-I've all Arizona, and, best o' all, the Range!_
--WOON.

About this time Sheriff Bob Paul reigned in Tucson and made me one of
his deputies. I had numerous adventures in that capacity, but remember
only one as being worth recording here.

One of the toughest characters in the West at that time, a man feared
throughout the Territory, was Pat Cannon. He had a score of killings to
his credit, and, finally, when Paul became sheriff a warrant was issued
for his arrest on a charge of murder. After he had the warrant Paul came
to me.

"Cady," he said, "you know Pat Cannon, don't you?"

"I worked with him once," I answered.

"Well," returned Paul, "here's a warrant for his arrest on a murder
charge. Go get him."

I obtained a carryall and an Italian boy as driver, in Tucson, and
started for Camp Grant. Arrived there I was informed that it was
believed Cannon was at Smithy's wood camp, several miles away. We went
on to Smithy's wood camp. Sure enough, Pat was there--very much so. He
was the first man I spotted as I drove into the camp. Cannon was sitting
at the door of his shack, two revolvers belted on him and his rifle
standing up by the door at his side, within easy reach. I knew that Pat
didn't know that I was a deputy, so I drove right up.

"Hello," I called. "How's the chance for a game of poker?"

"Pretty good," he returned, amiably. "Smithy'll be in in a few moments,
John. Stick around--we have a game every night."

"Sure," I responded, and descended. As I did so I drew my six-shooter
and whirled around, aiming the weapon at him point blank.

"Hands up, Pat, you son-of-a-gun," I said, and I guess I grinned.
"You're my prisoner."

I had told the Italian boy what to do, beforehand, and he now gave me
the steel bracelets, which I snapped on Cannon, whose face bore an
expression seemingly a mixture of intense astonishment and disgust.
Finally, when I had him safely in the carryall, he spat out a huge chew
of tobacco and swore.

He said nothing to me for awhile, and then he remarked, in an injured
way:

"Wa-al, Johnny, I sure would never have thought it of you!"

He said nothing more, except to ask me to twist him a cigarette or two,
and when we reached Tucson I turned him over safely to Sheriff Paul.

* * * * *

You who read this in your stuffy city room, or crowded subway seat,
imagine, if you can, the following scene:

Above