asp. 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 canyo