"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. "Losh! yon ’s anither. They must theenk I keepit a leevery," and Sandy hastened out to the porch to see who was desirous of further depleting his stock. When he saw the condition of the Goat his decision was quick and to the point: "Ma certes! Ye ’ll no run th’ legs of ony o’ my cattle, Cock Murray, gin ye crack yer throat crawin’. Tut, tut! Look at yon!" He shook his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the dejected appearance of the Goat. "Won’t, hey!" shouted Cock, slapping back the saddle, "then I ’ll borrer Dutch Fred’s, an’ Buck Peters ’ll burn yore d—d ol’ shack ’bout yore ears when he knows it." A man, watching interestedly from the bar-room, left by the hall exit, running. "Buck Peters! Weel, in that case—Slick, ye can lend him yer ain." "I was just a-goin’ to," declared Slick, hurrying off; "which yore d—very generous when it don’t cost you nothin’." Cock loosened the cinch. "Generous as—Miss McAllister!" he exclaimed, aghast. "Why, of all the people! How delightful! What on earth are _you_ doing out here?" Margaret ran down to him, extending both hands in warm greeting. Cock took them as if in a dream. "Miss McAllister—Chicago—Oh, what a fool I ’ve been!" The man who had left the bar-room tore around the corner of the hotel on a wicked-looking pinto which lashed out viciously at the Goat when brought to a stop, a compliment the Goat promptly returned, though with less vigor. "Here y’ are, Cock. He ’ll think he ’s headin’ for th’ Cyclone an’ he ’ll burn th’ earth." The Cyclone puncher pushed the straps into Murray’s hand and led away the Goat to a well-earned rest. "I have to go, Miss McAllister. See you at the ranch. I ’m punching for the Double Y. They call me Cock Murray. It—it’s a name I took."