"O John! O John DeWitt!" she sobbed.

"Alchise, go ahead with the horses," said Kut-le. "Wait for me at the
painted rock."

Then as the Indians became indistinguishable along the track he lifted
Rhoda to her feet.

"Walk for a while," he said. "It will rest you. Poor little girl! I
wish I could have managed differently but this was best for you. Come,
don't be afraid of me!"

Some savage instinct stirred in Rhoda. For the first time in her life
she felt an insane joy in anger.

"I'm not afraid of you, you Apache Indian!" she said clearly. "I
loathe you! Your touch poisons me! But I'm not afraid of you! I
shall choke myself with my bare hands before you shall harm me! And if
you keep me long enough I shall try to kill you!"

Kut-le gave a short laugh.

"Listen, Rhoda. Your protests show that you are afraid of me. But you
need not be. Your protection lies in the fact that I love you--love
you with all the passion of a savage, all the restraint of a Caucasian.
I'd rather die than harm you! Why, girl, I'm saving you, not
destroying you! Rhoda! Dear one!" He paused and Rhoda could hear his
quickened breath. Then he added lightly, "Let's get on with our little
stroll!"