Suddenly Cartwell turned and looked at her quizzically.

"Well, what are your conclusions?"

Rhoda shook her head.

"I don't know, except that it's hard to realize that you are an Indian."

Cartwell's voice was ironical.

"The only good Indian is a dead Indian, you know. I'm liable to break
loose any time, believe me!"

Rhoda's eyes were on the far lavender line where the mesa melted into the
mountains.

"Yes, and then what?" she asked.

Cartwell's eyes narrowed, but Rhoda did not see.

"Then I'm liable to follow Indian tradition and take whatever I want, by
whatever means!"

"My! My!" said Rhoda, "that sounds bludgy! And what are you liable to
want?"

"Oh, I want the same thing that a great many white men want. I'm going
to have it myself, though!" His handsome face glowed curiously as he
looked at Rhoda.