Small towns and counties seem to draw more characters than metropolitan areas. Law enforcement in those rural climes has a disproportionate share of characters, a goodly number because of personality and some due to their heart and soul. Several officers are notable because of distinguishing characteristics and others by unswerving adherence to a strict code.

J.R. “Sonny” Sessions, Jr., is one of the first county sheriffs I ever knew anything about. He, and his father before him, served as sheriff of Freestone County, which straddles IH-45 between Dallas and Houston.

Sessions was likely the original “colorful law enforcement newspaper columnist” in country newspapers. While his missives were lengthy, they were filled with colorful opinions of lawbreakers (never named). He always referred to IH-45 as “the big road,” and his deputies regularly stopped motorists who had the lack of good sense to be in possession of some mind-altering substance. He did name his deputies and other area law enforcement officers and was generous with praise. Sessions was certainly popular with the voters because he served several decades as sheriff.

In the 1950s, Ben Krueger was a Texas Ranger stationed in Freestone County. Like most Rangers, he served several counties. A neighboring county faced a school consolidation election and there were some altercations prior to voting day, including a non-fatal stabbing. The soft-spoken Krueger went to that county on election day and there was not a speck of trouble.

The following Monday morning, Krueger showed up to visit with his regular coffee-drinking friends. One friend remarked that things seemed particularly quiet during the election and asked, “Ben, what did you do to keep it so quiet?”

“Aw, I didn’t do anything,” drawled Krueger. “I strapped on both my guns and just walked up and down the streets. Friendliest folks I ever saw.”

Gene Reaves looked more like a Texas sheriff than anyone. He was tall, rail thin, leathery faced, had white hair in a crew cut and steel-blue eyes. Of course, he dressed western. Reaves served as Montgomery County Sheriff for 20 years. He once said of law enforcement, “I’d rather be dovehuntin’.”

Billy Rowles became Jasper County sheriff in a 1996 election and served two terms.

Many will remember Rowles as the sheriff who solved the 1998 race-hate murder of James Byrd, Jr.

On the day of the discovery of Byrd’s body and upon establishing identification, Rowles, his chief deputy and a department captain went to the home of Byrd’s parents to inform them of the tragedy. All three men wept with the family, then prayed with them.

Rowles will tell anyone that the two smartest things he’s ever done were: 1) marry his wife, Jamie; and 2) call in the FBI to help with the Byrd case.

He was viewed as “folksy” by the national and international media covering the trials of the three men convicted of killing Byrd. Rowles, of course, had the Texas drawl and some colorful Lone Star language, such as “all bowed up.”

Most of the time, in addition to his cowboy hat, Rowles wore starched and ironed shirts and jeans, along with the inevitable Western boots and colorful ties.

Often Rowles said of a criminal who’d been caught because of some dumb mistake, “Thank God, they’re stupid.”

But, the most telling story about Rowles dealt with his faith and the 1996 election. A man who knew Rowles well told me that shortly before the campaign, the soon-to-be sheriff felt moved to profess his faith to the pastor of the church where his family attended. Upon Rowles relating his convictions, the minister urged him to make a profession before the congregation at an upcoming service. “No,” Rowles said, “if I do that, people will think I’m doing it for campaign reasons. I’ll wait.” And, he did until after he took office.

Texans are better off because people like these chose to serve in law enforcement.

Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor publisher of more than 50 years. He can be reached by email at wwebb@wildblue.net.