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Show Flying - 207 old cowboy. They walk back down the company s t r e e t together in the dark western night. "When you were sheriff," says John Henry after a moment, "did you ever l e t anybody go when the law said you had to put him in j a i l ?" "What would I want to do that for?" says the sergeant. "I don't r i g h t l y know," says John Henry. "Because you thought the law was wrong, maybe. Or maybe because you just didn't want to lock hin up." "I never once l e t ny f e e l i n ' s interfere with my enforcement of the law," says the ex-sheriff with pride. "I did what had to be done no natter if I liked i t or not." The old cowboy speaks with the pride that cones of a job well done against d i f f i c u l t odds, a noral task accomplished in spite of many temptations and the urgings of sentinentality. A strong nan, Tucson John. The kind of man who made America what i t i s . The soul of a pioneer in the body of an old sergeant. All for duty. You got to understand, son. I don't go around k i l l i n g Indians because I enjoy i t. "That r i g h t there's the biggest part of bein' a nan," says Tucson John Sutter. "Doin' things you don't like to do because you know they got to get done." And he pulls open the flap of his tent and vanishes inside without saying good-bye, leaving John Henry to |