The runner was the tramp whose face her father had battered to a pulp. He asked for no explanations and made no comment. Straight for the released convict he drove. Cig had not a chance. The bad air and food of the slums, late hours, dissipation, had robbed him of both strength and endurance. He held up his fists and squared off, for he was game enough. But Tug’s fist smashed through the defense as though it had been built of paper. The second-story man staggered back, presently went down before a rain of blows against which he could find no protection. Tug dragged him to his feet, cuffed him hard with his half-closed fist again and again, then flung him a second time to the ground. He stood over the fellow, his eyes blazing, his face colorless. “Get up, you hound!” he ordered in a low voice trembling with anger. “Get up and take it! I’ll teach you to lay hands on a woman!” Cig did not accept this invitation. He rolled away, caught up York’s heavy tramping stick, and stood like a wolf at bay, the lips lifted from his stained yellow teeth. “Touch me again an’ I’ll knock your block off,” he growled, interlarding the threat with oaths and foul language. “Don’t!” the girl begged of her champion. “Please don’t. Let’s go. Right away.” “Yes,” agreed the young fellow, white to the lips. York flat-footed forward a step or two. “No use havin’ no trouble. Cig he didn’t mean nothin’ but a bit of fun, Tug. Old Cig wouldn’t do no lady any harm.” The tramp’s voice had taken on the professional whine. Tug fastened the girth, his fingers trembling so that he could hardly slip the leather through to make the cinch. Even in the reaction from fear Betty found time to wonder at this. He was not afraid. He had turned his back squarely on the furious gangster from the slums to tighten the surcingle. Why should he be shaking like a man in a chill? The girl watched Cig while the saddle was being made ready. The eyes in the twisted face of the convict were venomous. If thoughts could have killed, Tug would have been a dead man. She had been brought up in a clean world, and she did not know people could hate in such a soul-and-body blasting way. It chilled the blood only to look at him. The girl’s rescuer turned to help her into the saddle. He gave her the lift as one does who is used to helping a woman mount. From the seat she stooped and said in a low voice, “I want you to go with me.” He nodded. Beside the horse he walked as far as the road. “My pack’s back there on the track,” he said, and stopped, waiting for her to ride away. Betty looked down at him, a troubled frown on her face. “Where are you going?” A bitter, sardonic smile twitched the muscles of the bruised face. He shrugged his shoulders. “Looking for work?” she asked. “Maybe I am,” he answered sullenly. “We need men on the Diamond Bar K to help with the harvest.” “The ranch where I was kicked off?” “Father’s quick-tempered, but he’s square. I’ll talk with him about you--”