The slim girl in the riding-suit could not quite keep the panic out of her eyes. None of the motives that swayed the men she knew would have weight with him. He was both base and bold, and he had lived among those who had small respect for a woman.
Betty’s glance moved to York. It found no comfort there. The gross hobo was soft as putty. He did not count, as his companion had openly sneered.
“No. I won’t stop,” she said, and made as though to tighten the loosened cinch.
“Won’cha? Think again, miss. Old Cig ain’t seen a skirt since he left li’l’ old New York. Sure as youse is a foot high he’s hungry for a sweetie of his own.”
He put his hand on her arm. At the touch her self-control vanished. She screamed.
The man’s fingers slid down to the wrist and tightened. His other hand clamped over her mouth and cut off the cry.
She writhed, twisting to free herself. In spite of her slenderness she was strong. From her lips she tore his hand and again called for help in an ecstasy of terror.
The crook of his arm garroted her throat and cut off the air from her lungs. He bent her body back across his hip. Still struggling, she strangled helplessly.
“Youse would, eh?” His voice, his narrowed eyes, exulted. “Forget it, miss. Cig’s an A1 tamer of Janes. That’s de li’l’ old thing he’s de champeen of de world at.”
He drew her closer to him.