The Coconino sun., 1925-11-13
NOW YOU KNOW WHAT AN
ARIZONA SHERIFF MAY BE

motor car with which to hasten an
exit.
No modern, fancy automatic gun
for the Arizona sheriff; he sticks to
the great, heavy-framed, single action
six gun of the early days. You can
dive into mud with it; use it for a
hammer; batter it as you will, and the
massive hammer, drawn back, Will
send its AS calibre bullet, almost half
an inch in diameter, on its sure way,
with no jamming, no missing fire.
| 1t must. When a desperado, see
| ing through the badge of the sheriff
the grim spectre of the waiting gal
lows at the Florence state prison, with
its II inch hempen rope being stretch
ed by 200-pound weight for him, the
quickest man on the draw wins.
Drawing one of these massive pis-
tolls is like pulling sabre from its
! long scabbard; yet no magician can
so deceive the eye as the lightning
like flash with which these huge six
| shooters come from their holsters
when life hangs on the fractional sec
ond.
No sheriff in Arizona can start on
the trail of bandit without expecting
to go from 100 to 400 miles in his own
county. Through the snaky-fingered
ocatilla's spines; between the giant
sahuaro cactus; over pear cactus and
stubby visnaga, or barrel cactus,
squatting on the ground like huge
porcupine; over sacahuiste or bear
grass, around soto stubs as staunch
as fence posts; through creosote
wood, sage and palo verde, the leafless
bush that tangles with cat claw into a
dense thicket; and around the devil
cactus or cholla, the chase will take
him, day or night, road or no road,
very often with his car lights out
More Guns
Arroyos dug in the earth by floods;
dry washes which are river beds; In
stone of incalculable uneveness, lie in
wait to trap his car into sudden
plunge at night. He will lay out for
five to eight nights in the dark, alone,
waiting at a known road or gate for
the fleeing desperate to come out of
the Businesses for water. He will
hunt his quarry in rough mining
camp or on a trackless desert.
Always, in the end, he knows there's S
man with a six-shooter equally as
big as his own, or a 30-30 high pow
cred rifle or sawed-off shotgun laden
with slugs. And that man, or those
men, see in him a quick trial and solid
steel bars, while behind lies safety in
mountain fastnesses many of which
still never have felt the tread of a
white mans boot.
And when the meeting comes, his
voice, though quick and steel-sharp, is
still easy; only that clear-blue eye,
| that lightning-li six-shooter betoken
his stern calling.
Beside graves which hold dozens of
! bad and tough men whose dirge was
the bullet whining from the Arizona
sheriff's six-shooter, are those which
hold, alas, a score of his deputies as
well, whose crooking trigger fingers
are the infinitesimal part of second
too late.
Every tinkle of his office telephone
bell; every hasty note coming through
the mail; every yellow envelope from
the telegraph office brings him adven-
ture where life may be cheap as the
desert sands.
Once he rode astride cowpony, 40
miles a day; now it's motor car, 40
miles an hour. And in every county
supplying the car, it's Studebaker.
There's a picture of Sheriff John
Parsons of this county in the booklet,
John looking his handsomest and ver-
satilist.