In her fetching gown of figured brown cloth, bordered with beaver fur, with slanting drapery of plain green, above which a cutaway jacket exposed a full vest, and topped by a high beaver toque—with flush due to the recent passage-at-arms still in her cheeks and the fire of indignation in her eyes—Margaret presented a chic daintiness that met with the entire approval of the burly Sandy, who hastened from the bar-room at the sound of her descent.
"I want a hitch of some kind," requested Margaret; "something with speed and bottom, and the sooner the better."
"A hitch?" queried Sandy. He had ominous visions of the dainty figure being whirled to destruction behind a pair of unruly bronchos.
"A horse, a team, a rig, something to drive, and at once," explained Margaret, impatiently.
"Oh, ay! I ken ye meanin' richt enough. I ken it fine; but I hae doots o' yer abeelity."
"Very well, then I will buy it, only let me have it immediately."
"It's no' th' horses, ye ken. What would I tell yer mither, gin ye 're kilt?"
"Bosh!" said Margaret, scornfully. "I can drive anything you can harness."
"Oh, ay! Nae doot, nae doot. But it willna be ane o' Sandy's, I telt ye that."
Here a voice was heard from out front, roaring for Slick and demanding a cayuse, in a hurry.