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.