“Don’t file that claim to Fogg’s mine,” he shouted, waving his papers above his head. “I’ve got a prior one.”
“You have—where?” gasped the astonished clerk.
“File that claim,” ordered Luther Barr. “I’ll report you to Washington if you don’t.”
“Hold your horses,” replied the clerk easily, “there seems to be some sort of dispute here. Do you lay claim to the mine?” he asked, turning to Witherbee.
“I sure do,” replied the miner, “and here’s my claim—the last will and testament of Jared Fogg, otherwise Jack Riggs. He leaves his mine and the treasure he has secretly hoarded from it and buried under the floor of his hut to me.”
“And who might you be?” asked the clerk eagerly.
“I am Bart Witherbee, and can easily prove it,” replied the miner, drawing from his pocket a number of papers.
The clerk quickly perused them and also the will.
“What time did you stake the mine?” he asked, suddenly turning to Luther Barr.
“At daylight to-day,” replied the millionaire. “I guess we win.”