Sheriff Cook read no further. He put the clipping back in the wallet. He placed the wallet in his pocket.

“Great sufferin’ jack rabbits,” he exclaimed hopelessly, as his face grew longer, “jus’ as I thought! It was th’ Alamosa loot that was buried here. What them crooks got away with las’ night! Eight years! Eight years that eight thousand dollars plus that five thousand six hundred in securities has been buried under this bridge here in Monte Vista, right under my nose!”

The sheriff stalked on, like a man in a trance.

“Las’ night they come back an’ git it, provin’ that I am asleep on the job! They was in town las’ night an’ got away clean! Further, that loot has been there eight years, an’ now it’s gone, an’, also, them robbers must have been here a little after that Alamosa job, eight years ago, to bury the stuff in the fust place! Gee whiz, what a nice mess now!”

The sheriff headed for his office with rapid strides.

“What the heck am I goin’ to do?” he asked himself, as he strode along. “It’s a cinch thar’s no ketchin’ them Alamosa robbers now ef they couldn’t be ketched eight years ago when the trail was hot! Findin’ that old wallet jus’ proves what I feared, an’ that’s all. It don’t help none otherwise. It jus’ makes the case more hopeless than ever! I kain’t see any use----”

The sheriff swallowed hard.

“No use in announcin’ anything about the findin’ o’ the wallet,” he decided disgustedly. “It only makes matters worse than ever. It proves I was asleep eight years ago to let that stuff be buried here then, an’ that I’ve been asleep every day since while it’s been here, as waal as las’ night when they come an’ got it. I better keep that wallet business under my hat!”

But he did not. When he got back to the office and found Shorty full of hope that the mysterious box case might be solved, he could not keep his secret. He cautioned Shorty first to keep what he was about to say in strictest confidence forever, and then he blurted out the sad truth:

“Shorty, we ain’t ever goin’ to ketch them box fellers. They was the Alamosa robbers, sure enough, look it here what I found in the weeds down near the Third Street bridge!”

The sheriff produced the wallet. Shorty read the clipping eagerly. When he had read it through and examined it closely he looked up at the woebegone sheriff.

“I still say,” said Shorty, “that we got a chance!”

The next morning the sheriff, having spent a sleepless night, came down to the office wan and haggard. He had no faith in Shorty’s optimistic predictions of the evening before. Since finding the wallet with the telltale newspaper clipping in it. the sheriff had given up the box case as a matter that was not to be solved. It was hopeless, he had decided. There was nothing left to do now but to face the music, and the anticipated opportunity to listen to some sad music was not long denied him.

The commissioners arrived shortly after nine o’clock.

“Waal,” asked Commissioner Eddie Owens mournfully, “what luck, ef any, has yuh had in the box case, sheriff? We are naturally anxious to know ef yuh got any clews.”

The sheriff answered the question carefully. “No luck whatever,” said he.

“Huh,” said Commissioner Bert Clark, “that’s bad, sheriff, mighty bad. The public clamor is increasin’. The rumor is spreadin’ everywhar that mebbe we ain’t goin’ to ever solve the case.”

The sheriff took his pride in his hands--what he had left of it. He tried to smile at the commissioners and failed.

“That rumor, gents,” he said slowly, “is--is jus’ about correct. I figger it’s--it’s right. We ain’t goin’ to ever git the men who got that box, however----”

The sheriff produced the old wallet.

“I found one clew,” he said unhappily, “an’ this is it; a ol’ wallet, evidently dropped by one o’ the crooks who come fer that box. Thar’s a clippin’ inside that tells the tale--here it is--yuh gents kind read it.”

He passed over the clipping and sighed. After all, it would not have been right, he decided on the spur of the moment, to keep that thing a secret from the county commissioners. They had a right to know--the worst. He watched their faces as Clark read the clipping aloud--and the sheriff knew it was his official death knell as sheriff of Monte Vista that the commissioner was reading.

Clark finished. The commissioners were silent.

“I take it that the clippin’ settles the box mystery case--an’ settles me!” said the sheriff softly. “It means--that clippin’--that it was two o’ the Alamosa bandits who came back an’ got that buried loot--the Alamosa loot--the other night. It means we’ll never get ’em. It means that they was not only here the other night, but that they was likewise here after the robbery when they buried the loot--here twice an’ we didn’t get ’em either time. That loot was here all those eight years an’ we didn’t get it----”

The commissioners coughed, fidgeted.

“Ef it helps the party any I’ll up an’ resign,” offered the sheriff meekly. “I have made up my mind. Yuh kin put up a new man fer sheriff come election, an’ mebbe win with him--seein’ yuh probably kain’t win with me when this news gits out.”

Commissioner Clark nodded.

“Yuh’re takin’ the matter sensible, sheriff,” he agreed. “I think yuhr suggestion is the only suggestion possible.”

The sheriff reached a trembling hand for a pad of paper. He would write out his resignation as a candidate for reelection now. It could be announced at once and----

There was an interruption, however. Shorty and Manuel Perez and Fred Speers appeared in the open doorway suddenly. They entered quickly. The commissioners stared, but it was the sheriff who spoke up, thickly, in a strange tone.

“Shorty, I’m busy jus’ now--ef it ain’t important I wish yuh’d wait outside. Hullo, Perez, yuh git fired offen yuhr new job already? Good mawnin’, Speers. Now ef yuh all will----”

“This matter won’t wait,” said Shorty, taking in the situation at a glance. “Whatever yuh was aimin’ to write down on that pad had better wait, boss. Looky here----”

Shorty yanked a bundle from his shirt front. A bundle wrapped in newspapers. He quickly broke the string that held it. He spread the bundle out on the sheriff’s desk. Money! Greenbacks! Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. A young fortune in currency!

“Thar, boss,” said Shorty softly, “thar’s what was in that box that was dug up out o’ the ground under the end o’ the Third Street bridge the other night. It’s money. About six thousand dollars in cold cash--as I counted it hastily. The box itself has been discarded somewhars, but it doesn’t matter much. Perez here kin tell us all about the box. In fact, he’s already told me--confessed--that that dough is his loot from many a rustlin’ deal afore he went to the pen. Yuh remember he had no money when we arrested him? He pretended to be broke. Waal, he was canny enough to have buried his roll under the bridge jus’ afore we pinched him. An’ while he was in stir he planned how to git it.”

Shorty grinned at the startled commissioners.

“Perez planned waal, but I was jus’ one jump ahead o’ him all the time, it seems,” Shorty went on. “He said he got in town the other mawnin’ from the pen, havin’ left thar at noon. I thought it strange he should come direct to us to git him a job when he could o’ gone to his old Mexican friends. He was still playin’ that poverty gag. I checked up on the pen, though, an’ found he had left thar twelve hours earlier than he said--so that he could o’ been here when the box was dug up.

“Perez an’ Speers here dug up the box. I had suspected that Perez was in on it as soon as I heard the report, because the trail o’ the men had been obliterated by the draggin’ o’ the box, as we thought. An’ why? Because Perez knew his peg-leg marks would give him away. That’s why they came an’ went by wadin’ the creek. But it wasn’t a box they dragged after them. Perez simply scraped his shovel along as he made fer the creek, bein’ careful to follow the same path down as he had took comin’ up.

“Perez got to our office early for two reasons. Fust, to impress on us that he wanted a job, that he was broke, an’ that he meant to go straight. Also, he wanted to be here when we opened so he could hear if Grandpa McMeel, who had stumbled onto things, reported to us. When Grandpa came in with his story, Perez moved to the winder, signalin’ Speers, who was waiting’. Speers came in an’ reported what he had seen, bein’ careful to give us bum descriptions. Ol’ eagle-eyed McMeel couldn’t describe the men it was so dark, but Speers could--an’ that’s why I suspected Speers.

“When yuh found the wallet, boss. I was sure it had been planted to throw us off the track on a hopeless angle. I learned at the Clarion office that Speers had been in, right after the case had become public, to give his story to the editor. He was alone in the office for a time. The old files are thar. I looked up the issue eight years back that carried the item that was in the wallet. Sure enough, that clippin’ had been clipped, an’ jus’ recent, because thar was new fingerprints on the dusty file. See? So I went out to the ranch whar yuh had got Perez his job an’ cross-examined him. He had the dough on him. He confessed everything, includin’ the fact that Speers had been in the rustlin’ game with him afore he went to the pen. Speers, however, didn’t know whar the swag was hid until Perez got back, told him, an’ together they arranged the job o’ recoverin’ their dough--easy enough ef ol’ Grandpa McMeel hadn’t butted in!”