Henry goes prehistoric

Judging from appearances there was little wonder that the Scorpion Bend Clarion called these two men, plus Oscar Johnson, their jailer, the Shame of Arizona. Oscar was a giant Swede of tremendous strength, but low IQ.

When vaudeville waned and faded from American stages, Henry Harrison Conroy, like thousands of other vaudevillians, was out of work. An uncle, whom he had never heard about before, died in Wild Horse Valley, leaving Henry as sole owner of the JHC cattle ranch. Henry knew nothing about the cattle country, but he accepted his inheritance, came to Tonto City, wearing tailored clothes, spats, pearl-colored derby hat, and twirling a gold-headed cane.

Arizona loved Henry at once. His courtly manner, sense of ridiculous humor, and enormous thirst intrigued them. He took over the JHC, much to their delight, and really went Arizona himself. Shortly after he became acclimated an election came along, and, as a good joke, the cowboys got together and wrote Henry’s name on their ballots. The next morning he found that he was sheriff of Wild Horse County. A cowboy summed it up in his statement that, “We’ve shore played a joke on this county.”

Henry saw the humor of the situation clearly. In Tonto City lived Judge Van Treece, who had never been a judge, but a really fine attorney, until an insatiable thirst made him a derelict. Henry, as a humorous gesture, and also because he liked Judge, appointed Judge as his deputy. And as an extra gesture, he appointed Oscar Johnson, a horse-wrangler, as jailer. It completed as queer a trio of peace officers as any county ever had. Men laughed and made fun of them, but, as a matter of fact, they had managed to keep crime at a rather low ebb in Wild Horse Valley, until now, when things were getting out of hand, due to an influx of rather unsavory characters, lured by new gold strikes.

Judge had barely settled in his chair, thumbing the pages of his old book, when John Campbell, the big, prosecuting attorney came in. Campbell had been present with the Commissioners, when Henry and his staff had been severely taken to task.

“One gloat out of you, John, and I shall cram this copy of the Bard of Avon down your gullet,” declared Judge soberly.

John Campbell laughed shortly. “I don’t blame you, Judge. No, I came not to gloat, gentlemen.”

“To bury Caesar?” queried Henry quietly.

“No, Henry. I talked with those men after we left here. They are merely barking, not biting--as yet. As a matter of fact, Henry, this Mr. Thomas Akers, the gentleman from Scorpion Bend, has an axe to grind. He is stumping for his cousin, Pete Gonyer. If you can be induced to resign, or if he can talk the others into forcing you out of office for cause, he hopes to have Pete Gonyer appointed as sheriff of Wild Horse Valley.”

“That broken-nosed high-pockets!” snorted Judge. “Why, that--”

“So Pete Gonyer, owner of the Circle G, is a cousin of our esteemed Commissioner from Scorpion Bend, eh?” remarked Henry. “Now I see the light. And Mr. Thomas Akers is a friend of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, ye editor of ye Clarion.”

“In fact,” added Campbell, “Mr. Akers rents the Clarion building to Mr. Pelly.”

“Astoundingly simple,” snorted Judge. “Back-scratching!”

John Campbell laughed. “All you have to do now, Henry,” he said, “is to put a halt to all this high-grading and gold stealing in Wild Horse Valley. Personally, I don’t envy you the job.”

John Campbell went back up the street, leaving Henry and Judge, looking at each other. A team and vehicle drew up in front of the office, and two men got out. One of them was of featherweight size, with a murderous-looking mustache, bow-legs--and a gallon jug. The other was tall and thin, tired-eyed, buck-teeth and inquiring eyebrows. The smaller one was Frijole Bill Cullison, the cook at Henry’s JHC ranch, and the other was Slim Pickins, Henry’s lone cowpoke.

They went slowly into the office, with Frijole in the lead, carrying the jug in front of him in both hands, like a man bearing a valuable gift--or something dangerous. Both Henry and Judge turned quickly, looking at the procession, which came to a halt in front of the desk, where Frijole carefully set the jug. Then they both backed away and stood at attention.

“Damnable mumbo-jumbo!” snorted Judge.

Frijole winced. “Don’t say that, Judge,” he pleaded. “You are now in the presence of the finest batch ever made. Twelve hours of age, and as prime as anythin’ that ever come out of a pot. That, gentlemen, is m’ masterpiece. Put yore ear agin that jug, and yuh can hear her hum, like a wire in the wind.”

Slim just stood there, grinning foolishly, eyebrows arched.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?” Henry asked quietly.

“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s work is done. If the world knew what I know--”

“We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly.

The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger. Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.”

“Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I do not believe a word of it--even from Slim.”