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.