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 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.