“You see,” he explained patiently, “when we come to a valley, or to any depression, we’re compelled to use these immense steel mains. Through them the water is shot down one side and up the other. This one building is ten feet in diameter. In New York, if you remember, there is a siphon bored through solid granite, running beneath the Hudson River, and bringing water from the Catskill Aqueduct. With the exception of a small length of pressure pipe in use at Niagara Falls, our siphons are the largest and longest in the world.” “I should think the force of the water would soon burst even the best of steel,” she announced suddenly. “It would,” Nash replied, smiling at her remark. “Water will break steel like an eggshell, unless, of course, the steel is of a certain thickness and tensile strength.” Miss Breen went over and looked at a huge section of steel pipe which was almost ready to be riveted in place. “It doesn’t look very strong,” she said. Nash laughed. “The aqueduct engineer spent many months figuring out the right thickness. Specifications to the thousandth of an inch are given.” “And do you order the steel?” she asked. He nodded. “That is one of the easy jobs,” he said. “’Most anybody can follow printed specifications.” It was growing darker steadily. They had been so interested that the time had been forgotten; turning from their observations, they saw that the men had deserted the conduit work, and that all the big machines had stopped. “How quiet it is!” Miss Breen said, as they walked back to where the ponies were hitched. “I’ll ride with you as far as the high trail,” Nash volunteered, drawing out his watch, and surprised that the hands marked six o’clock. “Are you afraid to go on to the ranch alone?” “Of course not. I haven’t been afraid since I left the East. Somehow, one forgets there is such a word out here.” As he swung into his saddle, his coat flew up a little, and disclosed a weapon in his hip pocket. “A revolver!” she exclaimed. “Why, what are you afraid of, Mr. Nash?” “It isn’t that I’m afraid,” Nash told her gravely; “but in an argument, the man with a gun generally wins out.” “I suppose, being a Californian, you’re a good shot?” Miss Breen said. “I suppose it comes natural, doesn’t it?” Nash shook his head and smiled into her anxious face. “What makes you think that? All Easterners think the same. They want to believe that every man between here and the Colorado line carries a six-shooter or two. Nothing could be more absurd. The real gunman is found in the big cities. Why, I’ll wager there are more men in New York City to-day carrying guns than in the whole State of California.” “Well,” she returned, “I always imagined because one was in the West that----” She stopped suddenly. “Look there! A snake!” Nash jerked the gun from his pocket, aimed it swiftly, and tightened his finger upon the trigger. The hammer fell in obedience to the pressure on the trigger, but only a hollow click resulted.