[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.