"Yestreen I met a winsome lass, a bonny lass was she,
As ever climbed the mountain-side, or tripped aboon the lea;
She wore nae gold, nae jewels bright, nor silk nor satin rare,
But just the plaidie that a queen might well be proud to wear."

Jessie McRae wore nothing half so picturesque as the tartan. Her
clothes were dingy and dust-stained. But they could not eclipse the
divine, dusky youth of her. She was slender, as a panther is, and her
movements had more than a suggestion of the same sinuous grace.

Of the absurdity of such thoughts he was quite aware. She was a
good-looking breed. Let it go at that. In story-books there were
Indian princesses, but in real life there were only squaws.

Not till they were out of the danger zone did he speak. "Where's your
father's camp?"

She pointed toward the northwest. "You don't need to be afraid. He'll
pay you for the damage I did."

He looked at her in the steady, appraising way she was to learn as a
peculiarity of his.

"I'm not afraid," he drawled. "I'll get my pay--and you'll get yours."

Color flamed into her dusky face. When she spoke there was the throb
of contemptuous anger in her voice. "It's a great thing to be a man."

"Like to crawfish, would you?"