“Don’t tie me!” she panted.  “Don’t tie me!  I won’t fight!  I won’t even scream, if you won’t tie me!”

“But you can’t sit your saddle alone,” replied Kut-le.  “I’ll have to tie you.”

Once more he lifted her to the horse.  Once more with the help of his silent companion he fastened her with blankets.  Once more the journey was begun.  For a little while, distraught and uncertain what course to pursue, Rhoda endured the misery of position and motion in silence.  Then the pain was too much and she cried out in protest.  Kut-le brought the horses to a walk.

“You certainly have about as much spunk as a chicken with the pip!” he said contemptuously.  “I should think your loathing would brace you up a little!”

Stung by the insult to a sudden access of strength, as the Indian had intended her to be, Rhoda answered, “You beast!” but as the horses swung into the trot she made no protest for a long hour.  Then once more her strength failed her and she fell to crying with deep-drawn sobs that shook her entire body.  After a few moments of this, Kut-le drew close to her.

“Don’t!” he said huskily.  “Don’t!” And again he laid his hand on her shoulder.

Rhoda shuddered but could not cease her sobs.  Kut-le seemed to hesitate for a few moments.  Then he reached over, undid Rhoda’s fastenings and lifted her limp body to the saddle before him, holding her against his broad chest as if he were coddling a child.  Then he started the horses on.  Too exhausted to struggle, Rhoda lay sobbing while the young Indian sat with his tragic eyes fastened steadily on the mysterious distances of the trail.  Finally Rhoda sank into a stupor and, seeing this, Kut-le doubled the speed of the horses.

It was daylight when Rhoda opened her eyes.  For a time she lay at ease listening to the trill of birds and the trickle of water.  Then, with a start, she raised her head.  She was lying on a heap of blankets on a stone ledge.  Above her was the boundless sapphire of the sky.  Close beside her a little spring bubbled from the blank wall of the mountain.  Rhoda lay in helpless silence, looking about her, while the appalling nature of her predicament sank into her consciousness.

Against the wall squatted two Indian women.  They were dressed in rough short skirts, tight-fitting calico waists and high leather moccasins.  Their black hair was parted in the middle and hung free.  Their swarthy features were well cut but both of the women were dirty and ill kept.  The younger, heavier squaw had a kindly face, with good eyes, but her hair was matted with clay and her fingers showed traces of recent tortilla making.  The older woman was lean and wiry, with a strange gleam of maliciousness and ferocity in her eyes.  Her forehead was elaborately tattooed with symbols and her toothless old jaws were covered with blue tribal lines.