Rhoda looked from the meal to her slender, tired fingers. Cesca's
contempt hurt her unaccountably. In her weakness her cleft chin
quivered. She turned to Molly.

"Do you think it's so bad, Molly?"

That faithful friend grunted with rage and aimed a vicious kick at
Cesca. Then she put a protecting arm about Rhoda.

"It's heap fine! Cesca just old fool. You love Molly. Let Cesca go
to hell!"

Kut-le had been watching the little scene with tender eyes. Now he
stooped and lifted Rhoda to her feet, then he raised one of the
delicate hands and touched it softly with his lips.

"Leave such work to the squaws, dear! You aren't built for it. Cesca,
you old lobster, you make me tired! Go fix the turkeys!"

Cesca rose with dignity, flipped away her cigarette and walked with a
sniff over to the cooking-pot. Rhoda drew her hands from the young
Indian's clasp and walked to the edge of the camp. The hot pulse that
the touch of Kut-le's lips sent through her body startled her.

"I hate him!" she said to herself. "I hate him! I hate him!"

The trail that night was unusually difficult and Rhoda had to be rested
frequently. At each stop, Kut-le tried to talk to her but she
maintained her silence. They paused at dawn in a pocket formed by the
meeting of three divergent cañons. Far, far above the desert as they