“_Quién sabe_, Jim? I reckon the jury was right when they judged him crazy. He argued with them that he was sheriff of this county. Bob was to take him to the asylum yesterday, yuh know, but somehow he got Bob’s gun away, shot him twice, and made a getaway with Bob’s star, rifle, and six-gun.” “And then the danged fool came back!” “Merely provin’ that he _is_ crazy.” They moved down the corridor, and the prisoner came up to the bars, his eyes wide, jaw sagging. For a long time he stared into space, licking his dry lips with a drier tongue. Then he rested his hot forehead against the cool metal of the bars. “Yessir,” he said bitterly. “It’s the first time in my life I ever agreed with a deputy sheriff. Solomon, in all his wisdom, never made a wiser statement.” THE END [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 19, 1928 issue of Western Story Magazine.]