It was daylight when Rhoda opened her eyes. For a time she lay at ease
listening to the trill of birds and the trickle of water. Then, with a
start, she raised her head. She was lying on a heap of blankets on a
stone ledge. Above her was the boundless sapphire of the sky. Close
beside her a little spring bubbled from the blank wall of the mountain.
Rhoda lay in helpless silence, looking about her, while the appalling
nature of her predicament sank into her consciousness.

Against the wall squatted two Indian women. They were dressed in rough
short skirts, tight-fitting calico waists and high leather moccasins.
Their black hair was parted in the middle and hung free. Their swarthy
features were well cut but both of the women were dirty and ill kept.
The younger, heavier squaw had a kindly face, with good eyes, but her
hair was matted with clay and her fingers showed traces of recent
tortilla making. The older woman was lean and wiry, with a strange
gleam of maliciousness and ferocity in her eyes. Her forehead was
elaborately tattooed with symbols and her toothless old jaws were
covered with blue tribal lines.

Kut-le and his friend of the night lounged on a heap of rock at the
edge of the ledge. The strange Indian was well past middle age, tall
and dignified. He was darker than Kut-le. His face was thin and
aquiline. His long hair hung in elf locks over his shoulders. His
toilet was elaborate compared with that of Kut-le, for he wore a pair
of overalls and a dilapidated flannel shirt, unbelted and fluttering
its ends in the morning breeze. As if conscious of her gaze, Kut-le
turned and looked at Rhoda. His magnificent height and proportions
dwarfed the tall Indian beside him.