One jump ahead
Date: 2025-05-13T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Western stories; Detective and mystery stories; Sheriffs -- Fiction

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Title: One jump ahead

Author: Ray Humphreys

Release date: May 13, 2025 [eBook #76082]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1929

Credits: Roger Frank

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE JUMP AHEAD ***

ONE JUMP AHEAD

By Ray Humphreys

Author of “Not of the Card,” etc.

That morning, bright and early, Manuel Perez was at the sheriff’s office. He was there so early, in fact, that he found the office locked and he had to wait around outside until he saw Sheriff Joe Cook and “Shorty” McKay, the deputy, coming up the walk. Then Manuel hobbled forward as quickly as he could manage with his wooden leg. There was a smile on his face and his right hand was extended as he neared the two approaching officers.

“Ah—señors!” he exclaimed cordially.

“Why, hullo thar, Perez!” said Sheriff Cook warmly, taking the Mexican’s proffered hand. “Glad to see yuh. Ah—er—when did yuh git back? Out on parole, I suppose?”

“That ees eet—parole!” announced Perez, shaking hands with Shorty. “I git back early dees mawnin’. Eet ees long time since I be here, eh, señors? Eet ees long time I be in eet—de beeg house, what yuh call heem! One, two, tree years—but now de parole he come an’ I be back! But——” The smiling Perez shrugged his shoulders. “I have no de dinero—de money!” No cow—no bla-bla sheep; de place eet fall to eet’s ruin! When I go away to de beeg house yuh say mebbe should I straighten up, yuh say, when I come out yuh really help me, sheriff—so I come!”

The sheriff’s eyes traveled swiftly over Manuel Perez. The Mexican, bad as he was, had always been pitied by the sheriff. Perhaps it was because Perez had one leg off just below the knee. He hobbled around on a “peg.” The sheriff had sympathy for any such unfortunate, even if he was a convicted rustler. Looking at him now, Sheriff Cook saw the marks of the penitentiary on his care-lined face and his lack-luster eyes; Perez had aged in the three years he had been in prison. He wore a prison shirt now, and a pair of coarse, prison trousers,

“Come in the office, Perez,” invited Sheriff Cook, “I guess me an’ Shorty mebbe kin figger some way o’ helpin’ yuh out. I guess the best thing to do is to try to git yuh a job.”

“Si, señor!” agreed Perez, hopefully.

“Perez,” said the sheriff, after the trio had entered the office, “yuh got off light when yuh drawed five to seven years. I know yuh’d been rustlin’ calves for a long time, although we couldn’t prove but the one case on yuh. I suppose yuh’re through with that fer all time, eh?”

“Si!”

“I hope so!” said the sheriff. “I’ll ring up Earl Wettengel an’ see ef he kain’t put yuh on as a sheep-herder out to his place until we mebbe kin find something better. Ef Earl ain’t got nuthin’ open I’ll call Art Wachter an’ ask him to give yuh a job, Perez. Me an’ Shorty ain’t such hard hombres, Perez, as yuh know. It was our duty to see yuh got punished for rustlin’, but now that yuh’re out on parole we’re more’n ready to help yuh beat back ef yuh’ll jus stay on th’ square.”

“I swear eet!” said Perez hastily.

“How long yuh been out, Perez? asked Shorty, as the sheriff reached for the telephone directory.

“I git out de beeg house yesterday noon,” said Perez, “I ketch de train to Salida; a friend bring me in wagon here. I come right to yuhr office, but eet ees yet locked up.”

“Central, give me Monte Vista 234 R, please,” began the sheriff, but he hung up the receiver when the office door banged open and old “Grandpa” McMeel stumbled into the office, his washed-out-blue eyes as wide as saucers. The sheriff and Shorty both sensed instantly that something was doing! Grandpa McMeel was too calm, too easy-going ordinarily, to come leaping into the office without waiting to knock, all breathless, his chin whiskers jerking convulsively as he tried to master his excitement.

“Gents!” burst out Grandpa wildly.

“Take it easy, take it easy, Grandpa!” suggested Shorty, jumping up to help the old man to the nearest chair. “Jus’ ketch yuhr breath afore yuh try any talkin’. Yuh ain’t seen a ghost, has yuh? Or the courthouse ain’t on fire, or——”

“Ghost! Fire!” cried Grandpa shrilly. “Huh! Say, thar’s devilment afoot, that’s what! Leave it to me to find out about it, too! I wasn’t a Injun scout fer nuthin’ in my young days! Thar they was, down under the bridge, workin’ with them flash-on-an’-off lights an’ shovels, an’ diggin’ fer all they was worth——”

“Who?” asked Sheriff Cook suddenly.

“Who? How the heck do I know?” thundered Grandpa peevishly. “I seen ’em, that’s all! They was a-buryin’ a body, I figgered! Or a-diggin’ one up, mebbe! I don’t know! I wasn’t so sure, either, until this mawnin’. Yuh see I had a toddy las’ night over to ‘Pap’ Stewart’s house an’—— But this mawin’ I goes down thar, under the bridge, an’ thar it is, purty as yuh please, a big hole!”

The sheriff looked at Shorty and Shorty looked at the sheriff, while old Grandpa fought for more breath. Manuel Perez, his face wearing a puzzled expression, got up and sauntered over to the window, as though withdrawing, as best he could, from a conference that might be more or less private in nature, judging from Grandpa’s preliminary revelations. Shorty glanced at Perez just as the sheriff, recovering himself, asked Grandpa a question.

“Yuh say yuh seen a big hole under the bridge?”

“Sure,” cried Grandpa breathlessly, “an’ tracks, too! They was two men down thar workin’ las’ night—about midnight—an’ I could hear the shovels a-goin’. I leaned over the bridge an’ I could see their flash-on-an’-off lights, too. They dug up a big box an’ lugged it off. They waded Coyote Creek with it, an’——”

“Two men,” repeated Sheriff Cook. “Yuh can’t describe ’em——”

“Describe ’em, heck!” said Grandpa angrily. “They was shadders, that’s all—shadders! I tell yuh it was dark as a bag o’ black cats! I went down this mawnin’ an’ saw the hole an’——”

There was a rap at the door and before the sheriff or Shorty could sing out an invitation to enter, it swung wide and in stepped Fred Speers, bubbling over with excitement. He wasted no time on preliminaries at all. He blurted his story right out!

“I seen somethin’ funny las’ night down under the bridge!” he exclaimed. “I was settin’ down on the bank o’ Coyote Creek with my gal friend when I hears two men comin’ splashin’ across the creek, sheriff! They’re usin’ spotlight! I figgers they’re robbers, mebbe, an’ me an’ my gal jus’ holds our breaths! So they don’t see us, but they goes up under the end o’ the Third Street bridge an’ digs up a box an’ then they goes back across creek——”

The sheriff pushed his chair back from the desk.

“We know all about that, Fred,” he said; “Grandpa McMeel here jus’ reported it. I reckon we’d better go take a look at that hole right now, Shorty. As fer yuh, Perez, I’ll have to postpone seein’ about a job fer yuh a few minutes while we looks inter this hole business. Yuh wait here, an’ when we gets back I’ll call some o’ them sheep ranchers an’——”

“Surely,” agreed Perez, bowing, “but mebbe I like go look at hole, too—ef sheriff no object to eet?”

“Half the town’s thar now,” put in Grandpa McMeel suddenly. “I tell yuh, sheriff, it’s devilment, that’s what!”

There was a hole under the east end of the Third Street bridge, sure enough. Quite a hole. The two mysterious men, whoever they might have been, had spaded over an area fully twelve by ten feet. They had dug extensively, it appeared, to locate the box, and had evidently taken it from a depth of some two feet or more near the far end of the excavation. The soft earth had crumbled in, however, and there was no telltale impression left to give the officers any accurate idea of the size of the box that had been unearthed. There was quite a crowd of interested citizens around and they had tramped out some of the signs about the place, no doubt. But the trail the men had taken to the river was plain enough—and quite astonishing in itself.

“Great sufferin’ jack rabbits!” exclaimed the sheriff, as he stared at it. “That was some box they got outta thar, Shorty. Lookit, they drug it clear to the river—a long, narrer box—thar’s the trail clear as daylight right to the water!”

“Yep,” said Shorty glumly, “an’ that’s all thar is, too. Thar ain’t no footprints at all, boss; that box they dragged wiped out the prints. What do yuh know about that?”

The sheriff swore softly under his breath.

“This is a hot one!” he remarked, as he stared around the crowd. “What do yuh suppose could have come off here las’ night? Speers, yuh saw the men, what did they look like, eh? Was it too dark fer yuh to get any descriptions?”

Speers, thus honored before the whole crowd, shook his head.

“I saw ’em purty plain, fer they passed close to me,” he answered. “They was both tall, easy over six feet, an’ husky! An’ once, when one feller was holdin’ a flashlight an’ the other feller was stooped down, draggin’ at the box they’d finally found. I saw that the stooped-over feller had light hair. I guess that was about all, exceptin’ it was a big, long, narrer box they got out an’ drug away, an’ it was heavy; an’ thev must o’ been big fellers because they lifted it an’ carried it as soon as they struck the creek ag’in on thar way back. I guess that’s all.”

The sheriff put his hands on his hips.

“A fine howdy-do!” he remarked savagely. “Gosh knows what them birds dug up from under this bridge! Buried treasure, likely, or mebbe a body! But more probably gold, or some other kind o’ loot—mebbe smuggled stuff from the border—an’ they didn’t leave a blamed clew either! A nice mess, folks, I’ll say! Shorty, what do yuh make o’ it all?”

Shorty stared around blankly.

“I dunno,” he said, “it looks kinda funny, doesn’t it?”

The “buried box” mystery forthwith became the great sensation of the San Luis Valley. There were all kinds of rumors afloat instantly, of course, and everybody had his or her pet explanation of the mystery. There were many who thought that a body had been exhumed from beneath the end of the bridge. There were as many others who firmly believed that a fortune in smuggled jewels or contraband narcotics from the border had been dug up and carried away. And there were many odd explanations, too.

“I maintains that it was Injun treasure,” insisted old Grandpa McMeel hotly, “an’ I blame myself fer not goin’ right down thar when I saw them two ruffians workin’ thar an’ stretchin’ ’em out cold with my cane! I could o’ done it, too, ef I had jus’ been sure I saw ’em like I thought! I had them two toddies up to Pappy Stewart’s house just afore an’—an’—waal, I weren’t sure I did see them two fellers thar——”

“I could ’a’ reached out an’ poked a stick at ’em an’ made ’em put up their hands!” said Fred Speers. “I was that close to ’em, but my gal friend was scared to death! An’ I didn’t dare take no chances! O ’course, I could o’ licked ’em both in a rough-an’-tumble fight, big as thev was; but waal—it weren’t no time or place to start a lot o’ cussin’ an’ trouble.”

Sheriff Cook was worried. As soon as he got back to the office, trailed by the sad-looking Manuel Perez, he slumped into a chair and sighed in despair.

“Ef it ain’t one thing it’s another, with this job, Manuel,” he explained. “Did yuh notice whar that feller Shorty disappeared to?”

“He say he look fer clews,” answered Perez.

“Oh,” said the sheriff. “Yes, I remember, so he did. Waal, I looked an’ thar wasn’t any, Perez. What do yuh think about it, eh? Somebody had somethin’ valuable hid thar?”

“Si,” said Perez. “Mebbe some robbers long time ago hide stuff thar, who knows? Whar I was—in de beeg house, sheriff—I hear often those robbers speak o’ buryin’ their loot.”

The sheriff nodded.

“That’s the answer, Perez, in my mind; it might have been some o’ that Alamosa bank loot that was stolen eight years ago; or mebbe some o’ that Como stage gold bullion that was taken twelve years ago. I’ll have to look up them old jobs—an’ speakin’ o’ jobs, I’ll call up about yuhrs right now, son!”

The sheriff was successful. On the third call Jack Quinn, a sheep rancher on Larimer Creek, agreed to take on Perez, the ex-convict, provided the sheriff thought he would go straight. The sheriff said he did think so, and the deal was made, after which the sheriff lectured Perez again, got that honest fellow’s sworn promise to be good, and started him on his way with a loan of two dollars for grub en route. Perez was bubbling over with gratitude.

“Gracias, sheriff!” he exclaimed. “I go Señor Quinn’s at once. Mebbe some day Manuel Perez able to pay sheriff back for kindness. Watch an’ see! Adios, señor!”

When Shorty reported, some hours later, that he had been unable to find a single clew in the vicinity of the Third Street bridge, the sheriff was not at all surprised. He had not expected Shorty to find any. He said so. He also pointed out to his disappointed deputy that he himself had searched the scene rather thoroughly while making his first investigation of the place and had not found anything. It looked like a hopeless proposition.

“Not a danged clew,” said the sheriff. “But I got my mind made up as to what it was, Shorty. It wasn’t nobody business. It was loot buried thar from the Alamosa bank robbery eight years ago. They never caught the crooks, an’ never found trace o’ the dough. It was that or else the loot from the Como stage robbery twelve years ago, or from some other job. We ain’t got a chance in ten million o’ landin’ them guys, despite the description Speers got. We kin check on the descriptions we got at the time o’ them Alamosa an’ Como stage robbers an’ see ef they coincides with Speer’s descriptions o’ the men last night, but outside o’ that——”

“I’ll check on ’em,” said Shorty, moving toward the door.

“Go ahead,” said the sheriff wearily, “an’ meanwhile I’ll stay here an’ do a little heavy thinkin’, Shorty. We kain’t afford to overlook no bets, ef thar are any bets. Yuh remember what Fred Speers said—big giants o’ fellers an’ one with light hair. It’s a purty meager description, but it’s all we got, Shorty!”

Sheriff Cook, however, had little time to do much heavy thinking, as he had put it. Shorty had not been gone more than thirty minutes when in came “Doc” Healey, and Eddie Owens, and Bert Clark, the county commissioners, and they were considerably excited. They got down to brass tacks immediately.

“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——

The sheriff went at the thing methodically enough. He strode back and forth, up and down, this way and that, covering all the weeded area on the south of the bridge without discovering anything other than old tin cans, pieces of wood, scraps of iron, and the other débris that one might expect to find along a creek bank. He finally crossed under the bridge to the north side and began his investigations there. He had not been at work ten minutes on that side when he stopped in his tracks with a surprised snort.

“By golly!” he exclaimed, and stooping over he picked up a rusty old black wallet. There was a rubber band around it. He snapped the band off and opened the wallet. Empty! Visions of greenbacks, calling cards, the owner’s name and address, perhaps—all faded away. Empty! But no, it wasn’t empty, after all! There was a newspaper clipping in one pocket of the old wallet, a clipping slightly yellowed with age. The sheriff took it out carefully, inspected it, held it closer to read:

FIND NO TRACE OF BANK ROBBERS

ALAMOSA BANDITS FADE INTO THIN AIR

Clarion goes to press this Thursday no trace has been found of the three gunmen who entered the Alamosa bank last week and got away with eight thousand dollars in cash and five thousand six hundred dollars in negotiable securities. They have apparently disappeared into thin air. Sheriff Ralph Baird of Alamosa has worked tirelessly in an effort to trace the men, but without avail. The reward of one thousand dollars offered by the Colorado State-Bankers’ Association has so far borne no fruit. It is hoped, however, that——

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!”

The faces of the county commissioners relaxed.

“This,” said Commissioner Clark, “jus’ about clinches the election this spring, sheriff. Yuh done fine work. Yuh got our heartiest congratulations! The story o’ how yuh solved the most bafflin’ case in years in Monte Vista, will sure make good readin’. Folks all through the valley will lift their hats to yuh, sheriff—an’ vote us all back inter office, sure as shootin’!”

The sheriff pushed away the pad that he had been about to write on when Shorty brought in Perez and Speers.

“Yes,” he agreed, grinning, “I guess the election’s won right now. Ef reelected gents, I has but one pledge to make now, an’ that is—I will reappoint Shorty McKay as my deputy for another term because—waal, gents, I like Shorty a heap!”

“Amen to that!” said Commissioner Clark fervently.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 20, 1929 issue of Western Story Magazine.

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