She watched him swing gracefully into the saddle of a clean-limbed horse and gallop swiftly into the gloom. “Well, I’ll be--” began Jac. She checked herself. An instinct which was born with Eve made her raise a hand to pat her hair. She began again: “I must look like--” Once more she stopped, this time with a sigh. “What words are left?” murmured Jacqueline. Carrigan pulled his horse up before the barber shop in the little village a mile away. He banged thunderously against the wall of the shanty with his gun-butt. “What the hell!” roared a voice above. “Business,” said Carrigan. “Come on down and open your shop.” A few moments later he sat down in the chair while the barber lighted his lamp. The latter groaned when he saw the face of his customer. “How much?” “The price of your best razor,” said Carrigan instantly. “Now start--chop off the heavy timber, saw down the undergrowth, anything to clear the land. And do it on the jump.” Hair flew--literally. At last the barber stepped back, perspiring, and looked at the lean face before him. “I feel,” he said, “more as if I’d made a man than shaved him.” “Maybe you’re right,” said Carrigan, and started on the run for the general merchandise store across the street, the only clothiers within a hundred miles, a place that carried everything from horseshoes to hairpins. The proprietor was locking up the front door. “What’s your rush, partner?” he asked. “Wait till to-morrow. I got some business to--” “To-morrow is next year,” said Carrigan. “Start goin’.” The door opened. He began shedding orders and old clothes at the same time. The storekeeper, on the run, brought the articles Carrigan demanded. “More light!” Carrigan said at last. The proprietor brought a lamp and placed it close to a large mirror, the pride of his place. Carrigan stalked up to it, and, turning slowly around, viewed his outfit with one long glance. “All right,” he said. “Now I’m ready to begin buying!” The proprietor gasped and then rubbed his hands. “What next?” he asked. “A beautiful girl.” The proprietor smiled in sympathy with the somewhat obscure jest. “A beautiful girl,” repeated Carrigan, “with red hair, weighing a trifle over one hundred and twenty pounds, standing five feet five and a half, and with feet--well, of the right size.” The proprietor moistened his lips and stepped back. His eyes were very large. “Start for the ladies’ department.” The proprietor was baffled, but he led the way. “Dresses first,” said Carrigan. “Some thing fancy. Best you’ve got. Here! Red--green! green--red!” He picked out a gown and held it out at arm’s length, a soft, green fabric. “What size do you want?” asked the proprietor. “What’s the perfect size for five foot five, eh?” “Thirty-six.” “What’s this gown?” “Thirty-six.” “How much?” The proprietor doubled the price. “Taken,” said Carrigan. “But maybe the lady ain’t thirty-six, and--”