Rhoda made no reply. Such a passion of hatred for the man shook her
that words failed her. She turned a white face toward him, the eyes
black, the nostrils quivering with passion.

Kut-le laughed softly.

"Hate me, Rhoda! Hate me as much as you wish! That's a heap more
hopeful than indifference. I'll bet you aren't thinking of dying of
ennui now!"

What fiend, thought Rhoda, ever had induced her to make a friend of
this savage! She clung to the pommel of her saddle, her eyes fastened
on him. If only he would drop dead as he sat! If only his Indians
would turn on him and kill him!

They were riding through the desert now, desert thick-grown with cactus
and sage-brush. Suddenly a far away roar came to Rhoda's ears. There
was a faint whistle repeated with increasing loudness. Off to the
north appeared a light that grew till it threw a dazzling beam on the
strange little waiting group. The train passed, a half-dozen dimly
lighted Pullmans. The roaring decreased, the whistle sounded lower and
lower and the night was silent. Rhoda sat following the last dim light
with burning eyes. Kut-le led the way from the difficult going of the
desert to the road-bed. As Rhoda saw the long line of rails the panic
of the previous night overwhelmed her. Like a mad thing, unmindful of
the strap about her waist she threw herself from the saddle and hung
against the stolid pony. Kut-le dismounted and undid the strap. The
girl dropped to the ties and lay crouched with her face against the
steel rail.