The gay make-believe fled her face. Surrounded by love though she had always been, some instinct told her that this man represented for her the opposite of it. She felt a sudden imperative desire to call to her father.
“Wot’s yer name?” the man asked.
“Ruth Reed.”
“That Clint Reed yer dad?”
She told him he was.
The man’s teeth showed like fangs. “Wot luck! We’re pals, him an’ me. I’ll take yer along with old Cig.”
“I don’ wantta go. I want my daddy,” Ruth announced promptly.
His grin widened. It was an evil thing to see.
“He’ll want you, too, a while before he gets yer,” he jeered.
He opened the door of the tonneau and stood on the running-board. “Come here, kid,” he ordered.