turned the willows by the irrigating ditch to a rosy gray. As the sun
sank, song-birds piped and lizards scuttled along the porch rail. The
loveliest part of the New Mexican day had come.

The two young Northerners watched the man who was swinging through the
orchard. It was Cartwell. Despite his breadth of shoulder, the young
Indian looked slender, though it was evident that only panther strength
could produce such panther grace. He crossed the lawn and stood at the
foot of the steps; one hand crushed his soft hat against his hip, and
the sun turned his close-cropped black hair to blue bronze. For an
instant none of the three spoke. It was as if each felt the import of
this meeting which was to be continued through such strange
vicissitudes. Cartwell, however, was not looking at DeWitt but at
Rhoda, and she returned his gaze, surprised at the beauty of his face,
with its large, long-lashed, Mohave eyes that were set well apart and
set deeply as are the eyes of those whose ancestors have lived much in
the open glare of the sun; with the straight, thin-nostriled nose; with
the stern, cleanly modeled mouth and the square chin, below. And
looking into the young Indian's deep black eyes, Rhoda felt within
herself a vague stirring that for a second wiped the languor from her
eyes.

Cartwell spoke first, easily, in the quiet, well-modulated voice of the
Indian.

"Hello! All safe, I see! Mr. Newman will be here shortly." He seated
himself on the upper step with his back against a pillar and fanned
himself with his hat. "Jack's working too hard. I want him to go to
the coast for a while and let me run the ditch. But he won't. He's as
pig-headed as a Mohave."