saddle which the massaging had so far mitigated had asserted itself and
every muscle in the girl's body seemed acutely painful. To lift her
hand to her hair, to draw a long breath, to turn her head, was almost
impossible.

Rhoda looked dismally about her. The camp this time was on the side of
a mountain that lay in a series of mighty ranges, each separated from
the other by a narrow strip of desert. White and gold gleamed the
snow-capped peaks. Purple and lavender melted the shimmering desert
into the lifting mesas. Rhoda threw her arm across her eyes to hide
the hateful sight, and moaned in pain at the movement.

Molly ran to her side.

"Your bones heap sick? Molly rub 'em?" she asked eagerly.

"O Molly, if you would!" replied Rhoda gratefully, and she wondered at
the skill and gentleness of the Indian woman who manipulated the aching
muscles with such rapidity and firmness that in a little while Rhoda
staggered stiffly to her feet.

"Molly," she said, "I want to wash my face."

Molly puckered up her own face in her effort to understand, and
scratched her head.

"Don't _sabe_ that," she said.

"Wash my face!" repeated Rhoda in astonishment. "Of course you
understand."