by Chuck Tyrell
“You men hang back right now,” I said. “Let’s not have a shootout if we can do this thing without gunfire.”
“Sunzabitches got Joe ‘n Jeff,” Greer said. “No telling what they’ll do to ‘em.”
“I’ll go have a look. Let’s see what happens.” I took out the Colt Peacemaker I’d put on for the ride and added a .45 caliber cartridge to the cylinder. I spun it to make sure everything moved smooth. I went off down the street until I was in plain sight of the Barth Hotel.
“Commodore,” Greer called. “Don’t you go get yourself shot before we can do anything.”
I could see a bunch of Mexicans all over and around the hotel. I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my long hair—purposefully growed long so any Indian who could take my scalp would have a fine trophy—spreading it out across my shoulders. In those days, my hair hung halfway to my belt, so I let the Mexes have a good look at who was coming. I drew the Colt Peacemaker and held it alongside my leg as I walked the thirty yards from where Morg was tied and Greer and his cowboys sat their horses with Winchesters at hand.
“Perez! Commodore Owens here. I’m coming in.”
No answer.
I just kept on walking. No boardwalk in front of the hotel. Nowhere for a gunman to hide, really. Just a bunch of Mexicans with rifles and pistols standing there. Some I knew by sight. Others I didn’t. Made no difference. My Peacemaker wasn’t even cocked.
The closer I got, the quieter they got. No one made any kind of a move, because they’d all heard of how I could plug a two-bit piece dead center from twenty-five or thirty feet away, and a man’s forehead is quite a bit bigger than a two-bit piece.
Some of them was muttering something in Mexican, but I walked on by like they wasn’t even standing there. Those around the door stepped aside without me even having to tell them to. I opened the door with my left hand. “Perez. I’m coming in,” I said.
I did, but Tony Perez weren’t there. And he’d deputized so many people that there weren’t near enough badges for ‘em. Besides, none a them was gonna try to arrest me anyway.
Joe and Jeff sat in overstuffed chairs like they was checked into the hotel.
“By all that’s holy. You two are the laziest cowpokes I ever saw. Nat’s waiting for you to get to work. So you just traipse on down the street. Hear?”
They stood up all meek and cowed.
“Go on. Ain’t nobody gonna stop ya. Dick’s at the judge’s place in Holbrook. He’s the one in trouble, if there is any. Ain’t right for you two to be held for something you never done. Now let’s go.”
No Mexican made no kind of suspicious move, because none wanted to get drilled. And I would drilled anyone who tried.
Mind you, I wasn’t no lawman, but more and more people come to me when there was trouble or when someone was breaking the law.
It’s like this. Tony Perez just plain didn’t like Anglos. He got in with Sol Barth and the St. Johns Ring because Barth’s wife were Mex. Even the newspaper, which was indebted to the Ring, wrote that “Mr. Perez’s own deputies represent the greatest criminals in the country.” So when a white man or a Mormon got stock stole, there was no way in hell that Perez or any of his deputies would follow up on it. Might even a been that they was in on the rustling from the get-go.
Perez lost the next election and Juan Lorenzo Hubbell took his place. And if you think Tony was a mess, J.L. put him to shame. It seemed that those were the days when the sheriff and his deputies were more interested in lucre than in criminals. Bad men flooded the territory, coming up from Texas and across from New Mexico, but there might as well have been no law as far as the outlaws were concerned.
Oz Flake and Sam Brown and Frank Wattron converged on my little horse ranch in September of ’86.
“Light and set,” I hollered when I seen who was coming. “Y’all’re a bit off the beaten path, ain’t ya?”
“Any coffee?” Frank said.
“Always got some. May be a bit strong, though.”
“Don’t matter.”
They dismounted and crowded into my little dugout cabin.
“Gol. This place needs a woman’s touch,” Oz said.
“You ought to know.” I smiled to take the sting out of what I said. “You got enough women around your place to do for all of us.”
“C.P., this is serious,” Sam said. He sipped at the hot coffee I gave him. “Sheesh. This mud’d melt a horseshoe for sure.”
“What’s serious, Sam?”
“Us. Me and Frank and the people in Holbrook and Snowflake and the rest of the Mormon towns, Oz says. Oh, and the Apache County Stock Growers Association, we all agree.”
“That’s good. What is it you all agreed on?”
“Commodore Perry Owens. We want you to run for Apache County Sheriff.”
Part III
Rule of Law
By ten in the morning, C.P. Owens and I were seated in the Bucket of Blood sipping coffee. Actually, I’d begun my third day in Seligman with a hearty breakfast at the Havasu House, bolstered by some delightful conversation with Betty McNeil, one of the Harvey Girls at the hotel.
“You’re in good spirits, young man,” Commodore said. As usual the humor was in his eyes, not on his face.
“I should be. I’m about to hear what happened in Apache County after Commodore Perry Owens became sheriff. That’s something for a news hound to be happy about.”
“You ain’t no hound. You’re hardly more than a puppy.”
I grinned, but said nothing.
“Well, where were we?”
I read from my notes. “Oz Flake, Frank Wattron, and Sam Brown asked you to run for sheriff of Apache County.”
“They did.”
“And you did. Run for sheriff, I mean.”
Commodore nodded. “Outlaws had to be taken care of. Too many bad men’d come into the county and store men like J.L. Hubbell, and Mex sheepherders like Tony Perez never had the gumption to get the job done.”
“Did you have experience for the job? Ever been a lawman before?”
“Never.”
“Then why did people think you could do the job?”
“I never lie. I never cheat. I never brag. I don’t stand around talking about what I’m gonna do, I just do it. And everyone knew I never asked to be sheriff. I said I’d do it if everyone wanted me to, but I didn’t stand up and wave my hat and go on about what great things I’d do, and all that.”
“I heard you could hit tin cans on a fence from a galloping horse.”
“I can.”
“And you could hit a one-by-twelve set edgewise, using a pistol in each hand.”
“I could.”
“So your shooting got you elected, then.”
Commodore chuckled. “Sam Brown and Frank Wattron got me elected.”
“Many men were good with a gun back then. Were you better than them? Is that why you got voted in?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why?”
“I was good all right, but more than that, I didn’t owe nobody nothing.”
“You were not in debt, then?”
“Well, I didn’t owe any money, that’s true, but I didn’t have connections that would make me be unfair, like Hubbell did with that Humphreys outlaw who ran with the Clanton bunch. He let that rowdy go because he was married to a sister of Hubbell’s wife. I was single. My homestead was free and clear. My horses were top notch. And I never took guff from no man.”
“Then what was the very first thing you did after getting elected?”
“It wasn’t me, but they held a grand ball to celebrate the election.”
“Who did you dance with? Anyone in particular?”
“Don’t dance.”
The surprise must have shown on my face.
Humor came to Commodore’s eyes again. “Here I am, a saloon owner and a former gun man, and I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t pander with doves. And I don’t dance. Joe McKinney did enough dancing for th
e two of us. At least he claimed he did.”
“But you’re not a Mormon.”
“I was raised a Quaker. Lots of what Quakers teach strikes me as being right. So that’s what I do. Or don’t do.”
“And what was the second thing you did after being elected?”
“That’s a stickler. Once elected, I had to post a bond.”
“A bond? As if you were going to escape, like a common criminal?”
“In those days, the county sheriff collected tax money from them what owed it. I was required to post that bond to ensure me against all that money.”
I’d not known about sheriffs posting bonds, so I decided to dig a little more. “Just how much were you required to post?”
“Ten thousand.”
“What!” I did some quick calculation. “That’s as much as a dozen men might make in a year.”
Commodore nodded. “And that’s not all. I had to get sureties from three people who was worth, all put together, more than the bond.”
“Did Frank Wattron and Samuel Brown do the sureties? They’re the ones who talked you into running.”
Commodore gave a little negative shake of his head. “No. It were those two Englishmen, Smith and Carson, who owned the Twenty-Four Land and Cattle Company, and the Dutchman Henry Huning from over Show Low way.”
“Then you owed those people.”
“I did, but I never give a damn, pardon the language, whether I was sheriff or not. So I didn’t have to sidle up to no one’s warm side to stay in office. That Twenty-Four, and Oz Flake and Hank Huning and other smaller outfits needed to get the thievery stopped. That was my job. Part of it, at least.”
“Sounds like a very big job. But what did you do between the election—when was that? November ’86?”
“Yes. A cold November it was, too. Didn’t snow on election day, but there was a foot on the ground a couple of days later.”
“Does becoming a sheriff require a great deal of preparation?”
“I clean my weapons every day anyway, so that was taken care of. Gus Ziegler and Jim Houck said they’d watch after my stock, so that was no problem. Joe McKinney said he’d be my deputy, and him and me moved to St. Johns at the end of December. I got a room at McCormick’s boarding house and Joe got one at Barth’s Hotel. It was cold, and I figure Hell was froze over on the first day of January, eighteen and eighty-seven, but me and Joe was ready for whatever come, mostly.”
1
They swore me in on Monday the 3rd of January. The 1st is a holiday and the 2nd fell on the Sabbath. I put my hand on the Bible and I swore to uphold the constitution of USA, the laws of the Territory of Arizona and of Apache County, so help me God. And I meant it.
“Good to have you for Sheriff,” Ernie Tee said. He picked up a sheaf of papers, straightened them out, and handed them to me. “Warrants. Some from Prescott. We have no doubt but that you’ll serve those warrants. All of them.”
I didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. But I took the warrants. “Is that all?”
“It is. We’re looking forward to results, C.P. This county needs to settle down.”
“I’ll get to work, then,” I said, and took leave of the county supervisors, just left them sitting there chewing their cuds. I knew some were beholden to Sol Barth and the St. Johns Ring, but all I could do was to serve the warrants and arrest those who’d broke the law. I must say I wasn’t in a very good mood when I got to the sheriff’s office in the back of the redrock courthouse.
“You look like a storm blowin’ in,” Joe McKinney said when I came through the door. I just waved that handful of bench warrants at him.
“What’s that?”
“Work.” I handed him the warrants and sat down at the desk. From the looks of things, it would take me the better part of a month to get the desk straightened out so I knew where what was. The county supervisors’d given me a badge, but not one for Joe. I started through the desk, looking for deputy badges. I found them, all four of them, under the wanted flyers in the bottom righthand drawer.
“Joe.” When he looked up, I tossed him a badge. “Raise your right hand.”
He did.
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of the U.S. of A., the territory of Arizona, and Apache County, so help you God?”
“I do,” Joe said, and he became my first deputy sheriff. He pinned the badge to his vest. Rustling the sheaf of warrants, he said, “You look at these, C.P.?”
“Not yet.”
“Old as the hills, some of them.”
“Who we gotta catch?”
“Lee Renfro, for one.”
“People die when Lee’s around. You heard where he is?”
“Nope. Ain’t heard that he’s left the country, either.”
“Who else.”
“Lot Smith.” Joe looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Phin and Ike Clanton.”
“Makes a man wish the Earps had finished their job, don’t it?” Hank Smith and Tom Carson of the Twenty-Four Land and Cattle Company had ensured me. At the same time, they made sure I knew that the Clanton’s 74 cows had twins most years and sometimes triplets. They made sure I knew that brand-changing had to stop.
“George and Bill Graham.”
“What for?”
“Suspicion of robbing a stage.”
“They never did.” People under the gun see visions, I’d come to think. Witnesses may have been on the spot, but rarely do they remember things as they really happened. That’s been my experience anyway.
“Kid Swingle.”
“That boy’ll end up in Yuma.”
“Long Hair Williams.”
“My hair ain’t long no more. Should be easy to tell the difference.”
“One here for Jack Diamond, you know. That’s what Billy Evans likes people to call him.”
“Jack Diamond?”
“His lucky card, he says.”
“What for?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon.”
“That little squirt?”
“Says so here.”
“Arrest him if you run across him. Most likely in a poker game in Winslow or Holbrook. Judge’ll probably fine ‘im and let ‘im go.”
Joe gave me a hard look before he read the last name. He knew about me and Andy and the rustler fight on the bench north of Show Low Creek. “C.P., there’s one here on Andy Cooper—Andrew Arnold Blevins. It’s two years old.”
I almost said damn, but swearing don’t get a man nowhere. “What for?”
“Stealing stock.”
“Andy?”
“Says so here.”
“I told that boy to be careful. Once there’s a warrant out, the law can kill a man for looking cross-eyed. They just call it ‘Resisting arrest.’ You’d better give me that warrant.”
Joe handed it to me.
“What? Navajo horses? They’re forever running off with ours. Andy was probably just returning the favor.” I folded the warrant and put it in my shirt pocket. “Leave it to me.”
We filed the other warrants in the sheriff’s desk, and I went to get ready to ride around the county to tell ranch hands and the hangers-on that law had come to Apache County. In fact, I stopped at the Blevins spread on Cherry Creek in hopes Andy’d be there.
I’d camped over on Cottonwood Wash the night before, and jawed with Zach Decker for a while. Him and me see eye to eye on a lot of things.
Took the Cooper warrant out of my pocket and held it out to Zach. “This here warrant is on Andy Cooper. Would you hold it until I come for it?”
He took it. “I can do that.” He held the warrant to the fire so he could read it. “Stealing Navajo horses? Don’t sound like no crime.”
I’d told Zach that if Andy’ll stay quiet, this may blow over. And that I was hoping that’d be the case.
Now, I hollered from the front yard. “Hello the house. Anybody home?”
Hamp Blevins stuck his head out the door. “Whaddaya want?”
�
�You know, Hamp. I’m sheriff of Apache County now. Don’t you guys go pulling no shenanigans while I’m the law and I won’t be coming after ya.”
Hamp shrugged. Then Andy pushed him out of the way and stepped into the yard. “Howdy, C.P. What brings ya all the way to Cherry Creek?”
“Andy, I got a warrant sitting on my desk . . . a warrant on you.”
“I ain’t done nothing.”
I had to chuckle. “Not sure that’s true.”
Andy didn’t say nothing and he kept his right hand awful close to his six-gun.
“The warrant I got is for Navajo horses. Agent and the army says you stole some.”
“I never stole nothing.”
“In my book, even if you took ever’ horse on Navajo land, it wouldn’t be stealing. But the warrant’s from the state outta Prescott, pressed by the Indian Agent and the army. So if I get pushed, or if you don’t stay outta town when I’m in, I’ll have to serve it.”
Andy and Hamp never said a thing.
“You hear me, Andy Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you stay outta my way. Like I said, unless I get pushed pretty hard, I’ll leave that warrant lie. If you don’t stay outta town when I’m there, I’ll have to come after you.”
“Even if you come, I won’t go.”
“I know you’re stubborn as a mule, kid. But if you act up with me . . . if I’ve got a reason to come after you, then you’d better come along peaceful. You don’t, and I’ll have to take you down.”
“Don’t you try and get tough with me, C.P. I know too much about what all you’ve been doing.”
“I warned you, Andy. You can play it close to the chest and stay out of my way, or you can have me coming after you. Your choice.” I reined Morg around and we headed for the Stott place. I had to get the word around. No give for lawbreakers from Commodore Owens. None at all.
2
Sam Brown and Frank Wattron, along with a lot of Mormons and several cattle outfits, got me elected sheriff of Apache County on a law and order ticket, but let me tell you, the job of a sheriff seemed to have precious little to do with finding criminals and socking them away. A sheriff is a lawman, you might say. And that is true. Still, the lion’s share of the time of the sheriff of Apache County was spent running around collecting license fees. You heard me right. Collecting license fees. The county supervisors even made it the sheriff’s fault if a fee was not collected. They’d assume a man hadn’t gone to him what owed the fee and made him fork over. So you know what? I had to pay those delinquent fees out of my own pocket and collect from the skunk who never paid when I could.
