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Updated: May 8, 2025
The herder glanced at Rhoda and shook his head. "Quién sabe?" Rhoda turned to Kut-le in anger. "Don't be more brutal than you have to be!" she cried. "What harm can it do for this man to give me word of my friends?" Kut-le's eyes softened. "Answer the señorita's questions, amigo," he said. The Mexican began eagerly. "There were three. They rode up the trail one day ago.
As the voices melted into silence, a guitar was touched softly under Rhoda's window and Kut-le's voice rose in La Golondrina: "Whither so swiftly flies the timid swallow? What distant bourne seeks her untiring wing? To reach her nest what needle does she follow When darkness wraps the poor wee storm-tossed thing?" Rhoda stirred restlessly and threw her arms above her head.
Rhoda gave one glance at Injun Tom and Alchise writhing with their wounds, at Porter's fingers tightening at Kut-le's throat, then she seized the canteen she had filled for Porter and started madly down the trail. The screaming squaws gave no heed to her.
Alchise would have relieved him of his burden, willingly, but Kut-le would not listen to it. Molly trotted anxiously by the young Apache's side, constantly moistening the girl's lips with water. Rhoda was quite delirious now. She murmured and sometimes sobbed, trying to free herself from Kut-le's arms. "I'm not sick!" she said, looking up into the Indian's face with unseeing eyes.
Immediately Kut-le lifted her in his arms and the flight was resumed. At short intervals during the morning, Rhoda walked, but for the most part Kut-le packed her as dispassionately as if she had been a lame puppy. He held her across his broad chest as if her fragile weight were nothing. Lying so, Rhoda watched the merciless landscape or the brown squaws jogging at Kut-le's heels.
She did not know what would be Kut-le's course if he gained the mastery, but as she caught glimpses of DeWitt's face with its clenched teeth and terrible look of loathing she knew that if his fingers ever reached Kut-le's throat the Indian could hope for no mercy. And then she saw DeWitt's face go white and his head drop back. "Oh!" she screamed. "You've killed him! You've killed him!"
Isn't it old?" Rhoda stood still. The pain in Kut-le's voice was piercing through to the shadow world in which she lived. Her voice was troubled. "But I don't love you, so what's the use of considering the rest? If I ever marry any one it will be John DeWitt." "But couldn't you," insisted the tragically deep voice, "couldn't you ever love me?" Rhoda answered wearily.
She saw Kut-le suffering all the helpless grief of race alienation, saw him the victim of passions as great as the desires of the alien races for the white always must be. Rhoda forgot herself. She laid a slender hand on Kut-le's. "I am sorry," she said softly. "I think I begin to understand. But, Kut-le, it can never, never be!
By the end of two years I think the Southwest will be willing to welcome us back." Nothing could have so simplified the situation as Kut-le's calm reference to his plans for carrying on his profession. He stood in his well-cut clothes, not an Indian, but a well-bred, clean-cut man of the world. Even Porter recognized this, and with a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable.
Kut-le's expression was amused while it was impatient. "I suppose you may be sleepy, but I think you can walk a little way. Hurry, Rhoda! Hurry!" Rhoda sat staring calmly into the palpitating blue above. "I hate to have you carry me," she said after a moment, "but I don't feel at all like walking!"
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