"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: