“Twenty years ago I was sheriff of this county, and I made Bob my chief deputy.  That was before the boom in cattle when we both made our stake.  I was sheriff and collector, and it was a big thing for me then.  I was married, and we had a boy and a girl—­a four and a six year old.  There was a comfortable house next to the courthouse, furnished by the county, rent free, and I was saving some money.  Bob did most of the office work.  Both of us had seen rough times and plenty of rustling and danger, and I tell you it was great to hear the rain and the sleet dashing against the windows of nights, and be warm and safe and comfortable, and know you could get up in the morning and be shaved and have folks call you ‘mister.’  And then, I had the finest wife and kids that ever struck the range, and my old friend with me enjoying the first fruits of prosperity and white shirts, and I guess I was happy.  Yes, I was happy about that time.”

The major sighed and glanced casually out of the window.  The bank examiner changed his position, and leaned his chin upon his other hand.

“One winter,” continued the major, “the money for the county taxes came pouring in so fast that I didn’t have time to take the stuff to the bank for a week.  I just shoved the checks into a cigar box and the money into a sack, and locked them in the big safe that belonged to the sheriff’s office.

“I had been overworked that week, and was about sick, anyway.  My nerves were out of order, and my sleep at night didn’t seem to rest me.  The doctor had some scientific name for it, and I was taking medicine.  And so, added to the rest, I went to bed at night with that money on my mind.  Not that there was much need of being worried, for the safe was a good one, and nobody but Bob and I knew the combination.  On Friday night there was about $6,500 in cash in the bag.  On Saturday morning I went to the office as usual.  The safe was locked, and Bob was writing at his desk.  I opened the safe, and the money was gone.  I called Bob, and roused everybody in the court-house to announce the robbery.  It struck me that Bob took it pretty quiet, considering how much it reflected upon both him and me.

“Two days went by and we never got a clew.  It couldn’t have been burglars, for the safe had been opened by the combination in the proper way.  People must have begun to talk, for one afternoon in comes Alice—­that’s my wife—­and the boy and girl, and Alice stamps her foot, and her eyes flash, and she cries out, ’The lying wretches—­Tom, Tom!’ and I catch her in a faint, and bring her ’round little by little, and she lays her head down and cries and cries for the first time since she took Tom Kingman’s name and fortunes.  And Jack and Zilla—­the youngsters—­they were always wild as tiger cubs to rush at Bob and climb all over him whenever they were allowed to come to the court-house—­they stood and kicked their little shoes, and herded together like scared