Will H. Grattan

“ 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. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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. ”