sat, and I asked him questions about his father and mother.  I asked him what he thought of Rev. Sinclair and started to direct the conversation around to salvation and the cross again, when Knaught came out of his office.  He didn’t bother to glance around, just mounted a horse that had been tied to the hitching post and put it to a gallop out of town.
       I pulled on my moustache and smiled…