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Updated: May 8, 2025
When at Kut-le's command she took up the march with the others the young man eyed her anxiously. He slung Molly's canteen from his own to Alchise's shoulder and felt Rhoda's pulse. "This water was bad for you," he said. "But it was the only spring within miles. Perhaps you will throw off the effects of it when we get into the heat of the sun."
I couldn't think of marrying you, Kut-le!" There was a moment's silence. An owl called from the desert. The night wind swept from the fragrant orchard. When he spoke again, Kut-le's voice was husky. "Is it because I am an Indian?" "Yes," answered Rhoda, "partly. But I don't love you, anyhow." "But," eagerly, "if you did love me, would my being an Indian make any difference? Isn't my blood pure?
Surely, she thought, the ancient mesa never had seen a stranger procession or known of a wilder mission. She looked up into Kut-le's face and wondered as she stared at his bare head how his eyes could look so steadily into the sun-drenched landscape. As she lay, the elation of the early morning left her.
We take care Kut-le's squaw." Rhoda turned wearily on her side. "Go away and let me sleep," she said. As Kut-le, with Rhoda in his arms, disappeared into the mesa fissure, John DeWitt threw himself from his horse and was at the opening before the others had more than brought their horses to their haunches. He was met by Alchise's rifle, with Alchise entirely hidden from view.
DeWitt struggled on bravely to the crest of the next dune. "I hate that Apache devil!" he muttered. "I am going to kill him!" Rhoda quickly saw the magic of Kut-le's name. "Why should you want to kill Kut-le?" she asked as Dewitt paused at the top of the next dune. Instantly he started on. "Because I hate him! I hate him, the devil!" "See how near the mesa is, John! Only a little way!
The old man protested at first but on the repeated use of Kut-le's name he finally nodded and Alchise carried Rhoda into the campos. A squaw kindled a fire which, blazing up brightly, showed a huge, dark room, canvas-roofed and dirt-floored, quite bare except for the soiled blankets on the floor. Rhoda was laid in the center of the hut. The old buck knelt beside her. He was very old indeed.
There was something more than his rough appearance that Rhoda disliked about the man but she didn't know just what it was. Kut-le's eyes narrowed, but he lighted his own cigarette without replying. "You're up to a rotten trick and you know it, Cartwell," went on Jim.
"'Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain," he muttered, "'or the wheel broken at the cistern or the pitcher broken at the fountain, or the wheel " Rhoda threw her arm across her eyes. "Oh, not that, John! I can't bear that one!" Again, she stood upon the roof at Chira, looking up into Kut-le's face.
By the next morning, however, the old repulsion had returned and she made no response to Kut-le's overtures. Day succeeded day now, until Rhoda lost all track of time. Endlessly they crossed desert and mountain ridges. Endlessly they circled through dusky cañon and sun-baked arroyo. Always Rhoda looked forward to each new camping-place with excitement. Here, the rescuers might stumble upon them!
He had been thankful as he wrote that Rhoda had no mother. He had so liked the young Indian; there had been such good feeling between them that he could not yet believe that Porter's surmise was wholly correct. "Supposing," he said aloud, "that you are wrong, Porter? Supposing that she's she's dying of thirst down there in the desert? You have no proof of Kut-le's doing it.
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