In the Shadow of the Hills. George C. Shedd
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 30 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?”
31
“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?”
“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!”
32
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?” 33 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.
34
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