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 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, y