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Updated: June 4, 2025
Half an hour later the visitors had departed, the rancher going with the physician and his charge to Bowenville, Weir returning to San Mateo. Mary had driven the wagon up from the mouth of the canyon, unharnessed the horses, watered and fed them, and now was seated in the kitchen staring absently out the open door. After so much excitement she felt distrait, depressed.
She perceived the immense labor of the project and the coördinated effort required. The necessity in itself of dragging hither from Bowenville all of the supplies, the material, the huge machines, was overwhelming. The responsibility of combining scientific knowledge and raw industry to an exact result struck her as prodigious.
Teamsters were stoned by boys, which left them raging and murderous to discover the men who set them on. Half a carload of cement in sacks was ripped open and emptied on the earth at Bowenville. After Meyers, Weir's assistant, found his automobile tires slashed to bits on coming out of the post-office in San Mateo, it became necessary always to go in pairs, one man to remain on watch.
If you'll drive your wagon down to the mouth of the canyon, we'll transfer him to my car, which is double seated, and then you can accompany me to town; Mr. Weir says you are willing to go along and help. I'll send you back from Bowenville." "Yes, I'll go along. Mary will ride down with us and bring back the team and wagon."
"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."
Sorenson seemed quite satisfied with her explanation." The colloquy resulted from a meeting between Janet and the cattleman while Weir was guiding the young physician, summoned from Bowenville, to Johnson's ranch. Sorenson had appeared at the house about ten o'clock that morning desiring to see the girl.
Terry Creek flowed out of the mountains four miles north of San Mateo, an insignificant stream entering the Burntwood halfway down to Bowenville. The Johnson ranch house was a mile up the canyon, where the rocky walls expanded into a grassy park of no great area. They reached the girl's home about half-past nine that night.
In fact, there were but two, she learned from her father: one at Bowenville, the small railroad town of three hundred people, a merchant with a wife and four little children; the other a rancher on Terry Creek, whose wife was dead and who had one child, a girl of sixteen or seventeen years of age. "I may be away at dinner time, so don't wait for me," she told her father next morning.
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