[Illustration]




                               BROADCAST

                           By Will H. Grattan
                     Author of “Down Devil’s Cliff”


Joe Teagler’s dream of years was realized. He had struck pay dirt in his
claim high on the scarred side of Old Tiptop. A rich vein of gold quartz
had been uncovered, shouldering far back into the mountain, how far
could only be guessed.

Another man would have been in ecstasy in contemplation of the fortune
to be his. Teagler felt merely serene. He cast a glance over his shack
of rough boards and logs, erected on the mountain side, to be handy to
his claim.

“I’m goin’ to miss that old shanty,” he ruminated. “That bit of porch
there is gettin’ mighty rickety, I see. Right after lunch I’ve got to
fix that middle prop. If I don’t that company feller is likely to take a
spill down the mountain. Scarcely seems a proper way to close a deal,
even if he does try to ‘gyp’ me.”

Teagler chuckled softly as he started into the shack to prepare lunch.
But before he reached the door, he came to a sudden stop.

“Hello, old-timer.”

The words were low, but something in the voice penetrated Teagler’s
consciousness like an electric shock. He had heard no sound of any man
or thing approaching. Yet the voice came from just back of his left
shoulder.

Teagler turned.

“Well?” he abruptly inquired.

The thought struck him that this might be the mining company man, come
to deal for his property. He discarded this idea at once. Not only was
the hour too early, but the stranger bore no appearance of a mining
engineer.

“Nice place here.”

In the tone, Teagler was almost certain he detected a subtle mockery. So
he did not answer, waited for the other to say more.

The stranger had a flabby look. His beard was several days old, black
and heavy. A pair of very dark eyes shifted from Teagler’s face, roamed
the mountainside and the shanty’s exterior. The fellow was attired in a
dark brown suit, shapeless now and caked with dirt about the shoe-tops,
but the prospector was aware that the garment was of expensive cut. The
man’s felt hat retained dapper lines.

As Teagler eyed him, the newcomer whipped out a dirty handkerchief and
dabbed with it at his perspiring face.

“That was some climb, old-timer,” he asserted.

“Yeah?”

Teagler looked at the stranger’s shoes. “Town” shoes. Rubber-soled. That
was why they had given no sound as the man toiled up the trail. The
fellow had a cat-like appearance, too.

“I’d give a lot for a bite to eat and something to drink. Anything.
Water, even.”

The stranger gave a short, sharp laugh. The laugh made plain a deep,
white scar starting near the right temple and disappearing into the
stubble of his beard.

“Come in,” invited Teagler, and motioned to the steps, composed of two
ends of logs.

Once inside, the stranger’s shifty eyes rested on the picture of a slim,
young girl in a velveteen gown and braids.

“My daughter,” said Teagler, who had been following the fellow’s roaming
glance.

“Oh,” remarked the stranger. “Good-looking kid. Where’s she now?”

“School,” replied the prospector, “back East.”

“Fine.”

The guest’s gaze swerved to Teagler’s preparation for lunch. He licked
dry lips.

“Set in,” invited Teagler.

Ravenously, the man partook of the food. After several mouthfuls of the
meat he looked up inquiringly.

“Venison?” he asked.

Teagler nodded.

“Got him just back of the rimrock down Cincher Creek.”

He looked at the battered alarm-clock on a shelf. The hands met at
twelve o’clock.

“Excuse me,” said Teagler. “Music with our meals.”

He moved over to the wall, to the horn the stranger had observed and
reached for a switch.

“Radio?” asked the stranger. “I noticed the fixings.”

For answer, Teagler turned on the switch. A moment’s manipulation and a
raucous voice was heard closing an announcement. Then came a jazzy dance
tune.

“Slick,” said the stranger, “way up here back of nowhere.”

Teagler grinned. He was proud of his radiophone.

The visitor washed down his venison with large gulps of coffee.

The jazz tune ended. The raucous voice began again. It was somewhat
clearer by this time.

“I am asked,” it said, “to make this announcement by the chief of police
of Denver, Colorado. A reward of two thousand dollars--two thousand
dollars--is offered for the capture of one “Snapper” Kirk, wanted for
the theft of a diamond necklace the property of Ellsworth Coster, of
Denver.

“Kirk is described as about five feet eight inches in height. He has
dark complexion and dark eyes, stocky in build. He was dressed when last
seen in a dark brown suit and brown felt hat. Kirk can be easily
recognized by a deep, white scar on his right cheek, starting near the
temple and ranging downward for more than two inches. Send any
information to chief of police, Denver.”

Teagler moved the platter of venison closer to his unexpected guest.

“Eat plenty,” he bade.

Teagler attempted a casual conversation. His guest eyed him, but
answered only in monosyllables. The radio program ended, with the giving
of live stock quotations.

“Interested in mines?” asked the prospector.

“Gold?” demanded the stranger.

Teagler nodded.

“Got something to show you,” he said, and arose.

“I wouldn’t,” came the harsh voice of the other man.

Slowly, Teagler turned back to face the stranger. He looked into the
muzzle of a nickel-plated revolver. The weapon shook slightly in the
diner’s hand, but the fellow’s eyes were coldly malignant.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the prospector.

“You know ---- well,” was the answer, followed by an outburst of
cursing. “Don’t think you can fool me. I watched you when that ----
contraption was talking. Now, you sit down.”

Teagler slowly obeyed.

“I’ll see what you were after,” went on the stranger.

He crossed to a shelf, which supported a long drawer. Keeping partly
turned toward Teagler, he opened the drawer, reached in suddenly, and
drew out a big Colt’s.

“Thought so,” he muttered. “Well, I turned the tables right enough, eh?”

Teagler made no reply. The other returned and stood over the older man.

“Talk up, why don’t you?” he demanded, shoving one gun close to the
prospector’s face. “You know who I am, now, don’t you?”

“Things sort of indicate you’re that ‘Snapper’ Kirk,” replied Teagler.

“Well, I am,” rapped back the stranger. “What of it?”

“’Pears like that’s for you to say,” evenly retorted Teagler. “Now
you’ve introduced yourself, my name’s Teagler--Joe Teagler.”

Inwardly, he was not so cool. That radio message meant more to him than
the stranger realized. Teagler’s mind worked rapidly but evolved no way
of circumventing the rascal before him. It would be nearly two hours
before the mining company man would be due. Teagler had small hope that
Kirk would remain that long. Moreover, the prospector did not like the
calculating look in his captor’s eyes.

The fellow moved away from him now, one gun, Teagler’s, stuck in his
pocket, the other ready in his right hand. He rummaged around among a
collection of cans and miscellany in a corner of the shanty.

“You missed something in that drawer,” spoke Teagler. “I was going after
some nuggets. Better take another look.”

“Want to trade, eh?” sneered Kirk.

Almost reluctantly, he drew his glance from the collection he had been
exploring and went to the drawer. The revolver covered Teagler
continuously. From the drawer, Kirk now drew a chamois bag. He emptied
it, a dozen nuggets dropping out.

“That’s from my mine,” said Teagler, intent on interesting the stranger
in something besides the problem he knew the jewel thief was facing.

“----,” retorted Kirk. “They look mighty sick beside this.”

He fumbled in an inside pocket and brought out something wrapped in
tissue paper. He unwound the paper and held up a glorious necklace. A
streak of sunlight, pouring through a tiny window, struck sparkles that
dazzled the prospector’s eyes.

“Mighty pretty,” agreed Teagler. “Got any ideas how you’re goin’ to get
rid of it?”

“Plenty,” answered Kirk. “That’ll be easy. Curse my luck, though! Think
of running into a radio outfit up here.”

His hands trembled as he returned the necklace to its wrappings and then
to his pocket.

“I don’t want your ---- nuggets,” he said.

His gaze seemed drawn back irresistibly to the cans in the corner.

“Don’t suppose there’s another radio outfit in a hundred miles,” he
snarled.

Teagler smiled slightly.

“Guess you’re right,” he acknowledged.

Kirk stooped and lifted an old oil can, its spout spearing a piece of
potato. The can seemed to fascinate him. He plucked away the potato and
tipped the can. He poured out a few drops on the floor. Then he put down
the can and his eyes turned back to Teagler.

“You got yourself in this,” he muttered, “with that cursed wireless
thing of yours.”

Teagler’s muscles tautened as he read the other’s thoughts.

“You’d take a chance like that?” he drawled.

The prospector realized fear, nor was he ashamed of it. What an
inglorious ending this would be, to his years of hopes.

“I’d as soon swing as go to the pen for a dozen years,” replied Kirk.
“Besides, they’d never catch me. No one has seen me here. They couldn’t
possibly connect me with it.”

He was arguing with himself, out loud, Teagler decided. The prospector’s
mind worked under feverish pressure. He sought to get back to calmer
thinking.

“How do you know I’d tell?” he asked.

Kirk laughed harshly, mockingly.

“Why wouldn’t you?” he demanded. “Of course, you’d tell. Think any
promise you made would be worth--that.”

The crook snapped his fingers.

“I know Coster,” said Teagler.

“Oh, you do! That’s why you wouldn’t tell him, eh? Or, maybe, you’d
induce him to let me off easy?”

Teagler shook his head.

“I should say not,” continued Kirk. “He hasn’t got me yet. I ran the
risk to get these little pretties and I’m going to cash in on them.
You’re not going to stop me, either.”

He reached for a coil of rope on the wall and approached Teagler.

“Put your hands behind your back!” he ordered.

In a little more than a minute, the prospector was securely tied, hands
and feet.

“I told you I knew Coster,” insisted Teagler, as Kirk draw taut the last
knots. “There’s something yet in that drawer you’ll like to see. Open a
little black box in there. It’s unlocked. You’ll find a paper that will
interest you. Maybe, it will save your life from the noose. If you see
that, you’ll think I ain’t so likely to tell Coster.”

Kirk pulled out the designated paper, glanced at it hastily; then he
read it a second time, more carefully.

“Now, you see,” urged Teagler.

“This says Joseph Teagler is wanted for embezzlement of $25,000 from
this same guy, Ellsworth Coster,” said Kirk, wonderingly. “You said your
name was Teagler. That right?”

The thief glanced sharply from the picture on the circular before him to
the prospector’s face. The photograph was of a man many years younger,
clean-shaven, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

“That’s right,” echoed Teagler.

“Twelve years ago,” went on Kirk. “Well, what about it? What’s that got
to do with me?”

“Here I am, and I never did no time for that job,” said Teagler. “This
is a pretty safe place up here. You headed right, Kirk. I was workin’
for Coster, sellin’ farm lands. I got my hands on some cash that looked
easy, and I beat it. We could be partners----”

Kirk was thinking rapidly.

“Where’s the stuff?” he demanded.

“What--” began Teagler.

“The dough, the boodle, the twenty-five grand,” insisted Kirk.

“Oh, I’ve got a cache, all right,” said the prospector. “Don’t you worry
about that. Now, you see why I won’t turn you in.”

“I see more than that,” declared Kirk. “You’ve got just one chance for
your life, partner. That’s to dig up that dough. Cash is what I need to
make a getaway.”

Teagler appeared to be deliberating.

“All right,” he said, at last. “I’ll show you.”

“In the shanty here?” asked Kirk.

Teagler shook his head.

“Out by the mine. I’ll show you.”

“Any tricks and I’ll blow you to everlastin’ ----” threatened the thief.

He placed his gun on the table while he untied the hands of his captive.
Kirk’s intentions were unchanged. He would take no chances on leaving
Teagler alive, less so now that cash was in prospect which would help
him to a safe getaway.

He retrieved his revolver and pushed Teagler to his feet.

“Go ahead,” he ordered, “and, remember, no tricks.”

Teagler shook out his legs, cramped by the tight binding. His hands
still tied behind him, he walked out the door, wobbling a bit, as if
dazed.

Kirk came close behind him.

Teagler trudged across the porch, put down a foot to the log steps and
then, so quickly that Kirk at first believed he had accidentally
stumbled, he dropped toward the ground. A quick serve and, with all his
strength, Teagler drove his body against the middle prop of the porch,
the prop he had noticed was weakened.

With a loud rending of timbers, the porch crashed to earth. Over the
narrow ledge along which the trail led to the cabin entrance, catapulted
the porch, “Snapper” Kirk, old Joe Teagler, and an avalanche of dirt and
stone, down the steep mountain slope.

Kirk’s loud curses changed to shrieks of dismay, as he saw his peril.
Teagler had rushed toward the back of the porch rapidly enough to keep
from being pinned helplessly under the timbers. Kirk’s surprize had
handicapped him. Teagler, his wits keen, flattened himself against a
heap of rocks that resisted the rush of the home-made avalanche.

He heard Kirk’s cries growing fainter, as the man plunged downward.
Teagler was aware, however, that about two hundred feet below the
avalanche would end in a thicket of jack pine and rocks.

Frantically, Teagler severed the rope about his wrists by rubbing the
hemp on a sharp ledge of rock until he could pull it apart. Then he
plunged back to the cabin, drew himself up to the door, obtained a
shotgun concealed at the rear of the shanty, and hurried by a winding
trail to the point where he expected to find Kirk.

He was just in time. The fellow was twisting and moaning as he emerged
from unconsciousness. His eyes twitched open, to see Teagler squatted
near him, covering him with the shotgun.

“I’ll take that gun of mine in your pocket first,” directed Teagler.
“Never mind, I’ll get it.” Kirk tried to move an arm, then groaned in
pain.

“Now, the necklace.”

Under a torrent of Kirk’s curses, the prospector reached in the pocket
for the gems.

“That’s right,” sneered Kirk. “It ain’t enough for you to beat Coster
out of his money. You’ve got to play hog and keep the jewels, too. How
you goin’ to cash ’em, huh? You asked me that. I’m askin’ you.”

“That’s easy,” answered Teagler. “I’m going to cash them with Coster
himself. He’s my best friend in the world. I told you he never punished
me for that trick of mine. No, he gave me another chance, that’s why.

“I got away, got as far as the Mexican border. They grabbed me there,
thanks to that circular. I had most of the money with me. Coster
wouldn’t prosecute. He found out all about me and he wouldn’t prosecute.

“That isn’t all. He’s paying my girl’s way through school. He staked me
up here. Salt of the earth, Ellsworth Coster. Why, he gave me that radio
set, Kirk, when he came up here huntin’ last fall. This is my chance to
pay him back.

“Sorry if I misled you about this up here bein’ my hide-out.”

“Then there isn’t any cache?” demanded Kirk. Teagler grinned.

“Well, your thinking there was saved my life,” he said. “I staked
everything on getting you out on that porch. It was you that was the
greedy one, Snapper.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 30, 1923 issue
of Adventure magazine.]