For two hours Weir remained talking with the father, describing the affair at Bowenville, fending off his first 40 bitter anger at the girl and gradually persuading him to see that Mary had been deceived, lured away on hollow promises and was guiltless of all except failing to take him into her confidence. At last peace was made. Mary wept for a time, and was patted on the head by her rough, bearded father, who exclaimed, “There, there, don’t cry. You’re safe back again; we’ll just forget it.”
Outside of the house, however, where he had accompanied Weir to his car, he said with an oath:
“But I’ll not forget Ed Sorenson, if I go to hell for it. My little girl!”
“She’s half a child yet, that’s the worse of his offense,” Steele replied, savagely.
“Mary said you choked him.”
“Some. Not enough.”
“I’ll not forget him––or you, Mr. Weir.”
Steele mounted into his machine. He thoughtfully studied the rancher’s bearded, weather-tanned face, illuminated by the moonlight.
“At present I’d say nothing about this matter to any one. Later on you may be able to use it in squaring accounts,” the engineer advised.
“I hope so,” was the answer, with a bitter note. “But talking would only hurt Mary, not Ed Sorenson. Whatever the Sorensons do is all right, you know, because they’re rich. The daughter of a poor man like me would get all the black end of the gossip; and I can’t lift a finger, that’s what grinds me, unless I go out and shoot him, then hang for it. For the bank’s got a mortgage on my little bunch of stock, and on my ranch here, and Sorenson, of course, is the bank. Gordon and Vorse and a few others are in it too, but he’s the bull of the herd. If I opened my mouth about his son, I’d 41 be kicked off of Terry Creek, lock, stock and barrel. That’s the way Sorenson keeps all of us poor devils, white and Mexican, eating out of his hand. I’ve just been poor since I came here a boy; the gang in San Mateo won’t let anybody but themselves have a chance. And I reckon old man Sorenson wouldn’t care much if his boy had ruined my girl. Cuss him a little, maybe; that would be all. But I won’t forget the whelp. Some day my chance will come to play even.” “Sure; if one just keeps quiet and waits,” Steele agreed. “Well, I must hit the trail. If you want work any time, come over to the dam; we can always use a man with a team.” Johnson nodded. “After haying is done, maybe. And remember, I’m much obliged to you for looking after my little girl. I won’t forget that, either.” He reached up diffidently and shook hands with the engineer. Weir’s grip was sympathetic and sincere.