As Weir and Pollock were returning, the latter eyed the engineer and laughed.

"You've evidently brushed these fellows', Sorenson's and Gordon's, fur the wrong way to please them. But they'll probably leave us alone from now on."

"They'll not leave me alone."

"Eh? How's that?"

"Well, I have, as it happens, a little trouble with them on my own hook. A private matter antedating the building of the dam. They're after me. I had to put a piece of lead into a fellow who tried to kill me from the dark one night. I speak of it in case you should be told and wonder; otherwise I should not have mentioned the thing. I'm not popular in San Mateo, in consequence."

"Ah, I had heard nothing of that. It interests me. You were not touched."

"My hat, that was all."

"Very interesting, very interesting, indeed," was Pollock's only comment. But if his tone was casual, his eyes were busy in sidelong study of the engineer, making a new appraisal and drawing fresh conclusions.

Meanwhile several knots were being tied in the web of circumstance. Sorenson took his telephone and conversed briefly with Vorse, passing the information that he had just seen the three directors leaving for the east. So they were out of the way. In reply the saloon-keeper stated that he would start the whisky end of the game that evening. By the morrow, Sunday, when the camp was at rest, the workmen would all be "celebrating." Burkhardt had reported the last load of "southern cattle" shipped in and driven on the range the previous evening—a seemingly innocent statement that Sorenson understood perfectly. Up in the hills, safely hidden in the timber, lay the fifty men brought from Mexico to make the assault on the dam the next night, men whose instruments of destruction would be fire and dynamite. Twenty-four hours more would bring the moment of action.

Ignorant of all this Ed Sorenson had been forming a little individual scheme that would promote his own affairs, chief of which was to win Janet Hosmer. Drinking heavily ever since his rebuff, he had sunk into a condition of evil determination and recklessness that made him fit for any desperate act. After much meditation fed by whisky, he had evolved a plan that would bring him success. Thereupon he had loaded his car with a quantity of selected stuff and made a mysterious journey at night.

"She'll learn I meant business," was his frequent soliloquy.

And while these strands were being knit into the skein Martinez was producing another. Quietly, carefully, persuasively, he had been pursuing his own particular course of eliciting history for use in his "Chronicle," as he named it,—and for another use concerning which he was as still as death.

That he was successful in obtaining what he had been after was made known to Weir about dusk that evening while he was talking with Pollock in his office. But that he had not been so lucky in covering his tracks was likewise apparent.

The telephone rang. Steele took down the receiver.

"See Janet Hosmer at once," Felipe Martinez' terrified voice came over the wire. "She'll have it, the paper—the one you want. They've learned I got it; they're after me now. Hammering on the door. If you don't hurry——"

His words ceased abruptly in an anguished quaver. At the same time Weir heard carried to him the sound of a crash as of a door smashed. Excusing himself hurriedly, Steele Weir seized his holster from a nail and buckled on the belt. Then snatching his hat, he ran outside the building to his car.

"Now, who is he gunning for?" Pollock asked himself aloud, "I rather wish he had invited me along."

But neither he nor Weir himself, nor any soul in San Mateo, knew that at last the furious torrent of events had burst upon the community. Weir sensed something. But Sorenson brooding on the morrow thought the moment had not yet come. His son was occupied with his own treacherous scheme. Even Vorse and Burkhardt smashing their way into Martinez' office saw nothing beyond the immediate necessity. Yet the flood was bearing down on all.



CHAPTER XIV

OLD SAUREZ' DEPOSITION

In order to understand why Vorse and Burkhardt were attacking Martinez' office it is necessary to trace the lawyer's movements and the incidents which precipitated that act. Martinez had, as stated, not been idle. Following the clue obtained from the woman who had worked in the elder Weir's household, he visited the old Mexican named as having been used as roustabout by Vorse in early days. This was old Saurez, whom he knew. The wrinkled old fellow seldom came to town now, spending most of the time sitting against the sunny side of his son's house on Pina Creek, twenty miles south, where he lived.

Martinez in the ten days that had elapsed since informing Weir he had learned of Saurez' possible knowledge of the past had proceeded to make himself agreeable to the gray-headed old man. He had explained his "history." He exercised all the arts of graciousness and flattery. Beginning at the present he worked back through the past to the killing of Jim Dent and the flight of Joseph Weir, extracting tales of early fights, raids, accidents, big storms, violent deaths and killings, making elaborate notes, winning the narrator's confidence and gradually drawing forth the facts he really sought.

Out of all the rambling talk and vague accounts of the Dent and Weir affair Martinez was able to piece together the fragments in a clear statement. This was that Saurez had seen Weir and Dent in Vorse's saloon. The pair had gambled for a time with Vorse, Burkhardt (at that time sheriff), Sorenson and Judge Gordon. After losing for a time Weir refused to continue in the poker game, although he was drunk. Dent played on notwithstanding Weir's urgence to desist; he had already lost all his money and began staking his cattle and finally his ranch. At this stage Weir had gone to sleep at another table, with his head on his arms. Vorse had locked the front door to keep out visitors during the big game. But the back door remained open for air.

Saurez had busied himself cleaning the bar. All at once he saw the players spring up in their game, Dent talking angrily about cheating, marked cards and so on. Then the guns came out when he pointed at a card that was marked—for it had been marked with pinpricks as Saurez saw later on examining the deck, which Dent had perceived in spite of the whisky in him. And Sorenson and Vorse had both shot him where he stood. Yes, shootings were not uncommon. Every one but he, Saurez, had likely forgotten all about the matter. That was long ago.

Afterwards Vorse had sent the Mexican away for something or other, with an injunction to keep his mouth closed. As said, speaking of it now made no difference, though he expected Martinez to keep his promise to publish none of the stories while he was still alive; that was agreed. When the Mexican had left the saloon Weir was yet sleeping, having only raised his head at the pistol shots to stare drunkenly and then relapse. What occurred afterwards Saurez did not know. Weir left the country. Dent was buried, the story being told that he had committed suicide. Every one believed it: had he not lost his ranch at poker? That was the end of the business. Other affairs happened and it was forgotten.

On this Saturday Martinez had persuaded Saurez to accompany him to San Mateo. It would be necessary to sign the stories, he explained lightly, to give them proper weight and in order that when the book was published after Saurez' death they would be seen to be true accounts, with Saurez' picture that a photographer would make appearing in the middle. He, Saurez, would be famous, and his sons and grandsons would have copies of the book in their houses to show visitors and the priest. Ah, it would be well to have the priest witness Saurez' signature, then sceptical people would know indeed that the stories were Saurez' own accounts. So on and so on.

The matter required infinite precautions, patience, skill on the lawyer's part. He had prepared two or three dozen depositions of events, as a husk for the real kernel. With Saurez in his office at last he telephoned the priest to call at once and unostentatiously caught on the street four other Mexicans of the better class, bringing them in. When the priest arrived he closed the door and explained his desire they should act as witnesses to Saurez' statements. He had already solicited the padre's advice as to the history; the others all had heard of it; he gave them a number of the most harmless depositions to read; and set Saurez to work making his mark on the rest of the papers. During the reading and the accompanying lively discussion of the witnesses, he had them pause to witness Saurez' mark with their own names in the places provided. About the tenth deposition when their attention was confused and flagging he slipped the account concerning Weir and Dent, a many-paged attestation, upon the table, so folded that nothing but the signing space was visible. It was the critical instant for Martinez; his thin body was more nervous than ever, his eyes brighter and more restless. But at last the ordeal was over.

Saurez' heavy black cross was at the bottom of the important deposition, the priest and the other four men had appended their names, and all that remained to do was for Martinez to fill out the acknowledgment and affix his seal. He whisked the document behind his back and called attention to a humorous episode in a paper one of the men still held, starting a laugh. Then he suggested they rest and opened a bottle of wine, over which the others congratulated Saurez and Martinez and predicted a wonderful fame for the "Chronicle." Finally the lawyer perceived, as he said, that Saurez was weary. Anyway, it was supper-time. The remaining papers could be signed another day.

The witnesses departed, much pleased with the affair.

"Walk up and down outside for a little time while I straighten the sheets, then we'll go eat and afterwards I'll drive you home to bed," the attorney said. "The fresh air will give you an appetite. Behold, you're already becoming a famous man! I shall preserve these documents safely as they are tremendously important to our town, our state, our country!" And a grandiloquent gesture accompanied the words. "Come back in a little while, my friend, then we'll see how much food you can hide away."

Saurez much gratified at these words and at everything went out slowly, for he was troubled by rheumatism. The instant his back disappeared Martinez sprang to the table, swiftly filled out the acknowledgment of the old man's signature to the Weir document, clapped the page under the seal and pressed home the stamp. Then pushing the folded statement into an envelope and that into his pocket, he leaned back with a sigh of exhaustion. The thing was accomplished at last, but the strain had been great. Weir's command to secure evidence had been obeyed. Only the promise to await Saurez' death, troubled Martinez, and with a convenient sophistry he decided that an agreement not to print the narrative in a book did not extend to using it in court. Weir would be delighted—it was a famous coup.

How long Martinez sat reveling in this well-earned satisfaction he was unaware, until with a start he glanced at his watch. Three-quarters of an hour had passed. He went out to look for Saurez. But he was not in sight and though several persons had seen him they could not say where he had gone. Martinez went again into his office. When another half-hour had drifted by he decided the old man had encountered friends and either caught a ride home or gone with one to supper. So Martinez proceeded to his own meal.

Yet he was pervaded by an unaccountable uneasiness. The sun had set in a bank of clouds and night was not far off. He made another search for the old Mexican, inquiring here and there, until he was informed by one that he had seen Saurez in Vorse's saloon talking with Vorse and sipping a glass of brandy. That was half an hour before. A chill of fear spread over the lawyer's skin.

Determined, however, to learn the worst, he stole to the saloon and peered over the slatted door. The Mexican bar-keeper was wiping a glass; Vorse was not in sight; and—ha! there was Saurez himself drowsing by a table. Martinez slipped in and made his way to the rear.

"Come; time to go home," he said softly, giving the old Mexican's shoulder a shake. This did not arouse the sleeper, so he added force to his hand, at which the other sagged forward limply.

Martinez jumped back. Next he stood quite still, staring. Then he approached and lifting the drooping head, gazed at the wrinkled face and glazed eyes.

"Miguel, come here!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "Saurez is dead."

"Dead!" The bar-keeper ran to the spot, eyes large with alarm and excitement. "Dios, I thought him asleep! See, there is the glass in which I gave him brandy at Senor Vorse's order. The old one said he had come in to pay a little visit to his old employer and have a chat. They talked for some time."

"Was Vorse asking him questions?"

"Yes. I think Saurez was telling him how he happened to be in town. I paid little attention to them, however. After a while I glanced up and saw Vorse standing by him. They were not talking. Then Vorse came away and said the old man had fallen asleep, and he went out to supper."

Martinez again lifted the head and darted glances over the dead man's breast. There were no wounds, but on the shriveled brown throat he saw what might have been a thumb-mark. He could not be sure, yet that was his guess.

"He was an old man," Miguel remarked.

"Yes. You should notify his son and also the undertaker, so the body can be taken care of. I'll telephone the latter too when I reach my office."

This Martinez did, informing Saurez's family that the old man had died while apparently asleep at Vorse's, and expressed his sympathy and sorrow.

One feature of the case he instantly perceived; he was released from any obligation to keep silent regarding the old man's declaration. Fortunate was he to have obtained it before Vorse had got wind of his purpose. At the thought of Vorse he arose and locked both front and back doors of the building, pulled down the window shades and turned out the light.

It was almost dark by now. In the darkness he felt safer. Any one passing would suppose him away. Perhaps he should spend the night elsewhere—at the dam, for instance. Again the same shudder shook his frame that he had experienced on seeing the mark on Saurez' throat. Vorse had killed the old Mexican, of that he was convinced. With his tongue made garrulous by brandy and by the presence of his old employer the old man had doubtless related everything that occurred between him and Martinez; and the vulture-like, bald-headed saloon-keeper, recognizing that he had been unconsciously betrayed had immediately acted to close this witness' lips forever against a second utterance.

Martinez himself was in danger. The perspiration dampened his face as he realized that as far as he was concerned the die was cast. He must fling in his fortunes with Weir to the utmost. He would first stand in defense on his right as a lawyer to secure evidence for a client, but if this failed—and what rights would Vorse halt for?—he must depend upon the paper. Once they had that, they would speedily put him out of the way as they had done Saurez. But if they had it not, they would at least hesitate to wreak their vengeance until they could get it into their possession. He must place it in Weir's hands at once, then if questioned refuse to inform them of its whereabouts. Perhaps they would try to seize it some time this night. He stood up, lighted the lamp, saw that all was well in the office and took his hat.

A peremptory knock sounded on the door of the rear room.

"Open up there, Martinez," a voice commanded.

He stole thither, listened.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Never mind. Open this door or I'll pull it down," came in hoarse tones he recognized as Burkhardt's. The man, or men, outside had chosen the rear to force an entrance if necessary, where there would be no spectators. "Jerk it open quick," Burkhardt continued savagely. "We want you." Then again, "We knew you were there, though you kept the place dark. Move lively before I use this ax."

Never did Martinez' mind work more rapidly. Likewise his eyes darted everywhere in search of the object he needed. Then he glided to a decrepit arm-chair and turning it over stuffed the document in a rent in its padded seat, out of sight underneath. Next he filled his pockets with other papers signed by Saurez. Last, he hastily tore open the little telephone book and ran a forefinger down the H's.

"Doctor Hosmer's, hurry," he exclaimed. "Number F28."

Blows were already sounding on the rear door, but the lock was strong and resisted. Of all the persons he knew Janet Hosmer was the only one he could trust to keep her word. And he dare not wait until Weir could come.

"Is this you, Janet? Martinez talking," he said, when he heard her answer. "Listen. I'm at my office; men are trying to break in to get a paper valuable for Mr. Weir's defense. They must not get it. He's to be arrested and tried for murder of the man he killed. You and I know he's innocent. This is a life and death matter. The paper is hidden in the old chair. The men are breaking down the door. I'll get them away long enough for you to come and obtain it. Give it to Weir—at once, to-night, immediately. Promise me you will, promise! My own life probably hangs on it. Return to your house and stay for half an hour and if he hasn't arrived by that time, go to the dam. Thank you, thank you—from my heart! Start now."

The words had tumbled out in an agitated stream, occupying but a few seconds. The panels were splintering in the door now, as the ax smashed a way through. Martinez had no need to look up Weir's number; and it was in a strain of terror and excitement that he waited for the connection.

"See Janet Hosmer at once," he shot at the engineer, followed by the rest of the warning already quoted which had so electrifying an effect upon Steele Weir.

But the words had broken off abruptly. For as the door crashed off its hinges Martinez dropped the telephone receiver and darted for the front entrance, shooting back the bolt and flinging it open. He almost plunged into Vorse who was on guard there.

"Stand still," the man ordered. And Martinez kept the spot as if congealed, for in the saloon-keeper's hand was a revolver with an exceedingly large muzzle.

Burkhardt burst in, ax still in hand, eyes bloodshot with rage. Vorse turned and closed the front door. Then he glanced over the lawyer's table and ran a hand into his inside coat pocket bulging with documents. He glanced through one or two.

"Here's what we're after," said he. "We'll take him to my place where we can quietly settle the matter." His eyes rested on the Mexican with ominous meaning.

"Come along, you snake," Burkhardt growled, seizing their prisoner's arm. "Out the back way—and keep your mouth shut. Don't try to make a break of any kind, if you know what's best for you."

Martinez' yellow skin was almost white.

"But, gentlemen, what does this all mean?" he began, endeavoring to pull back.

"You'll learn soon enough."

"Step right along," Vorse added. "Take him away, Burkhardt, then I'll blow out this light."

With no further word Martinez accompanied his captors into the gloom of the night. They moved in silence through the dark space behind the row of store buildings. The lawyer felt that at least the way was clear for Janet Hosmer.



CHAPTER XV

THE MASK DROPPED

When Janet Hosmer, startled by Felipe Martinez' agitated appeal, turned from the telephone, her single thought was to carry out on the instant his fervid injunction. Something aimed at the engineer and the lawyer was in movement, a plot for the former's arrest and the destruction of evidence necessary to his defense, according to Martinez' quick hurried words; and the Mexican now sought her aid, as she was the only one within reach whom he could trust. That he must call to her showed the desperate nature of the exigency—and he had said lives were at stake!

Haste was the imperative need. As her father was absent, she summoned the Mexican girl from the kitchen, for instinct advised the wisdom of having a companion on this errand; and the two of them, bare-headed and walking fast, set out for the house. Dusk was just thickening to night. No stars were visible. A warm moistness in the air forewarned of rain from the blanket of clouds that had spread at sunset along the peaks. Indeed, a few fine globules of water touched their faces as they came into the main street and hurried along.

Neither girl had observed the automobile, unlighted and moving slowly, that approached the Hosmer house as they emerged. Apparently the driver perceiving them against the lamplight of the doorway and noting their departure thought better of bringing the car to a halt, for he kept the machine in motion and as quietly as possible trailed the pair by glimpses of their figures flitting before an occasional illuminated window. When Janet and her companion turned into the main street where the stores were lighted his task became easier.

The street was peaceful. Janet saw no evidence of the violence or danger indicated by the Mexican lawyer's declaration, but she was too sensible to imagine on that account that peril did not exist. The town was not aware of what had occurred, that was all,—not yet. The chief actors in the conspiracy were still moving stealthily against their intended victims; they had pounced on Martinez and once they had seized the evidence they sought they would arrest Weir. Afterwards the people, as she guessed the matter, would be aroused to create a strong sentiment against the helpless men. It was an atrocious business.

But as yet things were in a lull—and it was during this pause, brief, critical, that Martinez expected her to act. That much she had grasped from his hurried words. She reached his office and halted to listen. No gleam came from the building, nor from the low structure on either side, and across the way all was dark—dark as it had been that night when the assassin's shot had been fired at Steele Weir. Repressing a shudder, she bade the Mexican girl follow her, groped for the door knob, found it and pushed the door open.

Martinez had spoken of men forcing an entrance, so it must have been at the rear. Inside all was pitchy black.

"Juanita, you have a match in your pocket, haven't you?" she demanded, anxiously.

"Yes, Miss Janet."

"Strike it, then."

In the pent stillness of the dark office Janet could hear the Mexican girl fumbling in the pocket of her gingham dress. There came a scratching sound and a tiny flame.

"Be careful of it," she warned. "Now give it to me. And close the door."

Janet lighted the smoky lamp resting on the table, next took it up in her hand. A few papers had fallen upon the floor. The room was still strong with fresh cigarette smoke. Martinez could not have been gone more than five minutes.

And in another five minutes' time too Martinez' captors might be back again!

Holding the lamp aloft she peered about for an old chair, her heart beating rapidly, her lips compressed. But all the chairs, the three or four in the room, were old. Her eyes encountered the Mexican girl staring open-mouthed and scared.

"Take the lamp and keep by me," Janet ordered. "Don't upset it. What are you shaking for, you ninny?"

"I can't help it—and you're so white," the other whimpered.

"Never you mind me; do as I say."

Janet swiftly went from one chair to another, turning them about, upside down, all ways. No paper was hidden in or under any one of them, or indeed was there space capable of holding a document. At last she gave up, gazing about in dismay, dread, tears of vexation and anxiety almost rising to her lids. Only one conclusion was to be drawn: the men who had seized the lawyer had found the paper in spite of his precaution.

She examined the chairs a second time feverishly, for time was flying.

"I can't find it, Juanita, the paper he telephoned me to come and get," she exclaimed.

"Maybe it's in there where he sleeps." And the Mexican girl pointed at the inner door standing barely ajar.

"We'll see."

Janet led the way within. There was Martinez' living- and sleeping-room. The furnishings comprised a bed, an old scratched bureau, a stand with wash-bowl, a red and black Navajo blanket on the floor, a trunk, a stool and a dilapidated stuffed chair—just such a chair as a paper could be hidden in. That into this room the lawyer's assailants had burst their way was apparent from the splintered door hanging from one hinge at the rear.

Beckoning Juanita to bring the lamp, Janet ran to the arm-chair.

"Ah, here it is!" she cried, when she had turned the piece of furniture over and inserted her hand in the rent. "It wasn't found, after all! Come away now."

Relief and exultation replaced her depression of the moment before. She had succeeded; she had helped the lawyer outwit his enemies; she must now return home to await Steele Weir's arrival, or if he failed in that then go to the dam.

In the outer room she bade the Mexican girl place the lamp on the table once more and blow it out. This was done. They groped forward to the door.

"Follow me out quietly, Juanita," Janet said. "Only Mr. Martinez knows we've been here, and Mr. Weir, the engineer. See, I'm trusting you. This is a very important paper for Mr. Weir, and other men are trying to keep it out of his hands. So you must say nothing to any one about our being here."

Juanita assented in a whisper. Janet thereupon opened the door and the pair stepped forth. A faint hissing sound directly before them startled both. But the American girl immediately recognized it for what it was, the faint murmur of an automobile engine.

She quietly closed the office door, caught her companion's arm to lead her away.

"Don't talk," she whispered in her ear.

At the same instant the beam of an electric hand torch flashed in their eyes, blinding them. Then as quickly the light was extinguished and a heavy blanket was flung over Janet's head. Her cry was choked off, but not that of the Mexican girl who had been struck by the corner of the cloth and who heard her mistress struggling in the arms of the man who had seized her. The sound of the struggle moved towards the car and then Juanita, paralyzed by fright, was stunned by a sudden roar of the exhaust, a grind of gears, and a rush in the darkness. The automobile had gone, carrying off Janet Hosmer a muffled prisoner. Juanita regaining use of her legs fled for Doctor Hosmer's unmindful of the mist against her face.

Janet's sensation had been that of strangulation and terror. In the thick folds of the blanket, held and lifted by strong arms, all she could offer in the way of resistance was futile kicks. She had been jammed into the automobile seat and firmly kept there by an embrace while the car was being started, which did not relax as the machine gathered speed. For some minutes this lasted, while she strained painfully for breath, and then she perceived the car was stopping.

Her terror increased. What now would happen? These men after overpowering Felipe Martinez had abducted her in their determination to possess themselves of the paper. Finding it in her hand—for she still clutched it—what then? Would they kill her?

The car was now completely at rest. The arm was withdrawn from about her; hands gripped her hands and forced them together; a handkerchief was tightly knotted about her wrists. Afterwards her ankles were bound by a strap. Then the blanket was lifted from her form and head and she gasped in again pure night air.

"Here's a gag," said the man at her side. "Keep quiet and I'll not use it; if you open your mouth to make a sound, I shall. It's up to you." And with the hoarse threat she caught the heavy sickening odor of whiskey on the speaker's breath.

"You, Ed Sorenson! You've dared to do this!" she exclaimed, fear vanishing in anger.

"Yes, sweetheart," came with a mocking accent.

"Untie me this minute and let me out!"

"Oh, no. You've got the wrong line on this little game. We're going for a ride, just you and me, as lovers should."

Janet began to think fast.

"How did you know I was in Mr. Martinez' office?" she demanded.

"Because I saw you go in, little one. I was just pulling up at your door to coax you out when I saw you and the Mexican wench appear. So I followed along. Saved me the bother of telling you your father had been hurt in an accident. He's chasing off somewhere thirty miles from town on a 'false alarm' call to attend a dying man. Sorry I had to use the blanket; sorry I have to keep your naughty little hands and feet tied up. But it's the only way. After we're married, you'll forget all about it in loving me."

So this was the face of the matter. Not the paper she gripped, but she herself was his object. His abduction of her had nothing to do with Martinez' affair; he knew nothing of the larger plot; and for that reason she experienced a degree of relief.

"I'll never marry you, be certain of that," said she, recurring to his statement. "If anything had been needed to settle that point, what you have done now would be enough. You shall pay for this atrocious treatment. Untie my hands."

"Oh, no. We're starting on."

"Your father as well as mine shall know of this."

"I think not, dearie. We're going up into the hills where I've a nice little cabin fixed up. And we'll stay there awhile. And then when we come back, you'll not do any talking. On the contrary, you'll be anxious to marry me—you'll be begging me to marry you. Of course! People know we're engaged, and they'll know you've been away with me for two or three days. Do you think they'll listen to any story about my carrying you off against your will? They'll wink when they hear it. Yes, you'll be ready to marry me all right, all right, when we come back to San Mateo."

Janet's blood ran cold at this heartless, black plan to ensnare her into marriage.

"Ed, you would never do a thing like that," she pleaded. "You're just trying to scare me with a joke. Be a good fellow and untie my hands and take me home."

"No joke about this; straight business. I told you you should marry me——"

"You're drunk or mad!" she burst out, terrified.

"Neither; perfectly calm. But I'm not the fellow to be tossed over at a whim. I'm holding you to your word, that's all. You'll change your mind back as it was by to-morrow; you'll be crazy to have me as a husband then. I won't have to tie your hands and feet to keep you at my side when we come riding home to go to the minister's. Now we've had our little talk and understand each other; and it's beginning to drizzle. Time to start for our little cabin. The less fuss you make, the pleasanter it will be for both of us."

He set the gears and the car started forward once more. A sensation of being under the paws of a beast, odious and fetid, savage and pitiless, overwhelmed her. That this was no trick of a moment but a calculated scheme to abase and possess her she now realized with a sort of dull horror. And on top of all he was, despite his denial, partly drunk.

Through the terror of her situation two thoughts now continued to course like fiery threads—one a hope, one a purpose. The former rested on Juanita, whom in his inflamed ferocity of intention, the man seemed to have forgotten—on Juanita and Steele Weir, "Cold Steel" Weir; and this failing, there remained the latter, a set idea to kill herself before this brute at her side worked his will. Somehow she could and would kill herself. Somehow she would find the means to free her hands and the instrument to pierce her heart.

Sorenson had switched on his lights. He drove the car through the damp darkness at headlong speed along the trail that leaped from the gloom to meet them and vanished behind. At the end of a quarter of an hour he swung into a canyon; and Janet perceived they were ascending Terry Creek. He stopped the car anew.

"I'll just take no chances with you," he exclaimed. "We have to pass your friends, the Johnsons, you know. Had to take my stuff up here in the middle of the night—up one night and back the next—and mighty still too, so that they wouldn't suspicion I was fixing a little bower for you."

He bound a cloth over her mouth and again flung the blanket over her head. Janet struggled fiercely for a moment, but finally sank back choking and half in a faint. She was barely conscious of the car's climbing again. Though when passing the ranch house the man drove with every care for silence, she was not aware of the fact. Her breath, mind, soul, were stifled. She seemed transfixed in a hideous nightmare.

At length her lips and head were released. But her hands and feet were numb. Still feeling as if she were in some dreadful dream she saw the beam of the headlights picking out the winding trail, flashing on trees by the wayside, shining on wet rocks, heard the chatter of the creek over stones and the labor of the engine.

The road was less plain, a mere track now, and steeper. They were climbing, climbing up the mountain side, up into the heavier timber, up into one of the "parks" among the peaks. Johnson's ranch was miles behind and far below. Occasionally billows of fog swathed them in wet folds that sent a chill to Janet's bones.

Sorenson held his watch down to the driver's light.

"Ten o'clock; we're making good time. Must give the engine a drink—and take one myself."

He descended to the creek with a bucket, bringing back water to fill the steaming radiator. Afterwards, standing in the light of the car's lamps, he tilted a flask to his lips and drank deep.

"Not far now; three or four miles. But it's slow going. Have to make it on 'low'," said he, swinging himself up into his place.

Janet held her face turned away. She was thinking of Juanita and Steele Weir. Had the girl gone home again? Or, terrified, had she run to her own home and said nothing? Had the engineer come and waited and learning nothing at last returned to the dam? Despair filled her breast. Even should the Mexican girl have apprised him of the kidnapping, how should he know where to follow? And in the solitude of the wet dark mountains all about her hope died.

She began desperately to tug against the handkerchief binding her wrists.

Suddenly the going became easier and she felt rather than saw that the trees had thinned. A flash of the car lamps at a curve in the trail showed a great glistening wall of rock towering overhead, then this was passed and the way appeared to lead into a grassy open space. A dark shape beside the road loomed into view—a cabin by a clump of pine trees. Sorenson brought the car to a stop a few yards from the house.

"Here at last," he announced, springing down.

He unstrapped her feet, bade her get out.

"I make a last appeal to your decency and manhood—if you have either," she said, sitting motionless.

"Rot," he answered. Half dragging her, half lifting her, he removed her from the machine. Slipping a hand within her arm he led her inside the log house.

"Sit there," he ordered.

Janet dropped upon the seat, a rude plank bench against the wall farthest from the door. Indeed, fatigue and the numbness of her limbs rendered her incapable of standing.

"When I've touched off this fire and set out some grub, then I'll untie your hands," he continued. "A snug little cabin, eh? Just the place for us, what? See all the stuff I've brought up here to make you warm and happy and comfortable. Regular nest. Lot of work on my part, I want to say."

He touched a match to the wood already laid in the fireplace, flung off his rain coat and stood to warm his hands at the blaze. Lighting a cigarette, he began placing from a box of supplies plates and food on the table in the middle of the room, but paused to reproduce his flask. With a sardonic grin he lifted the bottle, bowed to Janet and drank the liquor neat. When he had finished, he turned the bottle upside down to show it was empty, then tossed it into a corner. Again he fixed his drunken, mocking smile upon her.

"Can't preach to me about booze here, can you, honey?" he said. "Ought to take a swallow yourself; warm you up. I have plenty. Guess I better untie your hands now." He advanced towards her, swaying slightly. "You're going to love me from this time on, ain't you, girlie?" He untied the handkerchief and dropped it at his feet. "No nonsense now about trying to get away; I'll rope you for good if you try to start anything. Hello, what's that?"

"No; give it to me!" she cried, in alarm as he pulled the folded sheets of paper from her stiffened fingers.

"Something I ought to see, maybe." Then he added harshly, "Sit down, if you don't care to have me teach you a thing or two. I'm master here."

He stepped to the table and drawing a box beside him settled upon it, pulled the candle-stick nearer and began to read the document. Janet glanced swiftly about the room for a weapon. Escape past him she could not, for by a single spring he could bar the way; but could she lay hand on a stick of wood she might fight her way out. None was nearer than the fire, and again he could interpose.

He read on and on, with a darkening brow and an evil glint showing in his eyes. Page by page he perused Saurez' deposition until he reached the end. Then he got to his feet, shaking the paper at her head.

"You were in on this," he snarled. "This is what you were in Martinez' office to get. You're wise to this cursed scheme to help Weir make my father and Vorse and Burkhardt and Judge Gordon out a gang of swindlers. So they trimmed his father of something—at least I fancy they did, and I hope to God they did, the coward! And you were in with them! You're not quite the little white angel you'd have people believe, are you? Not quite so innocent and simple as you've made me think, anyway. Well, I'll square all that. That slippery snake, Martinez, I'll twist his neck the minute I get back to town. I'll bet a thousand it was framed up to use this when Weir was arrested—but he'll never use it now!"

He glared at the girl with a face distorted by rage.

"We'll just burn it here and now," he continued. "Then we'll be sure it won't be used."

Janet gripped her hands tightly, while her lips opened to utter a wild protest at this desecration. What the document contained she did not yet know, except that it was evidence that fixed upon the men named guilt for some past deed in which Weir had suffered and which would bring them to account. But something more than protest was needed, she saw in a flash, to deflect the man from his purpose and save the sheets from the flame.

She shut her lips for an instant to choke the cry, then said with an assumption of unconcern:

"Go ahead. I didn't want your father to see it, in any case."

The paper had almost reached the candle, but the hand that held it paused. Sorenson stared at it, and from it to her. At last a malignant curl of his lips uncovered his teeth.

"Oh, you didn't want him to see it," he sneered. "If that's so, I'll just save it. He'll be interested in reading what your friends have prepared to destroy his good name and reputation."

He folded the document and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. Then he walked towards her. At the look on his face Janet sprang to her feet.

"I've changed my mind about the marriage matter, just as you did," he said. "I agree with you now; there won't be any marriage. But I'll have your arms about my neck just the same."

And he seized her wrist.

"Let me go, let——" The words ceased on her lips.

Her eyes were riveted on the cabin door; she scarcely felt the man's loathsome touch on her arm. How had the door come unlatched? And was it only the wind that slowly moved it open?



CHAPTER XVI

WEIR TAKES UP THE HUNT

On leaving the construction camp Steele Weir had whirled away down the river road for San Mateo with a feeling both of satisfaction and of enmity—satisfaction at Martinez' success in at last having secured the evidence ardently desired, as betokened by his words; enmity at whoever was laying violent hands on the lawyer. Unfortunately when yet half a mile from town his car suffered one of the common misadventures of automobiles:—ping-g-g! sang a tire in a shrill dying whine.

Weir did not stop to change and inflate the tube, but pushed ahead on his mission though at slackened speed. He brought his car to rest before Doctor Hosmer's house. The windows were lighted, yet at his knock there was no response; so brushing conventionalities aside he entered and called Janet's name. Only echoes and a following silence greeted his call.

Doubtful whether to remain awaiting the girl's return or go at once to Martinez' office in the hope of still finding her, he finally chose the latter course leaving his car where it stood and proceeding on foot, as a result of which he passed in the darkness Juanita hurrying home in a fright. A bad choice and valuable time lost, he afterwards discovered. At Martinez' office he stepped inside, called the lawyer by name, called Janet Hosmer, stood for a little while in the black room harkening and thinking, then went forth into the street.

This time chance fell his way. He had but come out when he heard footsteps and two men in low-toned talk as they approached; and he withdrew further into the concealing darkness of the street. The new visitors, striking matches at the entrance, walked inside. The men were Vorse and Burkhardt.

"If you had been here, we could have nailed him at once as soon as I had Saurez' story," the former said. "Martinez had half an hour and more to get the thing into somebody else's hands."

"Well, I was looking after those men up in the hills," was the growled answer. "Had to feed 'em and have 'em ready for to-morrow night. If we don't find the document here, we'll screw its hiding-place out of that dirty greaser if we have to use a cord on his head Indian-fashion. Anyway it ought to be about this office. Martinez didn't know you had learned about it from Saurez. He'd never let go a paper like that until he had to."

"I think you're right there," Vorse said. "He'd want to sell it for all it was worth. Better shut and lock the door while we're searching. Don't care to have any of his friends sticking in their heads while we're here."

Burkhardt, who had lighted the lamp, now closed the door, cutting off so far as Steele Weir was concerned both a view of the men and their conversation. However he had learned if not enough, at least considerable. They had not yet gained possession of the paper. They knew nothing of Janet's part in the affair. They had so far not succeeded in unlocking Martinez' lips, but undoubtedly they would be able to wring from the lawyer when they went about it the real truth regarding the document. Very likely Martinez had anticipated that, had known his powers were such as not to be greatly able to resist physical torture and had planned to get the evidence into the engineer's hands before he should be subjected to pains of the flesh. That would be remembered to his credit, along with all the rest. Where Martinez was being held prisoner was the additional information Weir should have liked to glean before the door was shut.

Postponing for the time the hunt along this line, he returned to the Hosmer dwelling. In answer to his knock and call on this visit the trembling Juanita appeared, immediately pouring forth a recital of the happenings at the office as affecting her mistress.

"You've told no one else?" he demanded.

"No, senor. She said I was to say nothing of her being there for the paper, and I was waiting for her father to come. But she informed me Mr. Martinez and you knew she was there, so I've told you."

"And you saw nothing of this man who cast the blanket over her head and seized her?"

"It was dark; we had just come out of the office. But—but the car sounded like Ed Sorenson's. I've heard it start from here many times with the same loud noise. They had quarreled, Senor Weir, and were no longer engaged."

"I know. Which way did he drive off?"

"East, down the lower end of the street."

"Bring a lamp out to my car, so I can fix my tire."

With the girl holding the light by his side the engineer worked with concentrated energy in stripping the wheel, in inserting a new tube, replacing the tire and pumping it up. The thin drizzle glistened on his face, but for all that it was none the less determined, stern.

"You need not be afraid for yourself; no one but us knows you were there," he said to her, climbing into his machine. "Nor for Miss Janet, either. I'll bring her home safely. When Dr. Hosmer returns, tell him everything. Also ask him to await our coming. Be sure and say to him that I'll bring her home unharmed and that I advise silence in regard to the matter until I have talked with him. You will remain quiet, of course. This isn't a thing to be gossiped about."

"No, senor."

Away the automobile shot under the impulsion of the gas. Minutes, golden minutes, had been wasted in taking up the pursuit because of his going to Martinez' office and because of the flat tire. Sorenson now would be miles away with his prisoner.

Sweeping out of town with the car's headlights illuminating the road, Steele Weir blessed the drizzling mist that dampened the dust so as to leave a tire's imprint. Almost at once he picked up the track, for not more than twenty or twenty-five minutes had elapsed since Sorenson's flight and not even a horseman had since been over the way.

Though he knew it not, the interval of time had been reduced by the stop made by the first machine, a mile or so out of town, when the abductor removed the blanket from Janet Hosmer's head to announce his evil scheme. From the main road leading to Bowenville Weir saw the car's trail turn aside into a mesa track pointing obliquely for Terry Creek canyon; and he suspected that Sorenson was making a long drive northward, skirting the mountain range and working away from the railroad-tapped region.

Once he thought he caught a flash of light far ahead of him, but knew this was an illusion. Through this rainy darkness no car's beam, however powerful, would show half a mile. The mist beat against his face in a steady stream as he rushed forward in the night, his eyes immovable on the wet twin tire-marks stamped on the road, his iron grip on the wheel, his ears filled with the steady hum of the engine. If Sorenson had driven fast, Steele Weir drove faster.

At Terry Creek he plunged down the bank, across the water and up on the other side without a change of gears, rocking and lurching. Once on the smooth trail again the car seemed to stretch itself like a greyhound for the race northward. But on a sudden he brought the automobile to an abrupt halt. The surface of the road was undisturbed; nothing had passed here.

Swinging back again on the way he had come, Weir recrossed the creek and slowly retraced his course. Then with an exclamation of satisfaction he picked up the track where it turned up the canyon trail. But why was the man going to the Johnson ranch? Mystified by this baffling procedure on Sorenson's part, he nevertheless headed up the stream with no lessening of his purpose to overtake the other.

At the ranch house, whose kitchen window was lighted, he stopped and leaped out. Johnson and Mary both answered his thumping knock.

"Is Janet Hosmer here?" he questioned, while his eyes darted about the kitchen. Then he made his own reply, "I see she's not. Ed Sorenson kidnapped her to-night and drove to this canyon. Did you hear a car?"

Mary faced her father.

"You remember I thought I heard one!" she cried. "But the sound was so low I wasn't sure, and when I went to the window I saw nothing. I didn't hear it again. Father said it was just my imagination."

"Where does this road lead?"

"Up into the timber and to a 'park.' Used to be an old wood road. Sheepmen sometimes use it to take their wagons up above; sometimes cattle outfits too while on round-ups."

"Could an auto go ahead on it?"

"Yes, I guess so. By hard driving."

"Then he's up there."

Weir ran back to his car, jumped in.

"Let me go with you," Johnson shouted after him.

"No, I can handle the fellow," the engineer answered. And again his machine started on. "How long ago was it that you heard him, Mary?" was his parting question.

"'Bout fifteen minutes ago," she cried.

Fifteen minutes! But the girl's reckoning might be vague, and "fifteen" minutes be half an hour. At any rate, with the road ascending among the peaks Sorenson's speed would be greatly diminished. The incline would be against him, the uneven twisting rain-washed trail would require careful driving, the rain would hamper his sight. Yet the fellow he pursued could not be more than three or four miles ahead at most.

On and on Weir pressed. The mist thickened; black wet tree trunks loomed before him like ghosts and sank out of view again; the road wound along the stream among rocks and bushes and over hillocks with all the difficult sinuosity of a serpent's track; in his ears persisted the chuckling talk of the creek, flowing in darkness except when lighted by his car's lamps as the machine plunged through a ford, as became more and more frequent with the ascent and the narrowing of the canyon.

Five miles, ten miles, fifteen miles he must have come since leaving the ranch house. His car now was high in the mountain range, running on low gear, the engine working hard in the thin air and against the steep grade. He was not making more than five miles an hour, he judged, at this moment. The radiator was boiling and steaming like a cauldron. But he might be sure that if his travel was slow, Sorenson's was no better; the road was the same for the pursued as for the pursuer.

At the end of another half hour he came around a ledge of rock, where the creek flowed some fifty feet below and the granite wall allowed just room to pass in a hair-pin turn. There a light gleamed before him like a beacon, a dim gleam of a window. It was perhaps a hundred yards distant. It marked the end of the trail, the end of the search.

Here was Janet Hosmer!

And he had come in time. They could not have been here long, for Sorenson's start had not been sufficient for that; the scoundrel had not yet recovered his breath from his hard drive, so to speak. He probably would imagine himself safe and so be in no haste to consummate his vile plan of enjoying his helpless victim.

Rage that until now had been lying cold and implacable in Steele Weir's breast began to flame in his veins and brain. He drove his car past the rock and off the trail upon an open grassy space, very carefully, very quietly. Next he stopped the engine and put out the lights, then he got out, felt his gun in its holster and gazed ahead for an instant.

A form had passed and repassed before the window—Sorenson's figure, of course. Brute, coward, degenerate he was, and to be dealt with as such. Not only as such, indeed, but as a wretch who had dared to touch Janet Hosmer against her will, to drag her from her home to this lonely spot by violence for his own bestial purposes.

The blood seemed like to burst Steele Weir's heart. This sweet, honest, kind-souled, noble girl! Janet Hosmer, so bright-eyed and pure! She, who had suffered this man's hate to save Martinez' document, who had dared peril to help him, Weir! All the hunger of heart of years, and all the stifled affection, now went out to her. He loved her; the veil was rent from his mind and he realized the fact indisputably—he loved Janet Hosmer. And the great creature of an Ed Sorenson had dared to seize her with brutal hands!

Weir broke into a run. By instinct he kept the trail, though once or twice stumbling and once barely missing a collision with a tree. When he reached the cabin, he dropped to a walk and crept to the window, which was without glass or frame, open to the night. Peering in he perceived Sorenson at the table reading a document, and as he watched he had no need to be told this was the paper that so vitally concerned himself.

At last Sorenson got to his feet, shaking his hand at Janet Hosmer who sat against the cabin wall and beginning to speak. Weir listened for a little. Then he stole along the log house to find the door.

At last his finger touched the latch. He lifted it soundlessly, as silently pushed the door ajar until there was space for him to slip in. This he did. His mouth was shut hard, his eyes watchful, his right hand was closed about the butt of his revolver still resting in the holster.

Over Sorenson's shoulder he saw Janet Hosmer's face, pale and drawn but with a sudden joy flaming there. If ever gratitude were written on human countenance, it was on hers. Gratitude—and more! Something that sent Steele Weir's blood rushing anew through his body, with hope, with a song, with he knew not what.

Janet suddenly jerked herself free and stepped back, her head held high and proud.

"You'll never touch me again, you coward. Look behind you," she exclaimed.

Involuntarily Sorenson turned head on shoulder. The frown still darkened his liquor-flushed face and the sneer yet twisted his lips so that his mustache was drawn back from his teeth. Thus he remained as if changed to stone.

What he saw was the man he most dreaded, with a shadow of a smile on his lips, his figure motionless, his hand ready, like an avenging Nemesis from out of the night. A perceptible shudder shook the fellow. Weir it was—"Cold Steel," whose counter-stroke against one man already had been swift and deadly, whom nothing checked or turned or terrified, who now for a second time was plucking away the fruit of Sorenson's efforts, who probably on this occasion would shoot him outright.

For a moment Steele Weir regarded him in silence. But at last he spoke:

"Stand away from that lady, you skunk!"

Sorenson moved hastily aside.



CHAPTER XVII

EARTH'S RETRIBUTION

Steele Weir crossed the cabin to Janet's side.

"You are unhurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning her face anxiously.

"Yes. And, oh, how glad I am you came!" she cried, low. "I knew you would not fail me if you but learned of my plight; but it's wonderful you should be here so soon. I prayed every minute of my ride that Juanita would find and tell you."

"I couldn't come half as fast as I wished." His smile assured and cheered her. Then as his glance fell on her wrists, still red and creased from being bound, he exclaimed, "What's this? Let me see." And he caught and lifted her hands to look.

"He had you tied?" Weir's gaze moved away to Sorenson.

"Yes. Hands and feet."

"All the way? All the long ride?"

"Yes—look out!"

Janet's words, half a gasp, half a shriek, gave warning of Sorenson's movement, though none was needed. While apparently neglecting to watch the other, Weir had kept the man sharp in the corner of his eye. The motion with which his hand darted to his hip and up again was a single lightning-like sweep; and his weapon covered his enemy before the latter's hand so much as got his revolver in grasp.

"Drop it; drop it on the floor!" the engineer ordered. The gun clattered on the rough-hewn logs. "Now put your hands up and turn your back this way." Sorenson obeyed, not without his eyes speaking the disappointed wrath and hatred his tongue dared not utter. "I should have allowed you to make a full draw and then killed you," Steele Weir went on. "That would have been the simplest way to settle your case. Only I don't like to kill bunglers, even when they deserve it."

He re-sheathed his own gun and strode forward, picking up the one on the floor—a black, ugly-looking automatic. This he dropped into a coat pocket.

"Now face about, you cur," he commanded. "I want a good look at a man—no, I'll not call you a man—at a low-lived imitation of a man who is such a sneaking, dirty beast that all he can do is to trap and tie up a helpless girl. I don't know yet just what I shall do with you, but I know what I ought to do—I ought to choke the miserable life out of you! You're not fit to live. You soil the earth and pollute the air. But you're of the same treacherous, underhanded, scoundrelly breed as your father, same yellow flesh and blood, same crooked mind and heart, same sort of poisonous snake, and since you get it all from him I suppose it can't be helped. Nor changed, except by killing and burying you. One thing is sure, when I'm done you won't be trying any more deals like this. Bah, you slimy reptile, you belong in a cess-pool!"

Under Steele Weir's biting speech Sorenson's face went red and pale by turns. His lips twitched and worked, moving his mustache in little angry lifts, while he breathed with short spasmodic intakes.

"First, you're after Mexican girls," Weir went on mercilessly. "Then Mary Johnson, whom I pulled out of your vile fingers. And now it's—" The engineer's fist arose suddenly above the other's head. "Why, I ought to drop you dead in your tracks for so much as looking at Janet Hosmer! Why don't you fight? Why don't you give me a chance, you cowardly girl-robber? Haven't you a spark of—well, you haven't, I see. I'll just tie you up and later figure out some way to make you suffer for this night's work." And with a gesture of disgust Weir turned away.

It was the moment Sorenson had been waiting for. As the engineer's back came about, exposed in one instant of carelessness, the man struck Weir full force on the neck, sending him staggering. Then Sorenson leaped for the doorway.

Janet screamed. Weir recovered himself and whirled around, whipping forth his revolver and firing two shots. But the bullets only buried themselves in the door slammed shut after the escaping prisoner.

"I myself ought to be shot for this," Steele snapped out.

He ran across the cabin, flung the door open, sprang out. The uselessness of seeking his enemy in the black wet gloom was only too evident, but he would not give up. Gun in hand, he stood listening for sound of fleeing footsteps.

A light hand gripped his arm. Janet had followed him out, was at his side. Barely audible he heard her quick, excited breathing.

"Must you shoot him?" she whispered.

"Why spare him for more deviltry? But I'll not have the chance now."

"I can't bear to think of even his blood being on our hands. Let him go," Janet said.

"He's gone without our permission, I'd say."

"Isn't it just as well? I'm not harmed, and he'll never dare show his face in San Mateo again," she said. "He'll have to stay away; he'll leave for good."

"Not until I see him first. I want that paper."

"Oh, the paper, I forgot it! And it's in his pocket," she cried, in despair.

"Like the fool I was, I forgot it for the moment too," Steele said bitterly. "When I could have had it at once I must go off ranting about his meanness. It was thought of what he had done to you that made me overlook the paper; that set me boiling. Lost my head."

Janet's answer was almost sufficient recompense for even such a serious deprivation as that of the document.

"I'll never forget that you were angry in my behalf," she said, softly. "But perhaps you can gain possession of the paper yet."

Before he could make a reply the sound of a motor engine startled them. Sorenson was in his car, not far off. Weir immediately plunged forward through the darkness in the direction of the noise, uttering a shout for the man to stop or be shot. But after the taste of liberty that he already had had Sorenson was prepared to take further chances; the engine's roar burst into full volume and the car leaped ahead, while its driver sent back a derisive curse to the cabin.

Weir fired again, fired two or three times at the sound. Perhaps Sorenson was crouching safely out of range; at any rate, the bullets did not reach him, for the automobile plunged away. Steele slowly went back to the girl.

"How can he see without lights?" she questioned.

"He can't see, but he'd rather risk not seeing the road than drawing my fire. There's a bad place there at the rock; he'd better turn on his lamps if he wants to round that."

Sensing the danger that threatened Sorenson, both remained unmoving, trying to penetrate the darkness, harkening to the automobile's retreating murmur. A curiosity, a sort of detached suspense, rooted them to the spot.

"Ah, he's snapped them on!" Janet said, almost with relief.

The powerful beam of the headlights had suddenly blazed forth. Either feeling that he was safe from Weir's gun or realizing that he was on the verge of a graver danger, Sorenson had chosen to make the light. He was going at headlong speed; even where they watched, Steele and Janet perceived that,—and only his fear of the peril behind which made him heedless of the difficulties in front could account for that reckless pace.

The light leaped out into the night. Something else too seemed to spring forth within the circle of the glow, dark, sudden, imminent, rushing at the machine. A frantic jerk this way and that of the beam showed the driver's mad effort to avoid the towering wall of granite. Then a scream rang back to the man and girl before the cabin. Followed instantly a crash, an extinguishment of the light, darkness, silence, and finally a thin quivering flame at the base of the ledge, delicate and blue, like a dancing chimera.

Janet's hand reached out and closed in Steele Weir's, and he covered it with his other hand.

"Oh, how terrible!" she gasped. "Did you see? The rock seemed to smite him!"

"Yes."

"He must be dead."

"You remain here and I'll go find out."

He led her into the cabin and to a stool by the table, where resting her elbows on the board she pressed her hands over her eyes as if to blot out the sight she had just witnessed. After all she had suffered, the climax of this dreadful spectacle left her unnerved, weak, shuddering.

"Don't stay long," she whispered. "Come back as quick as you can. This cabin, this whole spot in the mountains, is awful. I can almost feel him hovering over me."

"You mustn't permit such thoughts." He gave her shoulder an encouraging pat. "It will take but a few minutes to see if he's still alive and then we'll start home. You've been the bravest girl going and will continue to be, I know. Everything is over; nothing can happen to you now."

Weir went out. He perceived that the wrecked car was fully afire by this time, its flames illuminating the granite ledge and the ground about. Evidently the machine's fuel tank had been smashed under the impact and the gasoline had escaped, preventing an explosion but fiercely feeding the blaze. He ran towards the place.

At first he did not find Sorenson, so that he supposed him buried beneath the wreckage, but presently he discovered his crumpled form lying jammed between the base of the ledge and a boulder. Weir lifted the limp figure from its resting place and bore it to open ground, where he made an examination of the still form. Clearly Sorenson had been pitched free of the car and crushed against the rock wall. His cap was missing; his coat was ripped up the back and a part of it gone as if caught and held by some obstruction in the car when he had been shot forth; blood and a great bruise marked one cheek; and the way his legs dragged when he was lifted up indicated some serious injury to those members. But the man still breathed.

"Miracles haven't ceased," Weir muttered, when he had made sure of the fact. "But his chance is slim at best."

It would be false to say that the engineer felt compassion at the other's sudden catastrophe; he experienced none. On the contrary he had a sense of justice fittingly executed, as if, escaping bullets and man's blows, Sorenson had been felled by a more certain power, by the inevitable consequences of his own deeds and sins, by a wall of evil he himself had raised as much as by a wall of stone.

He searched the man's breast pocket, then hunted for the missing document among the stones and bushes. At last he gave up for the time further seeking, with a conviction that the vital paper was gone for good, destroyed in the fire of the burning car. But for his own over-confidence, his belief he had Sorenson a safe prisoner back there in the cabin, the sheets might be secure in his pocket. Well, it was too late now.

He again lifted the unconscious man in his arms and returned to the log house. Inside he laid him on the rude bed which Sorenson himself had spread with sheets and blankets.

"He's alive?" Janet asked, awed.

"Alive, but badly hurt."

"You'll leave him here?"

"Yes, while I take you away. We could do nothing for him in any case; his injuries are grave and need a doctor's help. The best service we can perform in his behalf is to start your father or some other physician here as quickly as possible. He may live or he may die; that isn't in our hands. He's unconscious and not suffering, and probably will not feel pain for some hours if he does live, so we can go without feeling that we're robbing him of any of his chances of recovery. Your conscience may rest quite easy on that point. Come, we'll start at once. The quicker we reach your father, the quicker he will arrive here."

When they were in his car he wrapped a robe about her against the sharp chill.

"I am cold; my teeth are chattering," she said.

"You've been under a great strain. Just lie back and rest and think of something else than what has happened, if you can," he urged.

"I'll try to."

The lamps blazed out at his touch of the switch and the car began to move. She closed her eyes. She did not wish to see the scene of the smash, with the leaping fire and the horrible pile of crushed metal. Indeed, she drew the robe before her face, where she kept it for some time.

"Are we past the place?" she asked, finally.

"A long way past."

"Thank heaven! Nothing shall ever drag me up this road again!"

"It will not take us long to reach Johnson's and be off this trail altogether, for it's down-hill going all the way."

"You said nothing about the paper? Did you get it?"

"No; it wasn't on him. I'll return for another look, but it fell in the fire, I think, and burned."

"Do you know what was in it, Mr. Weir?"

"No. But I can guess."

"I know a little of its contents, from what he said before you entered. It was a statement, something about his father and others doing dishonest acts, I think. He didn't seem to be quite clear what it was about either, but he spoke of your father and declared he hoped the others had swindled him, which he inferred had happened. I didn't know your father ever had been in this country. That's the reason you hate those men, Mr. Sorenson and Mr. Vorse and Mr. Burkhardt; because of some injury they worked your father."

"That's the reason. And that too is why they're trying to get rid of me one way or another. But they didn't hire the Mexican to attempt to shoot me; Ed Sorenson employed him. Martinez, when you told me the man's name, telegraphed around the country from Bowenville till he got track of the fellow. He also secured evidence that a white man resembling Ed Sorenson had been seen talking with him at the place he came from. So we can draw our conclusions."

"Then he hired the man to assassinate you!"

"Looks like it. Because I took Mary Johnson away from him, and from fear. He was afraid you might learn of the matter, I suppose, and decided to get rid of me. He's a coward at heart, but none the less a criminal by instinct, so he hired another to do what he dared not attempt himself. A crook like his father, but with less nerve."

Janet was silent while the car wound its way down the creek road, through the misty darkness and among the invisible peaks. The full danger that she had escaped was but now making itself clear to her mind.

"If he would go so far as to try to murder you," she faltered, "I surely could have expected no pity from him."

"Now listen to me," he said. "I'm going to give you a little scolding: you must forget all this business; it just makes you fearful and unhappy. The past is over, and he's out of your life for good. Look at it that way. Consider the thing as a bad dream, done with and no more important. That's 'the right view to take'"—he paused, then added softly—"Janet."

"How strong-souled you are!" she whispered.

Strong, in truth, he seemed. Ignoring danger he had come swift on Sorenson's track and rescued her, saved her, kept her clean from her assailant's infamous brutishness. The one was a knave and a beast; but he, Steele Weir, was a man, clear to see, quick to act, hard towards enemies, gentle to friends. Every particle a man—sure of himself, and fearless, and true-hearted, and firm of soul.

She pressed her hands tight against her breast. He was a man one could love and honor. "Cold Steel" Weir they called him—and, she divined, his love if ever given would be as lasting as hoops of steel.



CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE NIGHT WATCHES

A light still burned in the Johnson ranch house, late as was the hour, when the car swung round a copse of aspens and brought it in view. Johnson himself came forth at sound of the automobile, with a sleepy Mary following.

"I wouldn't go to bed, of course, knowing you were to come back," said he. But his true reason appeared in his added words, "I was just about ready to saddle a horse and head up there myself. Mighty glad to see you safe back, Miss Hosmer. Mary has had some coffee on the fire ever since Weir went along, knowing you'd be cold and worn out."

"Just the thing!" Steele exclaimed. "We're both chilled. Come, Janet." And he stepped from the machine.

Without demur the girl placed her hand in the one he offered and descended stiffly. Mary ran back into the house to attend to the coffee-pot and the visitors presently were seated at the kitchen table at places already laid, with cups of steaming strong coffee and plates of food before them.

Janet contented herself with the hot, reviving drink, but Weir ate heartily as well. Coming and going, forty miles of driving a rough mountain road had given him a laborer's appetite.

"It's late, one o'clock," Mary said to Janet. "Why don't you stay with us the rest of the night? I wish you would."

Janet put up an arm and drew down the face of the girl at her side and kissed her.

"You're a good friend, Mary, to be so thoughtful," she answered. "But father will be terribly anxious every minute I'm away. I must reach home as quickly as possible to ease his mind."

Of Sorenson nothing had been spoken, though a repressed curiosity on the part of the ranchman and his daughter had been evident from the instant of Weir's and Janet's return.

At this point Johnson jerked his head in the direction of the creek.

"What did you do to him, Weir?" he growled.

"Not as much as I intended at first. But he made up for it himself. Ran his car against that granite ledge before the cabin while trying to get away, and smashed himself up badly. I carried him into the hut and left him there; he was alive when we drove off, but he may be dead by now. Bad eggs like him are hard to kill, however. I'll start a doctor up there when I arrive in San Mateo; probably one from Bowenville."

"Father won't attend him now, so long as there's another physician who can, I know," Janet stated.

"I should say not!" Johnson asseverated. "If that young hound Sorenson had his deserts, we'd just leave him there and forget all about him."

"That's where our civilized notions handicap us," Steele Weir said, with a slight smile. "But at that, if he were the only person concerned, I'd do no more than inform a doctor where he was and what had happened to him, and wash my hands of the affair. There are other things, though, to consider. Janet's position, primarily. Her case is similar to that of Mary's awhile ago, and we must prevent talk."

"Yes, of course."

"The worst of the doings of a scoundrel like him that involve innocent people is the talk. There are always some people low enough to ascribe evil to the girl as well as the man in such a circumstance as this. I propose to see that Janet doesn't suffer that. We avoided it in Mary's case and we'll do so in this, though the situation is more difficult. I've been thinking the matter over on the way down and have a plan that will work out, I believe, but it requires your help, Johnson."

"I reckon you know you'll not have to ask me twice for anything," the rancher remarked.

"And we may have to shuffle the facts a bit."

"All right. I'll do all the lying necessary and never bat an eye."

"It won't require much decorating, the story. But you will have to go up and get him, starting at once." Then he concluded, "I hate to have to ask you to make that drive late at night and in the darkness."

"Never mind that. Glad to do it, if that's what you want."

"Take your wagon and fill the box with hay and bring him down. By coming back slowly he won't be jarred, and he has to be brought out anyway. If he's dead, well, bring his body just the same. A doctor should be easily at your house by the time you arrive; and your story is that a sheepherder found him lying by his wrecked car, carried him into the cabin and then came down and told you of the accident, on which you went and brought him in, not knowing, of course, in the dark who he was or what he was doing up there or how the smash-up had occurred. You might suggest that he was camping there by himself to fish, and stop at that."

Johnson nodded.

"I'll say just enough and no more," he remarked.

"If you start at once, you'll be there by daylight if not before. That will get you back here by nine or ten o'clock. I don't want him taken to San Mateo; that would stir up a swarm of inquiries and might even send some of the curious up to the spot. Let the trail get cold, so to speak. People aren't half as curious about a thing three or four days after it happens as at the moment."

"I've noticed that myself."

"And another thing, I don't wish his father to learn of the matter just yet. Under other circumstances he should be the first to know, but I want the news kept from him for a special reason. Besides, it would be better if he found out about it from others and through roundabout channels. His son up there I don't see doing any talking himself for some time if he does live. When he is able to talk, I believe he'll decide to keep his mouth shut or just accept the explanation given that he was fishing or something of that kind. When the doctor has looked him over, either he or you will carry him to Bowenville. If we could ship him at once to Gaston, where there's some sort of a hospital, I suppose, or even to Santa Fe, that would be the thing. He'd be out of the way; there'd be no talk; there would be no explanations to make except to the doctor."

"Every doctor round these parts probably knows him," Johnson said, "and so would insist on taking him home."

"There's a new one at Bowenville, father says," Janet put in. "A young man, just starting practice. He hasn't been there but a few weeks and may not know Ed."

"He's the man for us!" Weir declared. "We'll send for him. Now we must be going."

Steele arose from the table and stretched his shoulders.

"And I'll hitch up my team immediately," the rancher said.

"I'll go with you," Mary exclaimed.

"Tut, tut, girl."

"I can help you, and I want to do something to help Mr. Weir and Janet Hosmer, even if it's only a little bit. I'm strong, I don't care if it is late—anyway, I'd just have nightmares if I stayed here alone,—and I can help you with him. I'm going," she ended, obstinately.

Johnson eyed her for a moment, then yielded.

"Nothing to be afraid of now," he rejoined, "but if you would rather go along with your dad, all right."

Five minutes later Steele and Janet were emerging from the canyon upon the mesa. The drizzling rain still continued and the unseen mist beat cool upon their cheeks as the car swung away from Terry Creek for town. Except for the stream of light projected before them, they were engulfed in Stygian darkness; and save for the slithering sound of the tires on the wet road, they moved in profound night silence.

"That business is arranged," Steele said, after a time. "But we still have the results of the attack on Martinez to deal with. I don't know how long he'll hold out against the men who dragged him off, probably not long. I suppose Burkhardt and perhaps Vorse took him, and they'll stop at nothing to get the paper they're after. How they learned of it, I don't know, but find out about it they did; and they'll force the information they want from Martinez if they have to resort to hot irons. That's the kind of men they are. The lawyer will stick up to a certain point—then he'll tell. That brings you into their way."

"You also," Janet answered.

"I've been there for some time," was his grim response. "But in your case it's different. I'm worried, I tell you frankly."

"Do you think they would dare try to intimidate me in my own home and with father to protect me?" she cried, incredulously.

"Not there, perhaps. But if they could inveigle you away, yes. They wouldn't use hot irons in your case, of course, and I can't guess just what they would do, but they would do—something. Those men think I have the 'goods' on them; I repeat, they would stop at nothing to save themselves if worst came to worst; their fear will make them fiends. One couldn't suppose they would dare seize Martinez in all defiance of law—but they did. One can't believe they would dream of torturing him for information—but I haven't a doubt that's what they've done. So you see why I'm worried about you. If anything happened, if any harm came to you now, Janet—"

His voice was unsteady as he spoke her name and ceased abruptly. She thrilled to this betrayal of his feeling.

"I wish I could just stick at your side, then I know I should be safe," she said.

And for answer she felt his hand grope and press her own for an instant.

"You can count on me being somewhere around."

"I know that," she said, confidently.

San Mateo was asleep, buried in gloom when they entered it, and quiet except for the barking of a dog or two that their passage stirred to activity. But in Dr. Hosmer's cottage a light was burning and as the car came to a stop at its gate the door was flung open and the doctor himself appeared framed in the doorway. He ran hastily down the walk to meet them.

"Janet!" he cried. And the girl flung her arms about him.

"Juanita told you? Oh, it was dreadful! But Mr. Weir has brought me home safe."

Dr. Hosmer too agitated to speak reached out and grasped the engineer's hand, pressing it fervently.

* * * * *

At about that moment three men sat in the rear of Vorse's saloon. The shades were drawn and the front part of the long room was dark. Only a dull light burned where they sat. They were talking in low tones, with long pauses, with worried but determined, savage faces—Vorse, Burkhardt, Sorenson.

"Where the devil is she, that's what I want to know!" Burkhardt growled. "I've been over twice and looked through a window. Doc was there."

"She's in bed and asleep, probably," Sorenson said.

"I don't believe it. The old man would be in the sheets himself if that were the case. Didn't I call up twice by 'phone too? She was out, they said."

"Couldn't do much with her father there, anyway. We've got to get the paper by soft talk," Vorse commented. "I still half believe Martinez was lying when he said it had been in that old chair. She couldn't have got to the office and away in the hour or two before he told without some one seeing her, and no one did so far as we can learn. We locked the door too the second time we went back and it hasn't been opened since; and we were there ten minutes after our first visit when we learned the papers weren't among those in his pocket. I think he's got it cached away somewhere still."

"Then we'll give him another dose of our medicine."

"If I know anything about men, he told the truth," Sorenson said.

"Well, if the girl has it, we've got to get it from her if I have to wring her neck to do it." It was Burkhardt's inflamed utterance.

A pause followed.

"Sorenson, your boy is engaged to her," Vorse stated.

"Yes."

"Then it's up to him to get it first thing in the morning. Maybe it goes against the grain to let him know about this business of the past, but it ain't going to knock him over; he's no fool, he's a wise bird, he understands that a good many things are done in business that aren't advertised. He knows we weren't missionaries in the old days. And she'll hand it over for him when she might not for any one else."

"That's right, Sorenson," Burkhardt affirmed, his scowling face visibly clearing.

"Ed went away somewhere this evening, that's the only drawback to your scheme. Said something about Bowenville and catching the night train to Santa Fe, and that he might be gone maybe a couple of days and maybe a week."

"Hell!" Burkhardt exploded, in consternation.

Vorse however remained cool.

"Then you must start telegrams to head him off, start them the instant you get home. Telephone to Bowenville the message you want sent and have the operator dispatch it to all trains going both ways since early evening, in order to make sure. If you can reach him within two or three hours, wherever he is, he can hop off, catch a train back and be here by to-morrow evening. Make your message urgent. And meanwhile we'll do what we can to get hold of that paper. At any rate we can keep her from seeing Weir. If we have to watch her we'll do it; and if we have to stop her from going to the dam we'll do that someway too. You might invite her over to-morrow to spend the day at your house."

"Do you think she'll be likely to come if she reads that document?" the banker inquired coldly.

"Why not? Tell her right off the bat that the thing is a lie and a forgery and that you want to explain about how it was made. She might fall for that and carry the document to you. She's always had a good opinion of you, hasn't she?"

"Yes."

"Then why should she change at a mere story."

"You're right," Sorenson exclaimed with sudden energy. "The matter described happened so long ago that she won't probably attach as much importance to it as we've imagined she would. I'll ask her to bring it to me to see—and that will be all that's necessary, once it's in my fingers."

"And what about him?" Burkhardt asked, striking the floor with his heel.

"Just leave him there for the present. To-morrow we'll have another talk with him," the cattleman stated. "Better offer him a couple of thousand to go to another state; he'll grab at the chance, I fancy. Money heals most wounds. But, Vorse, keep your cellar locked and the bartender away from it. We can start Martinez away sometime to-morrow."

"Don't know about that. To-morrow night will be our busy night," the ex-sheriff said.

"We might let Gordon handle him," Vorse suggested.

"I thought perhaps you intended to keep the Judge in ignorance of this Martinez matter. He seems to be getting sort of feeble."

"He's not too feeble to take his share of the unpleasant jobs along with the rest of us," Vorse answered, unfeelingly. "I shall have him in here first thing in the morning and tell him what's happened and what we've done and what he has to do."

"Sure," said Burkhardt.

"Well, that's agreeable to me," Sorenson stated, looking at his watch and rising: "Time we were turning in, if there's nothing more."

* * * * *

At the dam camp Meyers, the assistant chief engineer, and Atkinson, the superintendent, were still awake, smoking and talking in the office.

"I smelt enough booze on those fellows who came stringing in here to fill the reservoir," the latter was saying. "Some one's feeding it to them."

"Nobody drunk, though."

"No. But who's giving it to them and why? I asked one fellow and he said he'd been to a birthday party, and wouldn't tell where. They were all feeling pretty lush, even if they weren't soused. And to-morrow's Sunday!"

"They'll all be idle, you mean?"

"Sure. If there's more liquor, they'll be after it. All day to drink in means a big celebration. The whiskey is sent up from town, of course, and I reckon sent just at this time to get us all in bad while Mr. Pollock's here."

"We'll look up the bootlegging nest to-morrow," Meyers said, with finality.

"What can we do if we do locate it? They're not selling the stuff, I judge, but giving it away. That clears their skirts and forces us to deal with the men themselves if there's any dealing done. Probably they hope to start a big row among us that way."

"We'll await Weir's advice."

"Well, I've waited all I'm going to to-night. Seems to me for a steady, quiet, self-respecting, dignified, unhooked, unmarried, unmortgaged, unromantic man he's skylarking and gallivanting around pretty late."

* * * * *

On the rocky creek road the ranchman and his daughter Mary were driving up among the trees on their way to the cabin, a lantern swinging from the end of the wagon tongue, the horses straining against the grade. On Johnson's beard the moisture formed beads which from time to time he brushed away. From the trees collected drops of water fell on their hands and knees. All about as they proceeded the bushes and rocks appeared in shadowy outline, to disappear in the night once more, yielding to others.

"Isn't this cabin where we're going the one we drove to three years ago when you were hunting some cattle?" Mary asked.

"Yes."

"I never thought then that Ed Sorenson would be lying up there all mashed to pieces," she said, with awed voice.

"I guess he didn't either," was the dry response.

"He ought to be ready to stop chasing girls after this," she declared.

"He won't if he can walk; his kind never does quit."

"Then his kind ought to be locked up somewhere like mad dogs. In a 'sylum, maybe."

"I guess you're right on that, Mary. They're dangerous."

"Funny we didn't know he'd been up there, going past our house. He must have been there first before taking Janet."

"Sneaked up in the night, probably. He'd have to have grub and so on if he expected to stay even a day or two. Crooks always look after their bellies, be sure."

"I reckon Janet Hosmer will like Mr. Weir a whole lot now, don't you?"

"She ought to, if she doesn't."

A long silence followed while Mary apparently pursued the line of thought opened up by this speculation.

"If she has the good sense I think she has," the rancher stated at length, for his mind at least had been following out the subject, "she'll not only like him a whole lot, but she'll lead him to the altar and put her brand on him."

He spoke to unhearing ears. For just then Mary sagged against him, her head sank on his shoulder. He put an arm around her form and let her sleep, thus roughly expressing his tenderness and love. Weir had not only rescued Janet Hosmer from the clutches of the man now lying injured; he also had once saved Johnson's own child Mary from the scoundrel's grasp.

Weir might ask anything of him, even to the laying down of his life in his defense.



CHAPTER XIX

A QUEER PAPER

When Mary Johnson next opened her eyes it was at a little shake by her father. She had slept heavily despite the jolting of the wagon; and now looked about drowsy-eyed and at a loss to know where she was. Her clothes and face were damp, her hands cold. She wasn't sure yet but this was still a dream—the team and wagon, the cabin before which they stood, the trees and rocks scattered about the grassy park-like basin, and the soaring mountain peaks on every hand that were just touched by the first early sun-rays.

The rain and mists were gone, leaving the dawn clear, gray, sharp, scented with the pungent odor of balsam and pine. From a distance came the subdued murmur of Terry Creek, which here high in the mountain range had its source in springs and brooks flowing from pools. All was peaceful.

Mary's look came to rest on the cabin. Over it reared the great pines that grew in a clump behind. Its door was ajar, but the log house for any sign of occupancy might have been untenanted. Immediately the girl glanced back along the road they had come and beheld there in the dim shadow at the foot of the lofty granite ledge a shapeless black lump. She shivered.

"You awake?" her father asked.

"Yes." And she began to climb down over the wagon wheel.

"Wait here. I'll go in first. He might be——" But though the rancher did not complete his sentence the words spoken carried their own grave implication.

He came out again presently. Mary gazed at his face to read from it the news it might carry, and it was with a breath of relief she perceived that the injured man was still alive, for her father himself appeared easier of mind. Neither would by choice have a dead man for a passenger on the ride home, even Ed Sorenson.

"He's breathing, but is still unconscious," Johnson declared. "Must have got a crack in the head along with the rest. Face is covered with dried blood. From the stuff inside the house he must have been fixing for quite a stay—blankets, grub, whiskey, candles, and so on. We'll eat a bite ourselves before starting back; get the pail out of the wagon and bring some water and I'll make a pot of coffee. There's a fireplace and wood inside."