“Sheriff,” said Owens, “yuh ain’t forgot, I trusts, that this is the year o’ the spring elections in this county. Yuh’re up fer reelection ag’in, I presume, an’ so are we county commissioners. Yuh remembers that?” “O’ course!” “Waal, therefore, me an’ Doc Healey an’ Bert Clark figgered we’d better drap in on yuh an’ see what yuh think about this buried-box business. Everybody’s talkin’----” “Sure they are!” “It’s a sensation; it’s either good business or bad business fer all o’ us,” went on Owens sadly. “Ef yuh clears up the case, it’s a big help come election time; but ef yuh don’t an’ the other side makes political capital o’ yuhr failure, we’re all liable to sink together.” The sheriff frowned. “Yuh ain’t tellin’ me no news,” he snapped; “it’s jus’ one danged thing after another in this office. We no sooner gits one case cleared up than here comes another; but this one, gents, this one ain’t no cinch. We got no clews.” Commissioner Bert Clark spoke up quickly. “Waal, I’ll tell you one thing, yuh won’t get no clew settin’ thar in yuhr chair!” After that remark the atmosphere became rather strained. The sheriff ignored Clark’s question as one far beneath his notice. The other two commissioners, not being as frank as Clark, said nothing more on the subject. They spoke on the spring wheat prospects, the weather, the new railroad that was coming in to Alamosa. They left, with awkward farewells, shortly after leaving a worried sheriff behind them. He growled as the door closed on them. “I wouldn’t give ’em the satisfaction o’ arguin’ with ’em about whether I kin git clews settin’ here in my chair or not,” he grunted. “I wouldn’t dignify such a impudent question with an answer. Still, I reckon, mebbe I’d best.” He got up and slapped on his big black hat. “I’ll go down an’ look that place over ag’in!” And he did. The crowd was gone now. Only a few boys hung around, thrilled with the very atmosphere of the place. The sheriff poked here and there. He followed the strange trail of the dragged box to the creek bank. He reassured himself that the trail did actually vanish in the creek bed. The bed was sandy--shifting sand that would cover any trail almost instantly. And there was nothing about the hole now but a million footprints. The sheriff shook his head mournfully. “No use,” he muttered, “no use!” He stared about, trying to think if he could be overlooking anything. It did not seem so. He glanced this way and that and a thought struck him. He wondered if Shorty had combed the dead weeds and the brush to both sides of the bridge end. It was hardly likely that it was worth while, still----