Swift Justice - 1926 Studebaker ''Sheriff'' Duplex Phaeton

May we agree that a muscle car is not just a performance car, but a car that possesses a full-size-car engine in a mid-size body and chassis? If we can adopt Benjamin Disraeli's approach, where the idea of an agreeable person is someone who agrees with me, then we can also stroll back through the calendar and gather examples; quickly, we understand that the muscle car was not a 1960s concept at all.

The 1964 GTO popularized the movement, but is often wrongly credited as its genesis. The new-for-1962 full-size Dodges and Plymouths were about the size of GM's intermediates, and sported 413 cubic inches of wedge-headed grunt, but we must go back further still to find the origin of the species. The 1957 Rambler Rebel? Keep moving. The 1955 Chrysler 300? Sorry, it's full-size. The Kettering-fettled 1949 Olds 98, combining a 76-series body with the hot new OHV V-8 engine from the 98 series? Post-war, yes, but there are older examples. The 1936 Buick Century, named despite its 95-MPH top speed (the faster '37 models were more correctly named), also fits the bill here. But there is another car that dates back to at least a decade before the Buick--one nearly lost to the mists of time and Old West lore.

Over all that time, muscle cars and the police cars that chased them were like the snakes of the caduceus, paths intertwining but (with luck) not connecting, parallel but from opposite sides of the tracks. These separate-but-equal, separated-at-birth machines often shared components; the original Oldsmobile 4-4-2 famously used its police-tuned chassis and suspension package with regular-production engines hot enough to scald tires and scofflaws alike, while Chrysler made no secret of dropping 360- and 440-cu.in. police interceptor V-8s into Coronets and Belvederes and the like. At the end of the last century, the only real difference between a police Caprice and its performance-oriented Impala SS cousin was leather seats, alloy wheels and black paint that continued on to the roof and doors, too. Thus ever did the muscle car/police car pas de deux play out.

Back at the turn of the prior century, however, Studebaker was forging a reputation for toughness in Arizona. No one is exactly sure how this came to be, but Richard Quinn, a former editor of the Antique Studebaker Club newsletter, suspects that one local sheriff had some luck with Studebaker, discovering that the marque's performance matched its rugged reputation, and he told his compatriots--most of whom ended up with Studebakers themselves. Arizona only has 15 counties, yet a dozen of their sheriffs used Studebakers to patrol the land.

Studebaker had three car lines in 1925-'26, all of which were powered by straight-six engines: the 113-inch wheelbase three-to-five-passenger Standard Six with a 50hp engine; the 120-inch wheelbase three-to-five-passenger Special Six with a 65hp engine; and the Big Six, with a 75hp engine to push around the bulk of a 127-inch wheelbase and up-to-seven-passenger capacity. The Special Six and the Big Six shared external engine dimensions and a five-inch stroke; only the bore (3.5 inches and 289-cu.in. for the Special, 3.78 inches and 354-cu.in. for the Big Six) was different. Dropping the Big Six engine into the Special Six was a no-brainer.

The result, a five-passenger Duplex Phaeton body (a hardtop with optional side curtains, a new body style launched in the fall of 1924) with the 75hp Big Six engine, quickly gained favor with law enforcement types in the desert Southwest. And it still retailed for $1,575--toward the lower end of the Special Six price range, but offering the same power as cars costing twice or three times as much.

The new Studebaker was seemingly made for the desert: Wide-open enough that air could circulate through the car as you drove, yet with a hard cloth top to prevent the top of your head from getting pummeled by the sun's angry rays. The retractable side curtains, which rolled up like a window shade, didn't do much for security, but in the colder and rainier days of an Arizona winter, they were sufficient for comfort. And seven-passenger comfort was simply too much for the rude, lewd, skewed, tattooed, and otherwise screwed who rode in the back of a Studebaker.

The car's reputation became such that Studebaker commissioned a book on it, The Arizona Sheriff, by Major Grover F. Sexton, the deputy from Yavapai. In 48 pages, it detailed the brave deeds of law enforcement officers and their trusty Studebakers as together they hunted down some of the most wanton criminals ever committed to purple prose. A single two-page ad for the car appeared inside.

It is from this, Richard Quinn believes, that the five-passenger Sport Phaeton with the Big Six was able to acquire its nickname, Sheriff. "There was no evidence of any special marketing to law enforcement," he told us, nor of the state of Arizona pitching Studebaker to make such a car to fit its needs. "The sheriffs probably just went to the local dealer and bought theirs off the showroom floor," he surmises.

Further proof of the Sheriff's combination of speed and mettle: In April of 1926, Ab Jenkins and Ray Peck took Jenkins's Sheriff on a trip from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, accomplishing the 781 pre-Interstate miles in a Western Union-verified 16 hours, 17 minutes--breaking the previous driven record by nearly 71/2 hours, and beating the fastest train time by more than eight hours. Although they averaged 48 MPH, Jenkins and Peck had the car up to 81 MPH in places.

That journey was so successful that Studebaker took out ads in major metropolitan newspapers to tout it; however, it was topped two months later, with the same players on board. This time, Jenkins and Peck traveled from New York to San Francisco, a 3,471-mile journey. Western Union confirmed the departure and arrival times, and the trip was made in 86 hours, 20 minutes--shattering the previous record by nearly 161/2 hours and beating the quickest train time for the same distance (92 hours, including connections). The sole mechanical alteration to the car was a 48-gallon fuel tank.

Our feature car is owned by Frank Wenzel of Palm Springs, California. It was restored once, by two owners. The first owner started working on it in 1986 and finally gave up in the middle of last decade; Frank then bought it and completed its restoration. "My 1923 seven-passenger touring car cruises at 55 to 60 MPH with the same engine," Frank tells us. "The Sheriff car easily goes 70 MPH, and could go faster. And the four-wheel brakes make a major difference as well!" The steel wheels on this example indicate the addition of Studebaker's optional, new-for-1926 four-wheel braking system; only two years prior, Studebaker was taking out newspaper ads detailing exactly why four-wheel brakes were unnecessary, but market forces dictated that the company change its tune.

Go back far enough and there is a point where everything connects; whether this is a man's rib or a cluster of random proteins crawling out of a primordial puddle is your call. Regardless, it's a full-size engine in a medium-size car. A machine that, while not specifically developed for the needs of Arizona law enforcement, was so loved by the constabulary that their title, Sheriff, was applied to it and sent forth in period advertising. But the muscle car/police car parallels meet at a very definite point in time and space: in 1926, in the state of Arizona, by way of South Bend, Indiana.

Studebaker moved to an optional four-wheel brake system for 1926; body-colored steel wheels confirmed their presence.

Owner, Frank Wenzel