A thrill, poignant, heart-stirring, beat through Rhoda’s veins.  For one unspeakable moment there swept through her spirit a vision of strength, of beauty, of gladness, too wild and sweet for words.  Then came the old sense of race distaste and she looked steadily into the young man’s face.

“I cannot marry you, Kut-le,” she said.

Kut-le said nothing more.  He stood staring at the far desert, his fine face somber and with a look of determination in the contracted eyes and firm-set lips that made Rhoda shiver, even while her heart throbbed with pity.  Tall, slender, inscrutable, as alien to her understanding as the call of the desert wind or the moon-drenched desert haze, she turned away and left him standing there alone.

She made her slow way to the ranch-house.  Kut-le did not follow.  Rhoda went to bed at once.  Yet she could not sleep, for through the silence Kut-le’s deep voice beat on her ears.

“I love you passionately!  I love you tenderly!  I am an Indian, but first of all I am a man!”

The next day and for the three or four days following, Kut-le was missing.  The Newmans were worried.  The ditch needed its engineer and never before had Kut-le been known to neglect his work.  Once a year he went on a long hunt with chosen friends of his tribe, but never until his work was finished.

Rhoda confided in no one regarding her last interview with the Indian.  She missed Kut-le, but DeWitt was frankly relieved.  For the first time since Porter’s warning he relaxed his vigilance.  On the fifth evening after Kut-le’s disappearance, Jack and DeWitt rode over to a neighboring ranch.  Katherine was lazy with a headache.  So Rhoda took her evening stroll alone.  For once, she left the orchard and wandered out into the open desert, moved by an uncanny desire to let the full horror of the desert mystery sweep over her.

How long she sat on a rock, gazing into infinity, she did not know.  It seemed to her that her whole shivering, protesting body was being absorbed into the strange radiance of the afterglow.  At last she rose.  As she did so, a tall figure loomed silently before her.  Rhoda was too startled to scream.  The figure was that of an Indian, naked save for high moccasins and a magnificently decorated loin-cloth.  The man looked down at her with the smile of good fellowship that she knew so well.  It was Kut-le, standing like a young bronze god against the faint pink of the afterglow.

“Hello!” he said nonchalantly.  “I’ve been watching for you.”

“What do you want!” gasped Rhoda.  “What do you mean by coming before me in—­in—­”

“You mean when I’m dressed as a chief on the warpath?  Well, you said you’d be keen about me this way; so here I am.  I tried all the white methods I knew to win you and failed.  Now the only thing left is the Indian method.”

Rhoda moved uneasily.

Kut-le went on: