Horace walked up from the Southern Pacific Depot and stopped in the Chop House for breakfast. He didn’t want to get the sheriff out so early and rouse ill will when it wasn’t necessary. In the Chop House he ran into young Will Hamilton, looking pretty prosperous in a salt-and-pepper business suit.

Horace sat down at the table with him. “How are you, Will?”

“Oh, pretty good.”

“Up here on business?”

“Well, yes, I do have a little deal on.”

“You might let me in on something sometime.” Horace felt strange talking like this to such a young man, but Will Hamilton had an aura of success about him. Everybody knew he was going to be a very influential man in the county. Some people exude their futures, good or bad.

“I’ll do that, Horace. I thought the ranch took all your time.”

“I could be persuaded to rent it if anything turned up.”

Will leaned over the table. “You know, Horace, our part of the county has been pretty much left out. Did you ever think of running for office?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a deputy—did you ever think of running for sheriff?”

“Why, no, I didn’t.”

“Well, you think about it. Just keep it under your hat. I’ll look you up in a couple of weeks and we’ll talk about it. But keep it under your hat.”

“I’ll certainly do that, Will. But we’ve got an awful good sheriff.”

“I know. That’s got nothing to do with it. King City hasn’t got a single county officer—you see?”

“I see. I’ll think about it. Oh, by the way, I stopped by and saw your father and mother yesterday.”

Will’s face lighted up. “You did? How were they?”

“Just fine. You know, your father is a real comical genius.”

Will chuckled. “He made us laugh all the time we were growing up.”

“But he’s a smart man too, Will. He showed me a new kind of windmill he’s invented—goddamnedest thing you ever saw.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Will, “here come the patent attorneys again!”

“But this is good,” said Horace.

“They’re all good. And the only people who make any money are the patent lawyers. Drives my mother crazy.”

“I guess you’ve got a point there.”

Will said, “The only way to make any money is to sell something somebody else makes.”

“You’ve got a point there, Will, but this is the goddamnedest windmill you ever saw.”

“He took you in, did he, Horace?”

“I guess he did. But you wouldn’t want him to change, would you?”

“Oh, Lord, no!” said Will. “You think about what I said.”

“All right.”

“And keep it under your hat,” said Will.

The sheriff’s job was not an easy one, and that county which, out of the grab bag of popular elections, pulled a good sheriff was lucky. It was a complicated position. The obvious duties of the sheriff—enforcing the law and keeping the peace—were far from the most important ones. It was true that the sheriff represented armed force in the county, but in a community seething with individuals a harsh or stupid sheriff did not last long. There were water rights, boundary disputes, astray arguments, domestic relations, paternity matters—all to be settled without force of arms. Only when everything else failed did a good sheriff make an arrest. The best sheriff was not the best fighter but the best diplomat. And Monterey County had a good one. He had a brilliant gift for minding his own business.