"I can't argue against a brute," she said. "The men I have known have
been gentlemen. Tell one of your filthy squaws to come and help me."

"Molly! _Pronto_!" Like a brown lizard the fat squaw scuttled to
Rhoda's side.

In a little dressing-room formed by fallen rock, Rhoda put on the boy's
clothing. Molly helped the girl very gently. When she was done she
smoothed the blue-shirted shoulder complacently.

"Heap nice!" she said. "Make 'em sick squaw heap warm. You no 'fraid!
Kut-le say cut off nose, kill 'em with cactus torture, if Injuns not
good to white squaw."

The touch was the touch of a woman and Molly, though a squaw, had a
woman's understanding. Rhoda gave a little sob.

"Kut-le, he good!" Molly went on. "He a big chief's son. He strong,
rich. You no be afraid. You look heap pretty."

Involuntarily Rhoda glanced at herself. The new clothes were very
comfortable. With the loveliness and breeding that neither clothing
nor circumstance could mar, Rhoda was a fascinating figure. She was
tall for a woman, but now she looked a mere lad. The buckskin clung
like velvet. The high-laced boots came to her knees. The sombrero
concealed all of the golden hair save for short curling locks in front.
She would have charmed a painter, Kut-le thought, as she stepped from
her dressing-room; but he kept his voice coolly impersonal.