Las Vegas' retired 'Cowboy Sheriff' still holds sway LAS VEGAS - The first thing you notice about Sheriff Ralph Lamb is that voice - the low, gravelly growl of a former five-pack-a-day Marlboro man. Even at age 85, Lamb still uses the plain-spoken utterances of an old-school lawman. On his disdain of firearms: "Sometimes we had to use our guns, but sparingly. If a guy shot at me, I'd shoot back. And on his public image: "The church-goin' people in town, the good people, they liked my brand of law and order - keepin' things cleaned up." He was known as the Cowboy Sheriff and once was considered the most powerful man in Nevada. In the 1960s and '70s, the longtime rancher and rodeo rider served as the sheriff of Clark County - which back then was about the closest thing America had to the Old West, with gangsters substituting for gunslinging cowboys. Along with his sheriff's badge, Lamb wielded a blunt my-way-or-the-highway rule of law unparalleled in today's policing world. With the determined gait of a young John Wayne, the 6-foot-2 Lamb managed the emerging gambling mecca with a mix of shrewd country wisdom and, critics complained, the capriciousness of a conniving big city politician. While he now prefers to stay out of the limelight, the name Ralph Lamb still carries weight in this town, and if you can prod him to start telling stories, he becomes a rare living reminder of a Vegas that no longer exists. The Rat Pack is long gone. The Dunes and the Sands were imploded. So too the Stardust. But Ralph Lamb has stuck around. His posture is still ramrod straight, whether he's dressed in his Wranglers or a dress suit - those large eyes still shooting their direct gaze. As Lamb walks into a pie shop north of the Strip, the waitress greets him as sheriff and gives him a choice table by the window where, for several hours, Lamb holds forth on his life and his legacy. He has no regrets about either: "People say, 'You know, we just can't do things the way you used to, Ralph.' But I don't know why not. In his day, Lamb broke noses and rearranged dental work, "monkeying up" wanna-be mobsters with "the language those boys understood." Though he was voted out of office in 1978, Lamb is still considered a hero among the now-retired deputies who once worked for him. Like the waitress, many people still address him as sheriff, and most say it's good to know that at least one thing in this ever-changing metropolis remains the same: Sheriff Ralph Lamb is still as down-to-earth as dirt. Last year, on Lamb's 84th birthday, former deputies threw him a party where they passed the microphone to tell their favorite Cowboy Sheriff stories. Once, 250 head of cattle escaped from the corral behind the Stardust Hotel, baffling deputies until Lamb rode up on a horse, telling his crew, "I'll take care of this, boys." The riffs, jokes and stories were all delivered with cautious respect as Lamb sat in a lawn chair, saying little, silently guiding the proceedings, just like always. In his day, Lamb's law was simple: If you came to his town, you played by his rules. If you didn't, you paid the price. In the 1960s, he arrested 74 Hells Angels and gave them haircuts - after dismantling many of their motorcycles. "They were pretty shaggy," he explains with a hint of a smile. I was afraid they might disease-up the jail. Then there was the time he grabbed mobster John Roselli by the tie and worked him over in the lobby of a crowded casino. A newsman later wrote about how Lamb "slapped the cologne" off the young tough known as "Handsome Johnny." At the height of Beatlemania, Lamb demanded that the Fab Four show up at his office to apply for entertainment licenses before performing in town. Maybe they'd heard of Lamb, because the boys from Britain complied. But Lamb is also credited with bringing Las Vegas law enforcement into the modern era, introducing such concepts as crime labs and suburban policing. He oversaw the transition of a department that once sent 40-man posses out on horseback to one where deputies trained at the FBI Academy. What old-timers mainly recall, though, along with the butt-kicking, is that gruff but twangy Lamb delivery. "People figured I was from Texas if they didn't know better," he says. They'd ask 'What part of Texas are you from?' And I'd say, 'I'm from right here.'