"Because," replied Kut-le slowly, "the Indian is dying. I hope that by
living as a white, I may live. Up till recently I have worked blindly
and hopelessly, but now I see light."

"Do you?" asked Rhoda with interest. "What have you found?"

"It isn't mine yet." Kut-le looked at the girl exultantly and there
was a triumphant note in his voice. "But it shall be mine! I will
make it mine! And it is worth the sacrifice of my race."

A vague look of surprise crossed Rhoda's face but she spoke calmly:

"To sacrifice one's race is a serious thing. I can't think of anything
that would make that worth while. Here comes Mr. DeWitt. It must be
dinner time. John, come up and see a little desert owl at close range.
Kut-le has all the desert at his beck and call!"

Kut-le persuaded Rhoda to change the morning rides, which seemed only
to exhaust her, to the shortest of evening strolls. Nearly always
DeWitt accompanied them. Sometimes they went alone, though John was
never very far distant.

One moonlit night Kut-le and Rhoda stood alone at the corral bars. The
whole world was radiant silver moonlight on the desert, on the
undulating alfalfa; moonlight filtering through the peach-trees and
shimmering on Rhoda's drooping head as she leaned against the bars in
the weary attitude habitual to her. Kut-le stood before her, erect and
strong in his white flannels. His handsome head was thrown back a
little, as was his custom when speaking earnestly. His arms were