“I can’t die!” she panted.  “I can’t leave my life unlived!  I can’t crawl on much longer like a sick animal without a soul.  I want to live!  To live!”

“Look at me!” said Cartwell.  “Look at me, not at the desert!” Then as she turned to him, “Listen, Rhoda!  You shall not die!  I will make you well!  You shall not die!”

For a long minute the two gazed deep into each other’s eyes, and the sense of quickening blood touched Rhoda’s heart.  Then they both woke to the sound of hoof-beats behind them and John DeWitt, with a wildcat thrown across his saddle, rode up.

“Hello!  I’ve shouted one lung out!  I thought you people were petrified!” He looked curiously from Rhoda’s white face to Cartwell’s inscrutable one.  “Do you think you ought to have attempted this trip, Rhoda?” he asked gently.

“Oh, we’ve taken it very slowly,” answered the Indian.  “And we are going to turn back now.”

“I don’t think I’ve overdone,” said Rhoda.  “But perhaps we have had enough.”

“All right,” said Cartwell.  “If Mr. DeWitt will change places with me, I’ll ride on to the ditch and he can drive you back.”

DeWitt assented eagerly and, the change made, Cartwell lifted his hat and was gone.  Rhoda and John returned in a silence that lasted until DeWitt lifted Rhoda from the buggy to the veranda.  Then he said: 

“Rhoda, I don’t like to have you go off alone with Cartwell.  I wish you wouldn’t.”

Rhoda smiled.

“John, don’t be silly!  He goes about with Katherine all the time.”

John only shook his head and changed the subject.  That afternoon, however, Billy Porter buttonholed DeWitt in the corral where the New Yorker was watching the Arizonian saddle his fractious horse.  When the horse was ready at the post, “Look here, DeWitt,” said Billy, an embarrassed look in his honest brown eyes, “I don’t want you to think I’m buttin’ in, but some one ought to watch that young Injun.  Anybody with one eye can see he’s crazy about Miss Rhoda.”

John was too startled to be resentful.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed.  “Cartwell is a great friend of the Newmans’.”

“That’s why I came to you.  They’re plumb locoed about the fellow, like the rest of the Easterners around here.”

“Do you know anything against him?” insisted DeWitt.

“Why, man, he’s an Injun, and half Apache at that!  That’s enough to know against him!”

“What makes you think he’s interested in Miss Tuttle?” asked John.

Porter flushed through his tan.

“Well,” he said sheepishly, “I seen him come down the hall at dawn this morning.  Us Westerners are early risers, you know, and when he reached Miss Turtle’s door, he pulled a little slipper out of his pocket and kissed it and put it in front of the sill.”

DeWitt scowled, then he laughed.

“He’s no worse than the rest of us that way!  I’ll watch, him, though perhaps it’s only your prejudice against Indians and not really a matter to worry about.”