"Me not got papooses. You not got papooses. Molly and you no good!
Molly is heap strong. What good is that? When she die she no has
given her strength to tribe, no done any good that will last. You are
heap beautiful. What good is that? You no give your face to your
tribe. What good are you? Molly and you might as well die tomorrow.
Work, have papooses, die. That all squaws are for. Great Spirit says
so. Squaw's own heart says so."

Rhoda sat silently looking at the squaw's squat figure, the
toil-scarred fingers, the good brown eyes out of which looked a woman's
soul. Vaguely Rhoda caught a point of view that made her old ideals
seem futile. She smoothed the Indian woman's hands.

"I sometimes think you are a bigger woman than I am, Molly," she said
humbly.

"You are heap good to look at." Molly spoke wistfully. "Molly heap
homely. You think that makes any difference to the Great Spirit?"

Rhoda's eyes widened, a little. Did it make any difference? After
all, what counted with the Great Spirit? She stared at the barren
ranges that lifted mute peaks to the silent heavens. Always, always
the questions and so vague the answers! Suddenly Rhoda knew that her
beauty had counted greatly with her all her life, had given her her
sense of superiority to the rest of the world. Rhoda squirmed. She
hated this faculty of the Indians and the desert to make her seem
small. She never had felt so with her own kind. Her own kind! Would
she never again know the deference, the gentleness, the loving
tenderness of her own people? Rhoda forgot Molly's wistful question.