In spite of the opposition of the cattlemen I made the sheep business a paying one for Mr. Sanford, clearing about $17,000 at the end of three years. When that period had elapsed I had brought shearers to Sanford Station to shear the sheep, but was stopped in my intention with the news that Sanford had sold the lot to Pusch and Zellweger of Tucson. I paid off the men I had hired, satisfied them, and thus closed my last deal in the sheep business. One of the men, Jesus Mabot, I hired to go to the Rodeo with me, while the Chinese gardener hired another named Fernando. Then occurred that curious succession of fatalities among the Chinamen in the neighborhood that puzzled us all for years and ended by its being impossible to obtain a Chinaman to fill the last man's place. DEPUTY SHERIFF, CATTLEMAN AND FARMER _You kin have yore Turner sunsets,--he never painted one Like th' Santa Rita Mountains at th' settin' o' th' sun! You kin have yore Eastern cornfields, with th' crops that never change, Me--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."