Neither DeWitt nor Rhoda ever before had known an Indian.  Most of their ideas of the race were founded on childhood reading of Cooper.  Kut-le was quite as cultured, quite as well-mannered and quite as intelligent as any of their Eastern friends.  But in many other qualities he differed from them.  He possessed a frank pride in himself and his blood that might have belonged to some medieval prince who would not take the trouble outwardly to underestimate himself.  Closely allied to this was his habit of truthfulness.  This was not a blatant bluntness that irritated the hearer but a habit of valuing persons and things at their intrinsic worth, a habit of mental honesty as bizarre to Rhoda and John as was the young Indian’s frank pride.

His attitude toward Rhoda piqued her while it amused her.  Since her childhood, men had treated her with deference, had paid almost abject tribute to her loveliness and bright charm.  Cartwell was delightfully considerate of her.  He was uniformly courteous to her.  But it was the courtesy of noblesse oblige, without a trace of deference in it.

One afternoon Kut-le sat alone on the veranda with Rhoda.

“Do you know,” he said, rumpling his black hair, “that I think DeWitt has decided that I will bear watching!”

“Well,” answered Rhoda idly, “and won’t you?”

Kut-le chuckled.

“Would you prefer that I show the lurking savage beneath this false shell of good manners?”

Rhoda smiled back at him.

“Of course you are an Indian, after all.  It’s rather too bad of you not to live up to any of our ideals.  Your manners are as nice as John DeWitt’s.  I’d be quite frantic about you if you would drop them and go on the war-path.”

Kut-le threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, you ignorant young thing!  It’s lucky for you—­and for me—­that you have come West to grow up and complete your education!  But DeWitt needn’t worry.  I don’t need watching yet!  First, I’m going to make you well.  I know how and he doesn’t.  After that is done, he’d better watch!”

Rhoda’s eyebrows began to go up.  Kut-le never had recalled by word or look her outburst in the desert the morning of their first ride together, though they had taken several since.  Rhoda seldom mentioned her illness now and her friends respected her feeling.  But now Kut-le smiled at her disapproving brows.

“I’ve waited for the others to get busy,” he said, “but they act foolish.  Half the trouble with you is mental.  You need a boss.  Now, you don’t eat enough, in spite of the eggs and beef and fruit that that dear Mrs. Jack sets before you.  See how your hands shake this minute!”

Rhoda could think of no reply sufficiently crushing for this forward young Indian.  While she was turning several over in her mind, Kut-le went into the house and returned with a glass of milk.

“I wish you’d drink this,” he said.