When the shouts grew a little louder he walked round in front of the locomotive which stood still with the steam blowing noisily from a valve, and as soon as he had done so he saw the cause of the commotion. A pair of vicious, half-broken bronchos were backing a light waggon away from the locomotive on the other side of the track, and a fur-wrapped figure sat stiffly on the driving seat. Hawtrey called out and ran suddenly forward as he saw that it was Sally.
Just then one of the horses lifted its fore hoofs off the ground, and being jerked back by the pole plunged and kicked furiously, until its companion flung up its head and the waggon went backwards with a run. Then they stopped, and there was a further series of resounding crashes against the front of the vehicle. Hawtrey was within a pace or two of it when Sally recognised him.
"Keep off," she said, "you can't lead them. They don't want to cross the track, but they've got to if I pull the jaws off them."
This was more forcible than elegant, and the shrill harshness of the girl's voice jarred upon Hawtrey, though he was getting accustomed to Sally's phraseology. He, however, recognised that she would not have his help, even if it would have been of much avail, which was doubtful, and he reluctantly moved back towards the group of loungers who were watching her.
"I guess you've no call to worry about her," said one of them. "She's holding them on the lowest notch, and it's a mighty powerful bit fixing. Besides, that girl could drive anything that goes on four legs."
"Sure," said one of the others. "She's a daisy."
Hawtrey was a little annoyed to notice that in place of being embarrassed by it Sally evidently rather enjoyed the situation, though several of the freight train and station hands had now joined the group of loungers and were cheering her on. He had already satisfied himself that she had not a trace of fear. In another moment or two, however, he forgot his slight sense of disconcertion, for Sally, sitting tense and strung up on the driving seat with a glow in her cheeks and a snap in her eyes, was wholly admirable. There was lithe grace, virility, and resolution in every line of her fur-wrapped figure. It is possible that her appearance would have been less effective in a drawing room, but in the waggon she was in her place and in harmony with her surroundings. Lowering sky, gleaming snow, fur-clad men, and even the big, dingy locomotive, all fitted curiously into the scene, and she made an imposing central figure as she contended with the half-tamed team. Hawtrey was conscious of a stirring of his physical nature as he watched her.
The struggle lasted for several minutes during which the horses plunged and kicked again, until Sally stood boldly erect a moment while the waggon rocked to and fro, a tall, straight figure with a tress of loosened hair streaming out beneath her fur cap, as she swung the stinging whip. Then it seemed that the team had had enough, for as she dropped lightly back into the seat they broke into a gallop, and in another moment the waggon, jolting horribly as it bounced across the track, vanished behind the locomotive. Gregory heard a shout of acclamation as he turned and hurried after it.
Sally, however, drove right through the settlement and back outside it before she could check the horses, and she had just pulled them up in front of the wooden hotel when Hawtrey reached it. He stood beside the waggon holding up his hand to her, and Sally, who laughed, dropped bodily into his arms, which was, as he recognised, a thing that Agatha certainly would not have done. He set her down upon the sidewalk, and when a man came out to take the team they went into the hotel together.
"It was the locomotive that did it," she explained. "They were most too scared for anything, but I hate to be beaten by a team. Ours know too much to try, but I got Haslem to drive me in. I dropped him at Norton's, who'll bring him on."