He had a warrant for a new bad man who had come up from the Indian nations, and who had celebrated his first day in town by shooting two men who declined to get off the sidewalk, so that he could ride his horse more comfortably there.

The sheriff left the warrant on the table, as was his custom, this paper being usually submitted with the corpse at the inquest.

The sheriff hummed a tune as he cleaned his revolver.

He was the law.
Bill Watson, the sheriff of Ellisville, was a heavily built man, sandy-haired, red-mustached, and solid.

His legs were bowed and his carriage awkward.