“Where is John DeWitt?” asked Katherine after a moment.

“He’s almost crazy.  He’s with Dick Freeman.  Only stopped for a fresh horse.”

“They have no trace?” questioned Katherine.

Jack shook his head.

“You know what a proposition it is to hunt for as small an object as a human, in the desert.  Give me your smelling salts and the little Navajo blanket.  One—­one can’t tell whether she’s hurt or not.”

Katherine began to sob as she obeyed.

“You are all angel good not to blame me, but I know it’s my fault.  I shouldn’t have let her go.  But she is so sensible, usually.”

“Dear heart!” said Jack, rolling up the Navajo.  “Any one that knows dear old Rhoda knows that what she will, she will, and you are not to blame.  Go to bed and sleep if you can.”

“Oh, Jack, I can’t!  Let me go with you, do!”

But Jack shook his head.

“You aren’t strong enough to do any good and some one must stay here to run things.”

So again Katherine was left to pace the veranda.  All night the search went on.  Jack sent messages to the neighboring ranches and the following morning fifty men were in the saddle seeking Rhoda’s trail.  Jack also sent into the Pueblo country for Kut-le, feeling that his aid would be invaluable.  It would take some time to get a reply from the Indians and in the meantime the search went on rigorously, with no trace of the trail to be found.

John DeWitt did not return to the ranch until the afternoon after Rhoda’s disappearance.  Then, disheveled, with bloodshot eyes, cracked lips and blistered face, he dropped exhausted on the veranda steps.  Katherine and Jack greeted him with quiet sympathy.

“I came in to get fixed up for a long cruise,” said John.  “My pony went lame, and I want a flannel shirt instead of this silk thing I had on last night.  I wish to God Kut-le would come!  I suppose he could read what we are blind to.”

“You bet!” cried Jack.  “I expect an answer from his friends this afternoon.  I just had a telegram from Porter, in answer to one I sent him this morning.  I caught him at Brown’s and he will be here this afternoon.  He knows almost as much as an Indian about following a trail.”

They all spoke in the hushed tones one employs in the sick-room.  Jack tried to persuade DeWitt to eat and sleep but he refused, his forced calm giving way to a hoarse, “For heaven’s sake, can I rest when she is dying out there!”

John had not finished his feverish preparations when Billy Porter stalked into the living-room.  As he entered, the telephone rang and Jack answered it.  Then he returned to the eager group.

“Kut-le has gone on a long hunt with some of his people.  They don’t know where he went and refuse to look for him.”

Billy Porter gave a hard, mirthless laugh.

“Why certainly!  Jack, you ought to have a hole bored into your head to let in a little light.  Kut-le gone.  Can’t find Rhoda’s trail.  Kut-le in love with Rhoda.  Kut-le an Indian.  Rhoda refuses him—­he goes off—­gets some of his chums and when he catches Rhoda alone he steals her.  He will keep a man behind, covering his trail.  Oh, you easy Easterners make me sick!”