In the Shadow of the Hills Part 5

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 d.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.l 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 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 ap.r.o.ned 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 gra.s.sy 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."

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 h.e.l.l 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.