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Updated: May 5, 2025
I recall a legend recited to me by an esteemed friend, ex-Sheriff of Tin Can, Nevada. Jim Cortright, one of the best gun-fighters in town, went on a journey to Chicago, and while there he procured a top-hat. He was quite sure how Tin Can would accept this innovation, but he relied on the celerity with which he could get a six-shooter in action.
A very clear idea of his religious power may be gained by the following statement of Judge John Barr, ex-sheriff of Cuyahoga county, Ohio, and a most excellent authority on the history of the Western Reserve. Varnem J. Card, the lawyer, and myself started early Sunday morning on horseback. We found the roads crowded with people going in the same direction.
The ex-sheriff cited a case, that of a young German who was returning from the Philippines, where he had been discharged after the war. He was the only child of his widowed mother, who has a ranch a few miles from here. No one knew he was coming home. One day the cook belonging to the camp of a construction gang went hunting and came back running, wild with horror. He had found the body of a man.
But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not to mistake them for weeds. "Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As he bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand. "'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard.
Thrown upon his own resources, he established a newspaper, which he called The Upper Canada Guardian, or Freeman's Journal. He spoke with considerable freedom of the governor. He attacked the ministerial party. He exhibited abuses with wonderful dexterity and skill. The ex-sheriff, Joseph Wilcocks, was rapidly rising into note. It was time to restrain him.
He was a short, squarely made Scotchman, with sandy whiskers much grayed and with a keen, in-tensely blue eye. "Say," called McPhail, ex-sheriff of the county, in the silence that followed some remark about the rain, "any o' you fellers had any talk with this feller Sanford?" "I hain't," said Vance. "You, Bill?" "No; but somebody was sayin' he thought o' startin' in trade here." "Don't Sam know?
There was now a dead pause; and all eyes were turned on the chasm in silent and trembling expectation. But nothing appearing, the hunter and ex-sheriff crept down prostrate to the brink of the chasm, and worked their heads cautiously below, to get a fuller view of the interior.
"Turner!" exclaimed the sheriff, addressing the leader of the approaching band, who was at once recognized to be an ex-sheriff of the county, and one of the most daring and successful felon-hunters ever known in northern New-Hampshire; "General Turner, of all men you are the one I should have most wished to see, just at this time. We have a tough case on hand; but how did you get here?"
After looking, with slightly varied positions, about a minute, they both rose and came up on the bank; when the ex-sheriff, turning to the hunter, softly said: "He is there. I caught sight of his legs standing in a corner near the mouth of the cave. Did you get a view?"
Applehead, it would seem from his speech upon the subject, would be a much surprised ex-sheriff now a deputy if they were not all captured and scalped, if not worse, the minute their feet touched the forbidden soil of these demons in human form, the Navajo Indians.
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