to try your hand at it just so you'd realize what you are up against.
But you've tired yourself badly."

Rhoda lay mute in the young man's arms. She was not thinking of his
words but of the first time that the Indian had carried her. She saw
John DeWitt's protesting face, and tears of weakness and despair ran
silently down her cheeks. Kut-le strode rapidly and, unhesitatingly
over the course she had followed so painfully and in a few moments they
were among the waiting Indians.

Kut-le put Rhoda in her saddle, fastened her securely and put a Navajo
about her shoulders. The night's misery was begun. Whether they went
up and down mountains, whether they crossed deserts, Rhoda neither knew
nor cared. The blind purpose of clinging to the saddle was the one aim
of the dreadful night. She was a little light-headed at times and with
her head against the horse's neck, she murmured John DeWitt's name, or
sitting erect she called to him wildly. At such times Kut-le's fingers
tightened and he clinched his teeth, but he did not go to her. When,
however, the frail figure drooped silently and inertly against the
waist strap he seemed to know even in the darkness. Then and then only
he lifted her down, the squaws massaged her wracked body, and she was
put in the saddle again. Over and over during the night this was
repeated until at dawn Rhoda was barely conscious that after being
lifted to the ground she was not remounted but was covered carefully
and left in peace.

It was late in the afternoon again when Rhoda woke. She pushed aside
her blankets and tried to get up but fell back with a groan. The
stiffness of the previous days was nothing whatever to the misery that
now held every muscle rigid. The overexertion of three nights in the