ll 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?"

"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