“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 grassy park of no great area. They reached the girl’s home about half-past nine that night.