The Sherlock of Sageland: The Complete Tales of Sheriff Henry, Volume 1 (The Argosy Library) by W.C. Tuttle

Author:W.C. Tuttle [Tuttle, W.C.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Westerns
Publisher: Altus Press
Published: 2015-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

The Sherlock of Sageland

“You’re no good as sheriff, Henry. You’re the laughingstock of Wild Horse Valley”—but Henry turned his cheek—and the tables.

CHAPTER I

THE VALLEY LAUGHS

HENRY HARRISON CONROY, sheriff of Wild Horse Valley, made three distinct attempts to hook his spurred heels over the edge of his desk, failed in every attempt, and sighed deeply. Only once had he succeeded in doing this, and that time the chair went over backwards with him, nullifying his triumph.

Henry was about five feet, six inches in height, very rotund, and fifty-five years of age. Henry had been born in a dressing room of a theater, and had been an actor all his life, until Jim Conroy, his aged uncle, died and left him the big J Bar C cattle ranch.

Henry’s face was moon-like, with a huge, putty-like nose, which was forever red; a nose known from coast to coast, with Henry as a background. Henry’s eyes were squinty, and he was rapidly approaching the bald stage. As sheriff of the county, Henry wore a robin’s-egg blue shirt, which fit as tightly as the skin on a sausage. The tops of Henry’s overalls were girded together with a six-inch horse-blanket pin. On his rather small feet he wore high-heel boots with huge silver spurs.

The sheriff’s office was a rough, unfinished room, about fifteen feet square. The front door opened directly to the sidewalk of the main street of Tonto City. There was one small, unwashed window. The furnishings consisted of four chairs, whittled until they were liable to collapse at any time, the sheriff’s desk, a battered safe and an army cot. A state map and numerous reward notices, together with a well-filled gun-rack, completed the wall decorations.

At the rear of the office was a heavy door, which opened to the corridor of the small jail. There were no prisoners in the jail. In fact, there had not been any prisoners of late.

Seated in three of the rickety chairs were William Grey, Richard Herrick and Martin Archer. William Grey was a tall, lean, sour-faced individual. Herrick was heavy-set, with a huge mustache, and bow-legs. Archer was slight, a faded blonde in coloring, and slightly dyspeptic. These three men comprised the Board of Commissioners of Wild Horse Valley.

They sat there and watched Henry Harrison Conroy fail to hook his spurs over the edge of the desk. Henry lighted a cigarette, and looked gloomy.

Herrick started to speak, the preliminary being a nervous up and down motion of the mustache; a sort of flitting-wing action. Henry’s eyes opened wide for the moment, and his nose twitched.

“Gentlemen,” said Henry, slowly and distinctly, “I would gather from what you have said that my régime as sheriff is, as we would say on the stage, a flop.”

“We came to talk with you about it,” nodded Herrick.

“As a matter of fact,” added Grey, “you ain’t done a damn thing, Conroy—except git drunk—you and yore deputy and jailer. Tonto City and the county feel that—”

“Have you,” interrupted Henry heavily, “been feeling of Tonto City and Wild Horse county, Mr.

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