"I can't ride cross-saddle!" she exclaimed. "I used to be a good
horsewoman in the side-saddle. But I'm so weak that even keeping in
the side-saddle is out of the question."

"Anything except cross-saddle is utterly out of the question," replied
the Indian, "on the sort of trails we have to take. You might as well
begin to control your nerves now as later. I'm going to have an expert
rider in you by the time you have regained your strength. Come, Rhoda."

The girl turned her face to the afterglow. Remote and pitiless lay the
distant crimson ranges. She shuddered and turned back to the young
Indian who stood watching her. For the moment all the agony of her
situation was concentrated in horror of another night in the saddle.

"Kut-le, I _can't_!"

"Shall I pick you up and carry you over here?" asked Kut-le patiently.

In her weakness and misery, Rhoda's cleft chin quivered. There was
only merciless determination in the Indian's face. Slowly the girl
walked to his side. He swung her to the saddle, adjusted the stirrups
carefully, then fastened her securely to the saddle with a strap about
her waist. Rhoda watched him in the silence of utter fear. Having
settled the girl to his satisfaction, he mounted his own horse, and
Rhoda's pony followed him tractably up the trail.

The trail rose steeply. After the first few dizzy moments, Rhoda,
clinging to the saddle with hands and knees, was thankful for the
security of her new seat. The scenery was uncanny to her terrorized