The Saga of Miles Forrest

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
The next couple of days I went from store to store interviewing the owners.  A few were cooperative and agreed to witness, but asked that their names not be released until the hearing.  Fear welled up in the face of most of them.  It’s amazing how fear can dominate truth and doing the right thing.   I reckon that’s true in our individual lives as well, old slewfoot allows something to come up and we get fearful and anxious over it and forget to trust in the Lord.  
       Then there were those who outright refused.  That caused me some concern for they wanted to know who was going to help me.  I also wondered if some of them, the saloon owners for example, might not be given a kickback.  It was clear however, that there was extortion going on, but there still was no link to Grady Stinson and it seemed that no one heard of him either.  I still thought there was some kind of connection, that Knaught knew him, but then he could have moved on to someplace else.
       Right now I could connect it to Knaught and his roughnecks.  I had taken some time away from Socorro and rode up the road to send a telegram to the Territorial office of Judge T. L. Norris.  I didn’t want to send it from Socorro, afraid that the message might get into the hands of Knaught.  Judge Norris would be arriving today to listen to witnesses and take depositions.
       It was around 10:00 that the train arrived and I waited for the judge to depart.  I noticed that I always had someone tailing me at a discreet distance.  This morning, however, I saw that it was Deputy Case.  His arm was in a sling, but he was still doing his duty for the marshal and Knaught.  I had never met Judge Norris and only heard a few things regarding the man.  He was said to be firm yet fair.  I knew he was working closely with Governor Wallace in cleaning up the outlaw problems and range warfare.  It was Marshal Wilcox who suggested I contact him.
       We shook hands and I immediately could tell he was a no-nonsense type of guy.  He did smile when I introduced him to Elfego, telling the Judge that he was my right-hand man.  I didn’t mention how he snuck my gun from the holster during the shoot out.  
       “Where can I hold the hearing?” were the first words after our brief introduction that came from his mouth.  I had asked him if he wanted to eat, but he simply replied, “Just keep the coffee on.”
       I offered to carry his valise, but he wouldn’t let me.  I had secured the use of the church from Rev. Sinclair.  The Judge would use his office and the witnesses could sit out in the sanctuary.  Elfego and the Reverend stayed with those in the sanctuary and I went in to act as bailiff for the Judge.  Parson Sinclair said he would make sure that there was coffee.
       Most of the witnesses were very nervous, they knew that they could expect reprisals for their testimony.  The Judge knew what he wanted to ask, and barked out the questions, and wrote their answers.   He would then give the paper, have the witnesses check over it, then he said they could add any comment they wanted to the bottom, then sign it.
       The Judge wanted to work through lunch to get this over.  It was near two o’clock that Elfego came to the door when Mr. Farnsworth, the blacksmith, walked out.  “Excuse me, Senor Judge, marshal, but there is someone out there not on the witness list.  I see him around, sometime, but he doesn’t have a business in Socorro.”
       The Judge nodded at me, “Check him out.  I’ll take a break until you find out who he is.”
       I stood at the entrance to the office with Elfego as he pointed at a man, wearing a gun in a cross-draw rig standing by the door.  He was scanning the few in the sanctuary and when Farnsworth went by him he stepped out in front of him.  Farnsworth would stomp the stuffings out of him, but I saw the man put his hand to his gun.
       “Get out of the way!” I hollered as I started running for the two men.  Farnsworth turned his head to look at me, and felt the gun in his side.  He slashed down with his hands before the gun went off, then fell to the floor.  I drew my gun, seeing that the man was bringing his gun up to shoot at me.  I stopped, fired twice, and the man crumpled to the floor.
       Reverend Sinclair was rushing to the men, when I yelled for him to stop.  I wanted to make sure that the stranger was in no shape to shoot the preacher.  When I got there I nodded at the preacher.  The man seemed dead, but then I saw a flicker in his eyes and a smile, or was it a grimace?   Sinclair was checking out Farnsworth.  The quick movement on his part saved his life.  The bullet discharged and drilled a hole in the floor next to his right boot.  A second later he would have been gut shot.
       Within seconds, the Judge had joined us and Deputy Case came through the door, gun in his hand.  “You’re under arrest!” he hollered, then he looked at the man with me.  “Who is this man?”
       I hadn’t holstered my gun, so I brought it up right in front of the deputy’s face.  Pointing it at him only a few inches away, I commanded.  “Put your gun away!”  
       The deputy seemed confused as well as frightened.  He knew from past experience that I was no one to fool with.  The Judge stopped any indecision and put the confusion at rest when he ordered.  “Marshal, take this man back to the office.  I want to question him.”  Then he turned walking back toward the office.  
       By this time the Parson had helped Farnsworth to his feet, and was quietly talking with him.  Probably about his mortal soul and how he almost met his Maker today.  A couple of people started to get up and leave, but the Judge stopped at the office and sternly reprimanded them, ordering them to sit back down.  I had Deputy Case by his good arm and was directing him to where the Judge would question him.  
       Before entering, I stopped Case making sure he had no other weapons on his person.  “Be sure you are respectful to Judge Norris,” I said with a smile…

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
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…

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
We sat on the steps of the church while I explained the difference between the empty cross and the crucifix.  Elfego stared at me for several seconds then turned his attention to gaze out from the church.  I stayed quiet, hoping that I could answer any questions that he might have.
       Turning just his head to look at me, he said, “Sure gives a person something to think about.”  He then looked out down the street.
       I stood, brushed off my pants and asked, “Ready to make a call on Mr. Knaught?”
       Not waiting for a reply I strode off the steps and he soon fell in step with me.  Within blocks we came upon his place of business with a sign painted on the front:  Insurance, Security, and Protection.  I opened the door and walked in followed by Elfego.  A man, I reckoned was Knaught, was working with head down at a desk.  I could see there was a ledger of some sort in front of him.
       “Just be a second,” he muttered.  He finished up doing some figures then looked up.  Upon seeing Elfego, he hollered, “Get that bean-eater out of here!”
       I had about all I could stand.  I slammed the Greener on the table making him jump then lifted the barrel placing it smack dab against his mouth.  I surely wanted to jab it further, maybe loosen some teeth, but I kept calm.  “I’ll say it once, apologize to the boy.”
       He started to mutter something, and I took that as an excuse to push the barrel of the shotgun into his mouth.  Probably didn’t break any teeth or even loosen any, but it sure got his attention.  His eyes became like a full moon.  “I’ll remove the barrel just as soon as I know you’re goin’ to apologize.  Nod if you understand.”
       His eyes went from me to the boy and back again.  I saw him hesitate and move his right hand, so I shoved the barrel a little deeper.  He gagged, but decided not to go for a gun.  Finally, with his eyes now beginning to water, he nodded his head.
       “My apologies, son.  Sometimes my mouth runs off before my brain tells it to,” he muttered.  I reckoned it was some sort of an apology.  He brought his hand up and wiped off his lips with the back of it.  “No call for you to do that, mister,” he said with indignation.
       “No call of you to berate the young man,” I replied, making sure I didn’t use the term boy.
       He dropped his head slightly, then closed his ledger.  “How may I be of service to you?” he inquired.
       I thought about telling him some kind of story of how I was planning on opening up a shop and heard of his services, but decided to cut right to the chase.  “What’s this about your protection racket?”
       Anger flashed through his eyes, but then I saw him glance at the shotgun and he gained control of his emotions.  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean by a ‘racket.’  My business offers a service, that’s all.”
       “What happens if a merchant chooses not to purchase your services?” I inquired.
       He shrugged his shoulders and straightened up some, trying to look in control.  “Why nothing, that is his choice.  He simply refuses protection and insurance.”
       “No repercussions?  No burning of his store?  No killing of his stock?  No…”
       “I don’t know what you’re getting at!” he raised his voice, interrupting me.  “I run a respectable business and offer a service.”
       “Just like the thug I arrested and put in jail and his friends over at the doc’s office.  Are they part of your respectable business?”
       He gave me a puzzled look.  “Fellow by the name of Tobacco Joe doesn’t work for you?”
       “Never heard of him,” came his reply.
       “How about Bo Crandall or Ken Adams?  You don’t know them either?”
       I could tell he was getting a little antsy.  “I know them.  They work for me from time to time collecting the monthly bills.”
       “Un huh, what about Grady Stinson?”
       The sides of his cheeks twitched and he blinked his eyes.  “Stinson, I don’t believe he has a business in town, or if so I don’t think we carry his account.”
       Part of me wanted to thump him alongside the head just for lying, but I remained cool and calm.  “Who are you to come bursting in here with these insinuating accusations?”
       Leaning forward, I glared into his eyes.  “Deputy U.S. Marshal, Miles Forrest,” I said, pausing, but continuing to stare.  Straightening up, I asked another question, “How much do you charge your clientele?”
       “Depends on the size of the business.  Minimum cost is a dollar a day,” he informed me.
       “That’s a full day’s wage.  You must be makin’ out all right,” I remarked, then changed the shotgun from my right hand to the left and asked, “What is the marshal’s cut?”
       “Now, see here!”
       I raised my hand to calm him down and nodded with my head to Elfego that it was time to go.  We started for the entrance when I stopped to say, “Be seein’ you, Mr. Knaught,” then walked on out.
       I didn’t know it at the time, but when I left the office, Knaught called for a man to come in from the back.  “Get rid of him!”

 

The Saga of Miles Forrest

by Ira Paine, Posted on
We were headed to Knaught’s place of business when I spied the spire of a little white church around the corner and down the block.  Most ministers, if they’re worth their salt, know the happenings in a town of this size.  As we walked toward the church I asked Elfego if he knew where the pastor lived.
       For that I received a puzzled look.  “Pastor, preacher, do you know where he lives?” I asked rather curtly.  “Elfego, you do go to church?”
       “Si, maybe, once in a while.  The padre, when he sees me he bemoans my fate because I do not often attend,” came a rather sheepish reply.
       “Where are your parents?  Don’t they make you go?” I kept questioning as we neared the steps that led up to the front door.  
       As I put one boot on the steps, he hesitated to go up with me.  “What’s wrong?  Is there something about this preacher you don’t like?”
       He seemed a bit squeamish, something I hadn’t seen in him before.  He would shrug one shoulder, then the other then got a sour look on his face.  “What is it?” I asked firmly.
       “This man, this preacher, makes me uncomfortable.  I’ve only seen him a few times, but he makes me, how can I put it, itch inside,” he replied.  “I’ll wait for you here.”
       I put my hand behind his shoulder and sort of pushed him forward a bit.  “We’re in this together, and I want you to hear what he says.  Maybe he can shed some light on what is going on.”  The door was unlocked so we entered.  I looked around for a room that might be used for an office.  Entering the sanctuary, I hollered, “Hello, I’d like to talk to the Preacher.  Hello!”
       To the back, off to the left of the pulpit area a door opened and I could see the light behind it.  A man emerged, rather tall, but thin, dressed in a suit, but without a jacket.  He waved at us to come to him.
       “Hello, Sir,” he said with genuine sincerity as if he was really happy to see us.  “Ah, I recognize you,” he said to Elfego, reaching out his hand to him first.  “I’ve seen you all around town.  You’re Francisco Baca’s son.”
       I could tell that Elfego was surprised.  “You know my father?”
       “Not well, but we have spoken a few times,” the preacher replied, then turned to shake my hand.  “And you, Sir.  Who do I have the honor of meeting?”
       He firmly gripped my hand as I responded.  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Miles Forrest, and I just wanted to ask you a few questions if I may intrude on your time.”
       “Reverend Claude Sinclair, and yes, yes come into my office if you want, or we can sit here,” he said by introduction.  He looked me over then back to Elfego, and I saw him smile.  We chose to sit on the front pew of the church.  Elfego made sure to sit on the other side of me away from the preacher.
       “You know Elfego?” I asked out of curiosity.
       He continued to smile.  “Yes, they were living up in Kansas, Topeka I believe when his mother died,” he stopped to look at Elfego.  “What was it, Elfego, two, three years ago?  His father is the sheriff over in Belen and Elfego spends much of his time here in Socorro doing odd jobs.”
       I glanced over at Elfego before asking the preacher any more questions.  He didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead, looking at the cross that was on the wall.  “Reverend, what can you tell me about a ring that is pestering, and sometimes beating merchants in town?  I’ve been sent to search for a man named Grady Stinson, but no one seems to have heard of him or they are keeping it very quiet.”
       “He does not know?” the preacher inquired.  “If he doesn’t know, I don’t think I can add anything to it.  Elfego here is quite the investigator, and to answer your question I haven’t heard of a Grady Stinson.  However, there is a group who strong-arms the merchants into paying them a, what I call, an extortion fee.”
       I nodded at him to go on.  “A Mr. Anton Knaught has put up an insurance company in which he required all the merchants in town to be part of.  So far he hasn’t bothered the church, but they must pay a fee to protect their property.  If for some reason they refuse or don’t pay, they find within a few days that there is some kind of destruction to their place of business.  Mr. Knaught is sure to remind them that if they would have paid, their damages would have been covered by his policy.”
       The preacher was to my liking.  He reminded me of our minister back in Durango, Dale Chapman.  We talked a little longer, but his information was all I needed.  Normally, this would have been a job for the town marshal, but from what I had gathered and what Rev. Sinclair had added, there was indeed extortion going on and that the marshal was heavily involved with it.  However, with New Mexico still being a territory I had considerable jurisdiction.
       Elfego had been very quiet, and he only nodded when the pastor told him goodbye and prayed that the Lord would bless him.  Outside, on the steps, he looked back at the now closed church.  “Miles, do you know why there is not the figure of a man on the crucifix in that church?”