The Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Shadow of the Hills, by George C. Shedd This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: In the Shadow of the Hills Author: George C. Shedd Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30037] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS BY THE SAME AUTHOR The Princess of Forge The Isle of Strife The Incorrigible Dukane The Lady of Mystery House The Invisible Enemy In the Shadow of the Hills IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS BY GEORGE C. SHEDD AUTHOR OF “THE LADY OF MYSTERY HOUSE,” ETC. NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY Copyright, 1919, By THE MACAULAY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I In a Hostile Country 11 II A Comedy––And Something Else 23 III The Enemy’s Spawn 34 IV A Secret Conference 42 V A Shot in the Dark 53 VI Janet Hosmer 64 VII In the Coil 75 VIII The Gathering Storm 83 IX An Unexpected Ally 91 X By Right of Possession 99 XI Janet and Mary 107 XII The Plot 116 XIII The Current of Events 121 XIV Old Saurez’ Deposition 135 XV The Mask Dropped 145 XVI Weir Takes up the Hunt 158 XVII Earth’s Retribution 167 XVIII In the Night Watches 177 XIX A Queer Paper 189 XX Anxieties 197 XXI The Weak Link 209 XXII An Old Adobe House 219 XXIII With Fangs Bared 226 XXIV The Alarm 238 XXV No Quarter 248 XXVI The Thunderbolt 256 XXVII Weir Strikes While the Iron Is Hot 261 XXVIII Vorse 270 XXIX The Fourth Man 279 XXX The Victor 286 XXXI A Final Challenge 294 XXXII The Recluse 304 XXXIII Under the Moon 314 IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS CHAPTER I IN A HOSTILE COUNTRY 11 Eastward out of the Torquilla Range the Burntwood River emerged from a gorge, flowing swift and turbulent during the spring months, shallow and murmurous the rest of the year, to pass through a basin formed by low mountains and break forth at last from a canyon and wind away over the mesa. In the canyon was being erected the huge reservoir dam which was in the future to store water for irrigating the broad acres spreading from its base. The construction camp rested on one of the hillsides above the dam. And here one summer afternoon a man stepped forth from the long low tar-papered shack that served as headquarters, directing his gaze down the road across the mesa at a departing automobile. He was Steele Weir, the new chief, a tall, strong, tanned man of thirty-five, with lean smooth-shaven face, a straight heavy nose, mouth that by habit was set in grim lines, and heavy brows under which ruled cold, level, insistent, gray eyes. He had come suddenly, unexpectedly, returning with Magney, the engineer in charge, when the latter had been summoned east for a conference with the company’s directors. He had replaced Magney, who was now whirling away to the nearest railway point, Bowenville, thirty-five miles distant. He thoughtfully watched the car, a black spot in a haze of dust, speeding towards the New Mexican town of San Mateo, on the Burntwood River two miles below camp, its cluster of brown adobe houses showing indistinctly through the cottonwoods that embowered the place. For Magney he felt a certain amount of sympathy, for the engineer was leaving with a recognition of defeat; he was a likeable man, as Steele Weir had discovered during their brief acquaintance, a good theoretical engineer, but lacking in the prime quality of a successful chief––fighting spirit and an indomitable will. Under Magney the work of construction had been inaugurated the previous summer, but progress had not been as rapid as desired; there had been delays, labor difficulties, local opposition during the months since; and Weir had been chosen to succeed Magney. In his profession Weir had a reputation, built on relentless toil and sound ideas and daring achievements––a reputation enhanced by a character of mystery, for the man was unmarried, reserved, without intimates or even friends, locking his lips about his life, and welcoming and executing with grim indifference to risk engineering commissions of extreme hazard, on which account he had acquired the soubriquet of “Cold Steel” Weir. Who first bestowed upon Weir that name is not known. But it was not misapplied. Cold steel he had proved himself to be a score of times in critical moments when other men would have broken: in pushing bridges over mountain chasms, in mine disasters, in strikes, in almost hopeless fights against bandits in Mexico. And it was this ability to handle difficulties that had brought about the decision of the directors of the company to put him in charge, as the man best qualified, at San Mateo, where the situation was unsatisfactory, costly, baffling. Since his arrival a week before he had been consulting with Magney, studying maps and blue-prints, examining the work and analyzing general conditions. What had been accomplished had been well done; he had no criticism to offer on that score. It was the delay; the work was considerably behind schedule, which of course meant excessive cost; and this had undermined the spirit of the enterprise. In a dozen places, in a dozen ways, Magney, his predecessor, had been hampered, checked, defeated––and the main contributing cause was poor workmen, inefficient work. On that sore Weir’s skillful finger fell at once. Standing there before the low office building he watched Magney depart. He, Steele Weir, had now taken over full charge of the camp and assumed full responsibility for the project’s failure or success. His eye passed beyond the distant automobile to the town of San Mateo––a new town for him, but a town like many he had seen in the southwest and in Mexico. And aside from its connection with the construction work, it held a fascinating interest, a profound interest for the man, the interest that any spot would which has at a distance cast a black and sinister shadow over one’s life. San Mateo––the name lay like a smoldering coal in his breast! At length he turned and strode down the hillside to the dam site in the canyon. The time had come to shut his hand about the work and let his hold be felt. He located the superintendent directing the pouring of concrete in the frames of the dam core, Atkinson, a man of fifty with a stubby gray mustache, a wind-bitten face and a tall angular frame. When Weir joined him he was observing with speculative eyes the indolent movements of a group of Mexican laborers. “Those hombres don’t appear to be breaking any speed records, I see,” Weir remarked, quietly. “Humph,” Atkinson grunted. “What do they think this is? A rest cure?” The superintendent’s silence suddenly gave way. “I ought to land on ’em with an ax-handle and put the fear of God in their lazy souls,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “Well, do it.” “What!” “Do it.” “Say, am I hearing right?” Atkinson swung fully about to stare at the new chief. Then he went on, “They’d quit to a man if made to do a man’s work; I supposed that Magney had told you that. A dozen times I’ve been ready to throw up my job from self-respect; I’m ashamed to boss work where men can loaf and I must keep my tongue between my teeth. I was considering just now the matter of leaving.” “No need, Atkinson. From this time these men will work or get their dismissal.” The other pushed his hat atilt and rubbed his head in surprise. 12 13 14 “What about that ‘company policy’ of hiring nothing but local labor to keep the community friendly which Magney was always kicking about?” he asked. “That was what made him sorer than anything else, and beat him. He said the directors had tied his hands by promising that no workmen should be imported. If they promised that, they sure bunkoed themselves. Friendly, huh.” “The people haven’t been friendly, eh?” Weir said. “Does it look like it when these Mexicans won’t work enough to earn their salt? They openly boast that we dare neither make them work nor fire them. They say Sorenson and his bunch will pull every man off the works if we lift a finger; and they all know about that fool promise of the directors. Friendly? Just about as friendly as a bunch of wildcats. This whole section, white men and Mexicans, are putting a knife into this project whenever they can. Do you think they want all that mesa fenced up and farmed? This is a range country; they propose to keep it range; they don’t want any more people coming here––farmers, store-keepers, and white people generally.” “That’s always the case in a range country before it’s opened up,” Weir said. “But they have to swallow the pill.” “Let me tell you something; they don’t intend to swallow it here. They figure on keeping this county just as it is, for only themselves and their cattle and woolies, and everybody else keep out. The few big sheep and cattle men, white and Mex, have their minds made up to that, and they’re the only ones who count; all the rest are poor Mexicans with nothing but fleas, children, goats and votes to keep Sorenson and his gang in control. They’ve set out to bust this company, or tire it out till it throws up the sponge. They’ve spiked Magney, and they’ll try to spike you next, and every manager who comes. That’s plain talk I’m giving you, Mr. Weir, but it’s fact; and if it doesn’t sound nice to your ears, you can have my resignation any minute.” “I’ve been hoping to hear it. From now on drive this crowd of coffee-colored loafers. Put the lash on their backs.” A gleam of unholy joy shone in Atkinson’s eyes as he heard Weir’s words. “All right; that goes,” he said. “But I’m warning you that they’ll quit. You’ll see ’em stringing out of camp for home to- night, and those who hang out till to-morrow will leave then for sure. By to-morrow night the dam will be as quiet as a church week-days. They’ll not show up again, either, until you send word for them to come back––and then they’ll know you’ve surrendered. Magney tried it once, just once. And that’s why you found me chewing tobacco so lamb- like and saying nothing.” “Turn your gat loose,” Weir said. And turning on his heel, he went back to headquarters. Before Atkinson fired a volley at the unsuspecting workmen he crossed the canyon to where a cub engineer was peering through a transit. The superintendent had overheard a scrap of gossip among the staff one evening before Weir’s arrival when they were discussing the advent of the new chief. “What was that name you fellows were saying Weir was called by?” he asked. The boy straightened up. “‘Cold Steel’––‘Cold Steel’ Weir. Anyway that’s what Fergueson says,” was the answer. “I never heard it before myself. His first name’s Steele, you know, and he looks cold enough to be ice when he’s asking questions about things, boring into a fellow with his eyes. But he’s up against a hard game here.” “Maybe. But a man doesn’t get a name like that for just parting his hair nice,” Atkinson remarked. “He told me to stretch ’em”––a horny thumb jerked towards the workmen––“and you’ll see some real work hereabouts for the rest of the afternoon.” “And to-morrow will be Sunday three days ahead of time.” “Sure.” “What then?” “You know as much about that as I do. Make your own guess.” With which the speaker started off. The morrow was “Sunday” with a vengeance. The majority of the laborers demanded their pay checks the minute work ceased at the end of the afternoon; Atkinson tightened orders, and by noon next day the last of the Mexicans had quit. The fires in the stationary engines were banked; the concrete mixers did not revolve; the conveyers were still; the dam site wore an air of abandonment. In headquarters the engineers worked over tracings or notes; and in the commissary store the half-dozen white foremen gathered to smoke and yarn. That was the extent of the activity. Two days passed. After dinner Weir held a terse long-distance telephone conversation, the only incident of the second day; and it was overheard by no one. On the fourth day this was repeated. At dawn of the fifth he despatched all of the foremen, enginemen and engineers with wagons to Bowenville; and about the middle of the afternoon, accompanied by his assistant, Meyers, and Atkinson, he sped in the manager’s car down the river for San Mateo, two miles below the camp. Of the town Steele Weir had had but a glimpse as he flashed through on his way to the dam the morning of his arrival twelve days earlier. It had but a single main street, from which littered side streets and alleys ran off between mud walls of houses. The county court house sat among cottonwood trees in an open space. A few pretentious dwellings, homes of white men and the well-to-do Mexicans, arose among long low adobe structures that were as brown and characterless as the sun-dried bricks of which they were built. That was San Mateo. 15 16 17 18 Before doors and everywhere along the street workmen from the dam were idling. As Meyers brought the automobile to a stop before the court house, news of Weir’s visit spread miraculously and Mexicans began to saunter forward to hear the engineer’s words of surrender, couched in the form of a suave invitation to return to work. While the crowd gathered the three Americans sat quietly in the car. Then Steele Weir stood up. “Who can speak for these men?” he demanded. A lean Mexican with a long shiny black mustache and a thin neck protruding from a soiled linen collar elbowed a way to the front. “I’m authorized to speak for them,” he announced, disclosing his white teeth in an engaging smile. “Are you one of the workmen?” “No. I’m a lawyer and represent them in this controversy. By your favor therefore let us proceed. You’ve come to persuade them to resume work, and that is well. But there are conditions to be agreed upon before they return, which with your permission I shall state––first, no harsh driving of the workmen by foremen; second, full wages for the days they have been idle; third, no Sunday work.” The engineer regarded the speaker without change of countenance. “Have you finished?” he asked. “Yes. There are minor matters, but they can be adjusted later. These are the important points.” “Very well, this is my reply: I, not the workmen, make the terms for work on this job––I, not these men, name the conditions on which they may return. And they are as follows: no pay for the idle days; if the workmen return they agree to work as ordered by superintendent and foremen; and last, they must start for the dam within an hour or not at all.” Incredulity, amazement rested on the Mexican spokesman’s face as he listened to this curt rejoinder. “Preposterous, impossible, absurd!” he exclaimed. Then revolving on his heels so as to face the crowd he swiftly repeated in Spanish what Weir had said. An angry stir followed, murmurs, sullen looks, a number of oaths and jeers. The lawyer turned again to the engineer, spreading his hands in a wide gesture and lifting his brows with exaggerated significance. “You see, Mr. Weir, your position is hopeless,” he remarked. “Ask them if they definitely refuse.” The lawyer put the question to the crowd. A chorus of shouts vehemently gave affirmation––a refusal immediate, disdainful, unanimous. “We’ll now discuss the men’s terms,” the lawyer remarked politely and with an air of satisfaction. “There’s nothing more to discuss. The matter is settled. They have refused; they need not seek work at the dam again. Start the car, Meyers.” The roar of the machine drowned the indignant lawyer’s protest, the crowd hastened to give an opening and the conference was at an end. “Drive to Vorse’s saloon; I want a look at Vorse,” said Weir. “I see the place a short way ahead.” When they entered the long low adobe building an anemic-appearing Mexican standing at the far end of the bar languidly started forward to serve them, but a bald-headed, hawk-nosed man seated at a desk behind the cigar-case laid aside his newspaper, arose and checked the other by a sidewise jerk of his head. He received their orders for beer and lifted three dripping bottles from a tub of water at his feet. His eyes passed casually over Steele Weir’s face, glanced away, then came back for a swift unblinking scrutiny. The eyes his own met were as hard, stony and inscrutable as his own. Finally Vorse, the saloon-keeper, turned his gaze towards the window and extracting a quill tooth-pick from a vest pocket began thoughtfully to pick his teeth. “You’re the new manager at the dam?” he asked presently, still considering the street through the window. “I am.” “And your name is Weir?” “You’ve got it right.” The questions ended there. The three men from camp slowly consumed their beer and exchanged indifferent remarks. At the end of five minutes the Mexican lawyer, clutching the arm of an elderly, gray-mustached man, entered the saloon. They lined up at the bar nearby the others. The older of the pair regarded the trio shrewdly, laid a calf-bound book that he carried under his arm upon the counter and ordered “a little bourbon.” When he had swallowed this, he addressed the men from the engineering camp. “Which of you is Mr. Weir?” 19 20 “I am he,” Steele replied. “Mr. Martinez here has solicited me, Mr. Weir, to use my offices in explaining to you the workmen’s point of view in the controversy that exists relative to the work. I’m Senator Gordon, a member of the state legislature, and I have no interest in the matter beyond seeing an amicable and just arrangement effected.” Steele Weir fixed his eyes on the speaker with an intentness, a cold penetration, that seemed to bore to the very recesses of his mind. In that look there was something questioning and something menacing. “There’s no controversy and hence no need of your services. The men stopped work, refused to return, and now the case is closed.” “My dear sir, let us talk it over,” said the Senator, bringing forth a pair of spectacles and setting the bow upon his nose. The engineer’s visage failed to relax at this pacific proposal. “I gave them their chance and they declined; they’ll have no other,” he stated. “Those men have browbeaten the company long enough. They refused, and as I anticipated that refusal I made preparations accordingly; a hundred and fifty white workmen arrived at Bowenville from Denver this morning and a hundred and fifty more will come to- morrow. They will do the work.” The Senator’s lips quivered and the upper one lifted in a movement like a snarl, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “The matter isn’t closed, understand that,” he snapped out. “We have the directors’ promise no outside labor shall be brought in here for this job, and the promise shall be kept.” “The new men go to work in the morning,” Weir said. “You’ll repent of this action, young man, you’ll repent of it.” The Senator seized the whisky bottle and angrily poured himself a second drink. “You’ll repent of it as sure as your name is––is––whatever it is.” The engineer took a step nearer the older man. His face now was as hard as granite. “Weir is my name,” he said. “Did you ever hear it before?” “Weir––Weir?” came in a questioning mutter. “Yes, Weir.” The speaker’s eyes held the Senator’s in savage leash, and a slight tremble presently began to shake the old man. Atkinson and Meyers and even the volatile Mexican lawyer, Martinez, remained unstirring, for in the situation they suddenly sensed something beyond their ken, some current of deep unknown forces, some play of fierce, obscure and fateful passion. A shadow of gray stole over Gordon’s lineaments. “You are––are the son of–––” came gasping forth. “I am. His son.” “And––and–––” “And I know what happened thirty years ago in this selfsame room!” The whisky that the Senator had poured into his glass suddenly slopped over his fingers; his figure all at once appeared more aged, hollow, bent. Without further word, with his hand still shaking, he set the glass on the bar, mechanically picked up the law book and walked feebly towards the door. Steele Weir turned his gaze on the saloon-keeper, Vorse. The man’s right hand was under the bar and he seemed to be awaiting the engineer’s next move, taut, tight-lipped, malignant. “That was for you too, Vorse,” was flung at him. “One Weir went out of here, but another has returned.” And he led his companions away. CHAPTER II A COMEDY––AND SOMETHING ELSE Towards noon one day a week later Steele Weir, headed for Bowenville in his car, had gained Chico Creek, half way between camp and San Mateo, when he perceived that another machine blocked the ford. About the wheels of the stalled car the shallow water rippled briskly, four or five inches deep; entirely deep enough, by all appearances, to 21 22 23 keep marooned in the runabout the girl sitting disconsolately at the wheel. She was a very attractive-looking girl, Steele noted casually as he brought his own car to a halt and sprang out to join her, wading the water with his laced boots. As he approached he perceived that she had a slender well-rounded figure, fine-spun brown hair under her hat brim, clear brown eyes and the pink of peach blossoms in her soft smooth cheeks. But her look of relief vanished when she distinguished his face and her shoulders squared themselves. “Has your engine stopped?” he inquired. “Yes.” “I’ll look into the hood.” “I prefer that you would not.” For an instant surprise marked his countenance. “You mean that you desire to remain here?” he asked. “I don’t wish to remain here, but I choose that in preference to your aid.” The man, who had bent forward to lift one cover of the engine, straightened up at that. He considered her intently and in silence for a time, marking her heightened color, the haughty poise of her head, the firm set of her lips. “To my knowledge, I never saw you before in my life,” he remarked at last. “What, may I ask, is your particular reason for declining my services?” She was dumb for a little, while she tucked back a stray tendril of hair. The act was performed with the left hand; and Weir’s eyes, which seldom missed anything, observed a diamond flash on the third finger. “Well, I’d choose not to explain,” said she, afterwards, “but if you insist–––” “I don’t insist, I merely request ... your highness.” A flash of anger shot from her eyes at this irony. “Don’t think I’m afraid to tell you!” she cried. “It’s because you’re the manager of the construction camp; and if you’ve never seen me before, I’ve at least had you pointed out to me. I wish no assistance from the man who turns off his poor workmen without excuse or warning, and brings want and trouble upon the community. It was like striking them in the face. And then you break your promise not to bring in other workmen!” As she had said, she did not lack courage. Her words gushed forth in a torrent, as if an expression of pent up and outraged justice, disclosing a fervent sympathy and a fine zeal––and, likewise, a fine ignorance of the facts. “Well, why don’t you say something?” she added, when he gave no indication of replying. Steele could have smiled at this feminine view of the matter that violent assertions required affirmations or denials. “What am I supposed to say?” he asked. Apparently that exhausted her patience. “You’ll please molest me no longer,” she stated, icily. “Very well.” He raised the hood and inspected the engine. During his attempts to start it, she sat nonchalantly humming an air and gazing at the mountains as if her mind were a thousand miles away––which it was not. “Something wrong; it will have to be hauled in,” said he finally. No reply. Steele returned to his own car and descending into the creek bed worked his way around her. When he was on the far bank, he rejoined her again, carrying a coil of rope. One end of this he fastened securely to the rear axle of her runabout. “What are you going to do, sir?” she demanded, whirling about on her seat and glaring angrily. “Drag you out.” “You’ll do nothing of the kind!” “Oh, yes,” was his calm response. “Against my wishes, sir?” “Certainly.” “This is abominable!” “Perhaps.” “I’ll put on the brakes.” And put them on she did, with a savage jerk. But nevertheless Weir’s powerful machine drew her car slowly up out of the creek upon the road, where he forced it about until it pointed towards San Mateo. Then he retied the rope on the front axle. 24 25 “Now for town,” said he. “Why did you haul me out of there, I demand to know?” “Why? Because you were a public obstruction blocking traffic. If you had remained there long enough you would have become a public nuisance; and it’s the duty of every citizen to abate nuisances. No one would call you a nuisance, of course,––not to your face, at any rate. But travelers might have felt some annoyance if compelled to drive around you; they might even have had you arrested when they learned you were acting out of willful stubbornness.” In a sort of incredulous wonder, of charmed horror, the girl heard herself thus unfeelingly described. “You––you barbarian!” she cried. “Ready? We’re off for town now.” “I’ll run my car in the ditch and wreck it if you so much as pull it another inch!” “I don’t like to be frustrated in my generous acts; they are so few, according to common report. Well, we’ll leave the car, but it must be drawn off the road.” When this was accomplished, Weir replaced the rope in his machine. Then he returned to her. “What now? Do you intend to sit here in the hot sunshine, to say nothing of missing your dinner?” “That doesn’t concern you.” Weir shook his head gravely. “You must be saved from your own folly,” said he. Before she had realized what was happening, he had opened the door of the runabout, swung her out upon the ground and was marching her towards his own machine. Stupefaction at this quick, atrocious deed left her an automaton; and before she had fully regained her control they were speeding towards San Mateo, she at his side. “This is outrageous!” she gasped. Steele Weir did not speak until they entered town. “Where is your home?” he asked. “Turn to the right at the end of the street.” It was before a house of modern structure, banked with a bewildering number of flowers and shaded by trees, that he halted the car. He alighted, bared his head, assisted her to descend, bowed and then without a word drove away, leaving her to stare after him with a baffling mixture of feelings and the single indignant statement, “And he didn’t even wait long enough for me to thank him!” Nor did her perplexity lessen when her car was left before the door during the afternoon by one of the camp mechanics to whom Weir had telephoned from San Mateo and who had put it in running order. Weir himself proceeded to Bowenville, where matters regarding shipments and the unloading of machinery engaged him the rest of the day. Into his mind, however, there floated at moments the image of the girl’s face, banish it as he would. He had learned her name by asking who was the owner of the house where she had alighted, information necessary to direct the mechanic as to the delivery of the stalled car. Hosmer it was; and the residence was that of Dr. Hosmer. Presumably she was his daughter. And what a vivid, charming, never-surrender enemy! Lucky the chap who had won this high-spirited girl. The memory of her eyes and her personality was still with him when he ate his supper that evening in a restaurant in Bowenville. His own past in relation to the other sex had been starred by no love affair, not even by episodes of a sentimental nature; the character of his work had for long periods kept him away from women’s society, but further than this there was the shadow upon his life, the shadow of mystery that obliged him to follow a solitary course. He considered himself unfree to seek friendships or favors among women. By every demand of honor he was bound to solicit no girl’s trust or affection until that mystery was cleared and his father’s innocence established. It was for this reason that he seemed even to himself to grow more hard, more harsh, more silent and aloof, until at last he had come to believe that no fair face had the power to arouse his interest or to quicken his pulse. But now, this girl he had met at the ford! Long-stifled emotions struggled in his breast. Sleeping desires awoke. His spirit swelled like a caged thing within the shell of years of indurated habit. A strange restlessness pervaded him. He had a fierce passion somehow to rip in pieces the gray drab pattern of his commonplace life. Perhaps it was this revolt against the fetters of fate that caused him to welcome the chance for action that presently was offered. The restaurant was of an ordinary type, with a lunch counter at one side, a row of tables down the middle and half a dozen booths along the wall offering some degree of privacy. In one of these Steele Weir was smoking a cigar and finishing his coffee before making his ride back to camp. From the booth adjoining he had for some time been hearing scraps of conversation; now all at once the voices rose in protest and in answering explanation, in perplexed appeal and earnest assurance. Weir’s own reflections ceased. His head turned and remained fixed to listen, while the cigar grew cold between his 26 27 28 fingers. For ten minutes or so his attitude of concentrated harkening to the two voices, a girl’s and a man’s, remained unchanged. Little by little he was piecing out the thread of the confidential dialogue––and of the little drama being enacted in the booth. His brows became lowering as he gathered its significance, his lips drew together in a tight thin line. He did not move when he heard the man push back his chair to leave the place, nor alter his position until there came the sound of the door closing at the front of the restaurant. Then he reached for his hat, stood up and went lightly around into the other booth, where he pulled the green calico curtain across the opening. A girl of about seventeen, of plump clean prettiness, still sat at the table, which was littered with dishes. The cheap finery of her hat and dress showed a pathetic attempt to increase her natural comeliness. At this minute her face showed amazement and a hint of apprehension. “What are you coming in here for?” she demanded. “I want to talk to you for a little while,” Weir replied, seating himself. “You will please listen. I’ve overheard enough of your talk to catch its drift; you came here to be married, but now this man wants to induce you to go to Los Angeles first.” “That isn’t any of your business,” the girl flashed back, going white and red by turns. “I’m making it mine, however. You live up on Terry Creek, by what I heard; that’s not far from my camp. I’m manager at the dam and my name’s Weir.” At this statement the girl shrank back, beginning to bite the hem of her handkerchief nervously and gazing at him with terrified eyes. “I’m here to help you, not harm you. You’ve run away from home to-day to marry this fellow. Did he promise to marry you if you came to Bowenville?” “Yes.” “And now he wants you to go with him to Los Angeles first, promising to marry you there?” The girl hesitated, with a wavering look. “Yes.” “He gives you excuses, of course. But they don’t satisfy your mind, do they? They don’t satisfy mine, at any rate. It’s the old trick. Suppose when you reached the coast he didn’t marry you after all and put you off with more promises and after a week or two abandoned you?” “Oh, he wouldn’t do that!” she cried, with a gulp. “That’s just what he is planning. He didn’t meet you here until after dark, I judge. You’ll both go to the train separately––I overheard that part. Afterwards he could return from the coast and deny that he had ever had anything to do with you, and it would simply be your word against his. And which would people hereabouts believe, tell me that, which would they believe, yours or his, after you had gone wrong?” The girl sat frozen. Then suddenly she began to cry, softly and with jerks of her shoulders. Weir reached out and patted her arm. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Mary––Mary Johnson.” “Mary, I’m interfering in your affairs only because I know what men will do. You must take no chances. If this fellow is really anxious to marry you, he’ll do it here in Bowenville.” After a few sobs she wiped her eyes. “He said he didn’t dare get the license in San Mateo, or his folks would have stopped our marriage.” “Then you should stay here to-night, go to the next county seat and be married to-morrow. His parents are bound to learn about it once you’re married. A few days more or less make no difference. And though I should return to my work, I’ll just stay over a day and take you in my car to-morrow to see that you’re married straight and proper. Why go clear to Los Angeles?” “He said it would be our honeymoon––and––and I had never been away from here.” “What’s his name?” She hesitated in uncertainty whether or not she should answer. “Ed Sorenson,” came at last from her lips. Steele Weir slowly thrust his head forward, fixing her with burning eyes. “Son of the big cattleman?” he demanded. “Yes, sir.” “And you love him?” 29 30 31 “Yes, oh, yes!” Weir sat back in his seat, lighted a cigarette and stared past her head at the opposite partition. The evil strain of the father had been continued in the son and was working here to seduce this simple, ignorant girl, incited by her physical freshness and the expectation that she should be easy prey. “Well, I doubt if he loves you,” he said, presently. “He does, he does!” “If he really does above everything else in the world, he’ll be willing to marry you openly, no matter what his father may say or do. That’s the test, Mary. If he’s in earnest, he’ll agree at once to go with us to the next county seat to- morrow and be married there by a minister. Isn’t that true? Answer me that squarely; isn’t it true?” “Yes, sir.” “Then by that we’ll decide. If he agrees, well and good; if he refuses, that will show him up––show he never had any intention of marrying you. I’m a stranger to you, but I’m your friend. And you’re not going to Los Angeles unmarried!” The last words were uttered in a level menacing tone that caused Mary Johnson to shiver. To her, reared in the humble adobe house on her father’s little ranch on Terry Creek, a man who could manage the great irrigation project seemed a figure out of her ken, a vast form working against the sky. His statements were not to be disputed, whatever she might think. “Yes, sir,” she said, just above a whisper. “All right. Now we’ll wait for him. He was coming back for you, wasn’t he?” “Yes. I was to stay at the hotel till train time.” “Is this your grip?” Weir jerked a thumb towards a worn canvas “telescope” fastened with a single shawl strap, resting in the corner of the booth. “It’s mine. Yes, sir.” “How old is Ed Sorenson,” he asked, after a pause. “About thirty, maybe.” “How old are you?” “Seventeen next month.” “But sixteen yet this month.” “Yes, sir.” He said nothing more. As the minutes passed, her timorous gaze continued steadfastly on the stern countenance before her. She dully expected something terrible to happen when Ed Sorenson appeared, for she knew Ed would be angry; but she had been powerless to prevent the intrusion of this terrible stranger. Fear, in truth, a fear that left her heart cold, was her feeling as she contemplated Weir. Yet under that, was there not something else? A sense of safety, of comforting assurance of protection? “You––you won’t hurt Ed if he won’t go with us?” she asked, in a low voice. “If he gets mad and won’t marry me here, I mean?” The man’s eyes came round to hers. “I’ll just break him in two, nothing more, Mary,” was the calm answer. CHAPTER III THE ENEMY’S SPAWN The curtain to the booth was flung back. “I’ve the train tickets; come along to the hotel–––” exclaimed the man who quickly entered. But the words died in his mouth at sight of Weir sitting in the place he had vacated. He was over average height, of strong fleshy build, with a small blonde mustache on his upper lip. Under his eyes little pouches had already begun to form; his mouth was full and sensual; but he still retained an air of liveliness, of carelessness and agility, that might at first sight seem the spontaneity of youth. He wore a brown suit, a gray flannel 32 33 34 shirt and Stetson hat––the common apparel of the country. “Who the devil are you? And what are you butting in here for?” he exclaimed, with a vicious spark showing in his pale blue eyes. At the same time he clapped a hand on Weir’s shoulder, closing it in a hard grasp. Instantly Weir struck the hand off with his fist. “Keep your dirty flippers to yourself,” he said, rising. The blood faded from the other’s countenance, leaving it white with rage. “Get out of this booth, or I’ll throw you out.” It was Weir’s turn to act. Like a flash he caught Sorenson’s elbow, jerked him forward, spun him about and dropped him upon the chair. “Sit there, you cradle-robber, until I’m through with you,” he commanded. “And if you don’t want everybody in this restaurant to know about your business with this girl, you’ll lower your voice when you talk.” Sorenson shot an uneasy glance towards the curtain and his wrath became not less furious but better controlled. Clearly public attention was the last thing he desired in this affair. He leaned back, staring at Steele Weir insolently, and produced a cigarette, at which he began to puff. “Mary, get ready. We’ll be going in a minute,” said he. “No, you’ll not, Sorenson. I’ve taken a hand in your game. This girl says you’re going to marry her, is that right?” The other rolled his eyes upward and began to whistle a jig tune softly. “Well, this is the plan she and I’ve made. She’ll remain at the hotel to-night––as will you and I––and to-morrow we’ll drive to another county seat in my car and you’ll secure a licence there. Then you’ll go to a minister’s, where I’ll act as a witness, and the ceremony will be performed. Afterwards the pair of you can proceed to Los Angeles, or elsewhere as you please, on your wedding journey.” “You’re quite a little planner, aren’t you?” the other jeered. “That’s the arrangement if you agree.” “I don’t agree.” Mary Johnson, in whose eyes a light of hope had dawned during Weir’s low-toned statement, began nervously to bite her lip. “Won’t you do it, Ed?” she asked, timidly. “We’ll do as I planned, or nothing,” he stated. Then with sudden spite he continued, “You’re responsible for this mixup. What did you let this fellow in here for while I was gone? Didn’t you have sense enough to keep your mouth shut?” Steele halted him by a gesture. “Don’t begin abusing her; you’re not married to her yet. I overheard your talk and guessed the low-lived, scoundrelly trick you proposed to play on her.” “You damned eavesdropper–––” “Sure, eavesdropper is right,” Weir interrupted, coolly. “So I just stepped in here from my booth next door to discuss the situation with her; you can’t mislead an innocent girl like her with the intention of shaking her when you get her into a city, not if I know about it and am around. If you sincerely intend to marry her, and will do so to-morrow in my presence, then I’ll withdraw. Afterwards I mean, of course.” Sorenson arose. “Come, Mary. Stand aside, you!” “She doesn’t go with you,” the engineer stated. For a moment the men’s eyes locked, those of one full of blue fire and hatred, those of the other quiet as pieces of flint. “And she shall keep with me while I telephone to your father that you brought her here under promise of marriage, a girl of sixteen, without her own parents’ consent, and now refuse to marry her,” Steele added. A sneer twisted the other man’s mouth. “My father happens to be in the east, where he’s been for a month,” he mocked. “If he were here, he wouldn’t believe you; he’d know you were a liar. He knows I’m engaged to marry–––” Bite off the words as he tried, they had escaped. “Ah, that’s the way of it!” Weir remarked with a silky smoothness. “You expect to marry some other girl––and have no intention whatever of marrying Mary here.” “To hell with you and your opinions!” “First, you coax her to Bowenville by a promise, then you persuade her by more promises to go to Los Angeles,” the engineer proceeded steadily, “and there you would betray and abandon her to a life on the streets, like the yellow cur 35 36 37 you are.” Sorenson snapped his fingers and moved round to the girl’s side. “Pay no attention to him,” he addressed her. “He’s only a crazy fool.” But she drew back against the wall, staring at him with a strained, searching regard. “Will you marry me to-morrow as he asks?” she questioned anxiously. “No. I explained the reason why once. Come on; let’s get away from him. Then I’ll make everything clear and satisfactory to you.” For a moment she stood wavering, picking at her handkerchief, her face pale and unhappy, questioning his countenance. Finally she turned to look at Steele Weir, standing silently by. “You never said you were engaged to another girl; you told me I was the only one you loved,” she muttered in a choked voice. “But I see now you won’t marry me. You wish me to go with you––but not to marry. I’m going away––away anywhere. By myself! Where I’ll never see any one!” Burying her face in her hands, she shook with sobs. “This is what comes from your putting an oar in,” said Sorenson, lifting his fist in a burst of fury to strike Weir. The latter at once smote him across the mouth with open palm at the vile epithet that followed. Sorenson staggered, then lunged forward, tugging at something in his hip-pocket, while the table and dishes went over in a crash. Before he could draw the weapon Steele’s fingers shot forth and seized his wrist; his other hand closed about Sorenson’s throat in an iron grasp. Slowly under that powerful grip the younger man’s struggles ceased, his eyes dilated, his knees yielded and gave way. The revolver was wrenched from his numbed hold. His eyeballs seemed afire; his breast heaved in violent spasms for the denied breath; and his heart appeared about to burst. “You miserable skunk!” Weir said, barely moving his mouth. “I ought to choke the life out of you.” Then he released his hold. “I’ll keep this gun––and use it if you ever try to pull another on me! Now, make tracks. Remember, too, to pay your bill as you go out.” When Sorenson had straightened his coat, giving Weir a malignant look during the process, he departed. His air of disdainful insolence had quite evaporated, but that he considered the action between them only begun was plain, though he spoke not a word. Weir, however, heard him give a quieting explanation to the waiter hovering outside, who had been drawn by the crash of dishes. “Thought a fight was going on,” the aproned dispenser of food said to Steele when he and the girl emerged. “Just an accident. Nothing broken, I imagine,” was the response. “You couldn’t break those dishes with a hammer; they’re made for rough work.” “If there’s any damage, this may cover it.” And Steele tossed the fellow a dollar. Outside the restaurant he slipped his hand inside Mary Johnson’s arm and led her along the street. With him he had brought the old strapped grip. “Where you taking me?” she asked, in a worried quaver. “Home, Mary.” “Oh, I’m afraid to go home.” “Are you afraid of your own father and mother? They’re the ones to trust first of all.” “But when father––mother is dead––sees the telescope, he’ll want to know where I’ve been. He doesn’t know I have it. I told him I might stay with a girl at San Mateo over night, and then sneaked it out.” “The best thing is to tell him all about this occurrence.” “Oh, I can’t.” “Then I shall. Leave that part to me.” And though her heart was filled with fresh alarms and fears at the prospect, there seemed nothing else to do. She longed to flee, to hide in some dark hole, to cover her shame from her father and the world, but in the hands of this determined man she felt herself powerless. What he willed, she dumbly did. Terry Creek flowed out of the mountains four miles north of San Mateo, an insignificant stream entering the Burntwood halfway down to Bowenville. The Johnson ranch house was a mile up the canyon, where the rocky walls expanded into a grassy park of no great area. They reached the girl’s home about half-past nine that night. For two hours Weir remained talking with the father, describing the affair at Bowenville, fending off his first bitter anger at the girl and gradually persuading him to see that Mary had been deceived, lured away on hollow promises and was guiltless of all except failing to take him into her confidence. At last peace was made. Mary wept for a time, and was patted on the head by her rough, bearded father, who exclaimed, “There, there, don’t cry. You’re safe back again; we’ll just forget it.” 38 39 40 Outside of the house, however, where he had accompanied Weir to his car, he said with an oath: “But I’ll not forget Ed Sorenson, if I go to hell for it. My little girl!” “She’s half a child yet, that’s the worse of his offense,” Steele replied, savagely. “Mary said you choked him.” “Some. Not enough.” “I’ll not forget him––or you, Mr. Weir.” Steele mounted into his machine. He thoughtfully studied the rancher’s bearded, weather-tanned face, illuminated by the moonlight. “At present I’d say nothing about this matter to any one. Later on you may be able to use it in squaring accounts,” the engineer advised. “I hope so,” was the answer, with a bitter note. “But talking would only hurt Mary, not Ed Sorenson. Whatever the Sorensons do is all right, you know, because they’re rich. The daughter of a poor man like me would get all the black end of the gossip; and I can’t lift a finger, that’s what grinds me, unless I go out and shoot him, then hang for it. For the bank’s got a mortgage on my little bunch of stock, and on my ranch here, and Sorenson, of course, is the bank. Gordon and Vorse and a few others are in it too, but he’s the bull of the herd. If I opened my mouth about his son, I’d be kicked off of Terry Creek, lock, stock and barrel. That’s the way Sorenson keeps all of us poor devils, white and Mexican, eating out of his hand. I’ve just been poor since I came here a boy; the gang in San Mateo won’t let anybody but themselves have a chance. And I reckon old man Sorenson wouldn’t care much if his boy had ruined my girl. Cuss him a little, maybe; that would be all. But I won’t forget the whelp. Some day my chance will come to play even.” “Sure; if one just keeps quiet and waits,” Steele agreed. “Well, I must hit the trail. If you want work any time, come over to the dam; we can always use a man with a team.” Johnson nodded. “After haying is done, maybe. And remember, I’m much obliged to you for looking after my little girl. I won’t forget that, either.” He reached up diffidently and shook hands with the engineer. Weir’s grip was sympathetic and sincere. CHAPTER IV A SECRET CONFERENCE On a certain afternoon Felipe Martinez, the lean and restless attorney who had acted as the Mexican workmen’s mouthpiece, observed through the broad plate-glass window of the San Mateo Cattle Company’s office an incident that greatly interested him. For the moment he forgot the resentment kindled by Sorenson’s abrupt refusal and brutal words when he asked for the nomination for county attorney. The election was in the autumn; the nomination was equivalent to election; and Felipe considered that he had too long been kept apart from that particular spoil. Martinez had once had a slight difference with the banker, and now outrageously Sorenson had recalled it. He had stated that Martinez should hold no political office; he gave offices only to men who did exactly as he advised; his exact words were that the Mexican was “tricky and no good.” And picking up his hat Sorenson who had that day returned home from the east went out of the bank, leaving Martinez to stare out of the window and meditatively twist a point of his silky black mustache. It was before the window that there occurred the meeting between Sorenson and the manager of the dam. Martinez perceived the two men glance at each other and pass, but after a step or two both men halted. As if worked by a single wire, they slowly swung about for a second look. The Mexican’s nimble brain calculated that they could not have previously met and in consequence their behavior bespoke something out of the ordinary. The pair stood exactly where they had turned, three or four paces apart, he noted. The Mexican’s mind palpitated with a slight thrill of excitement. The manner of each of the men was that of a fighting animal looking over another animal of the same sort: neither uttering a word, nor stirring a finger, nor yielding a particle in his fixed unwinking gaze. Martinez could almost feel the exchanged challenge, the cold antagonism, the hostile curiosity, the matching of wills, the instant hate, between the men. Though they had not met before, to be sure, nevertheless they were enemies. Was it because of the discharge of the workmen? Then Martinez’ mind flashed back to the scene in Vorse’s saloon when Gordon had showed such sudden emotion at the engineer’s name and his enigmatical reference to some event in the past. That was it! Something which had occurred thirty years ago, probably something crooked. Men committed deeds in those early days that they would now like to forget. He, Martinez, would look into the matter. Sorenson passed out of sight, and Weir likewise proceeded on his way. Th...