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It's not a life or death affair." "You can't tell as to that," answered Cartwell with a curious little smile. "You mustn't forget that I'm an Indian." And he turned to greet the two men who were mounting the steps. When Rhoda entered the dining-room some of her pallor seemed to have left her. She was dressed in a gown of an elusive pink that gave a rose flush to the marble fineness of her face.
Jack's curly blond hair looked almost white in contrast with his tanned face. He was not as tall as either Cartwell or DeWitt but he was strong and clean-cut and had a boyish look despite the heavy responsibilities of his five-thousand-acre ranch. "There," he said, placing Rhoda beside Porter; "just attach Porter's scalp to your belt with the rest of your collection.
"I can't stand to see 'em!" "They are pretty bad," said Rhoda, smiling. It was her rare, slow, unforgetable smile. Porter swallowed audibly. Cartwell at the piano drifted from a Mohave lament to La Paloma.
"Far from it," replied the young man with a chuckle, tightening the upper bandage until Rhoda's foot was numb. "But I always carry this little outfit with me; rattlers and scorpions are so thick over on the ditch. Somebody's apt to be hurt anytime. I'm Charley Cartwell, Jack Newman's engineer." "Oh!" said Rhoda understandingly. "I'm so dizzy I can't see you very well. This is very good of you.
Hello, Kut-le, it's time you moved toward soap and water, seems to me!" "Yessum!" replied Cartwell meekly. He rose and helped Rhoda from the hammock, then held the door open for her. DeWitt and Newman emerged from the orchard as he crossed to Katherine's chair. "Is she very sick, Mrs. Jack?" he asked. Katherine nodded soberly. "Desperately sick.
She paused, wondering at her lack of reticence. Cartwell, however, was looking at her with something in his gaze so quietly understanding that Rhoda smiled. It was a slow smile that lifted and deepened the corners of Rhoda's lips, that darkened her gray eyes to black, an unforgetable smile to the loveliness of which Rhoda's friends never could accustom themselves.
Rhoda turned from staring at the distant mesas and eyed the young Indian wonderingly. "Why!" she exclaimed, "I hate it! You know that sick fear that gets you when you try to picture eternity to yourself? That's the way this barrenness and awful distance affects me. I hate it!" "But you won't hate it!" cried Cartwell. "You must let me show you its bigness. It's as healing as the hand of God."
For the first time in months Rhoda felt poignantly that it would be hard to be cut down with all her life unlived. The mellow voice ceased and Cartwell, rising, lighted a fresh cigarette. "I am going to get up with the rabbits, tomorrow," he said, "so I'll trot to bed now."
Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace desert nights are cool and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave every one orders that no one heeded in the least. Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, then seated himself at the piano. For the rest of the evening he made no attempt to join in the fragmentary conversation.
Her unfailing sweetness and patience touched the healthy, hardy young people who were so devoted to her more than the most justifiable impatience on her part. Time and again Katherine saw DeWitt and Jack leave the girl's side with tears in their eyes. But Cartwell watched the girl with inscrutable gaze. Rhoda still hated the desert. The very unchanging loveliness of the days wearied her.
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