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!”