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.