Ruth twisted her mouth free and began to shriek. He clamped his hand over her lips again with an oath. It was all he could do to stagger with her over the rocky brow. Here, for the moment, he was safe. With the sleeve of his coat he wiped the perspiration out of his eyes and from his face. A saddled horse was tied to a stunted pine not far away. He dragged the child to it, mounted, and hauled her up in front of him. A moment, and the hoofs of the cowpony rang out as they struck the stony rubble. Cig had never been on a horse till recently. It could not be claimed that he really knew how to ride now. But he could stick on if the animal was gentle. The ways of the West were not his ways. He could not walk out a mile from the cabin where he was staying and not get lost, unless he followed familiar trails. For he was up in the high lands of the Rockies, in a district broken with ravines of twisted pines and jutting rock outcroppings. Each hill and draw and gorge looked to him just like its neighbor. Cig rode into a small cañon the entrance of which was well concealed by a growth of young quaking asps. Through these he pushed to a cabin on the edge of the grove. He dropped the child to the ground and swung down. “You take me back to my daddy,” she sobbed. “Nix on that stuff. Old Cig’s gonna keep yer right here with him. I’ll learn Clint Reed how safe it is to beat me up like his men done.” “I wantta go to my daddy. You take me to my daddy,” the child wailed. The hobo picked up a switch lying on the ground. “Youse stop whinin’. Hear me? I’ll not have it!” he snarled. His manner was so threatening that the sobs stuck in her throat. She shivered with dread, while she tried to fight back the expression of it. “I--I want my sister Betty an’ my daddy,” she whimpered. “Cut it out!” he ordered from a corner of his mouth. Ruth flung herself to the ground and gave way to a passionate outbreak of grief and terror. The violence of her emotion shook the small body of the little girl. Cig took a step toward her, switch in hand. He stopped. A sound had reached him. Something was moving in the quaking asps. Two men emerged along the winding trail. They were on horseback. The one riding in front was Jake Prowers, the other Don Black. The tramp waved a hand at them. “Woilcome to our city,” he called, grinning toward them. “An’ look who’s here.” Prowers pulled up. “What the jumpin’ Jehosaphat!” he exclaimed. “I got lonesome, so I brought back comp’ny for myself,” explained Cig. It was plain that he was proud of himself. “Where’d you get her?” asked Black. “Down above Elk Creek?” “Was she lost?” “Lost!” The tramp snickered. “Not so you could notice it none. She was sittin’ in a car waitin’ for Clint Reed an’ that high-heeled goil of his to come back.” “But--what’s she doing here?” inquired Black, still in the dark. “Why, I brought her.” “What for?”