view at all."

"Huh!" sniffed Kut-le. "It's too bad Indians don't write books! If my
people had been putting their internal mechanism on paper for a
thousand years, you'd have no more trouble getting my point of view
than I do yours."

Rhoda's face as she eyed the stern young profile was very sympathetic.
Kut-le, turning to her, surprised upon her face that rare, tender smile
for which all who knew her watched. His face flushed and his fine
hands clasped and unclasped.

"Tell me about it, Kut-le, if you can."

"I can't tell you. The desert would show you its own power if you
would give it a chance. No one can describe the call to you. I
suppose if I answered it and went back, you would call it
retrogression?"

"What would you call it?" asked Rhoda.

"I don't know. It would depend on my mood. I only know that the ache
is there." His eyes grew somber and beads of sweat appeared on his
forehead. "The ache to be there--free in the desert! To feel the hot
sun in my face as I work the trail! To sleep with the naked stars in
my face! To be-- Oh, I can't make you understand, and I'd rather you
understood than any one in the world! You could understand, if only
you were desert-taught. When you are well and strong--"

"But why don't you go back?" interrupted Rhoda.