“Alchise, go ahead with the horses,” said Kut-le.  “Wait for me at the painted rock.”

Then as the Indians became indistinguishable along the track he lifted Rhoda to her feet.

“Walk for a while,” he said.  “It will rest you.  Poor little girl!  I wish I could have managed differently but this was best for you.  Come, don’t be afraid of me!”

Some savage instinct stirred in Rhoda.  For the first time in her life she felt an insane joy in anger.

“I’m not afraid of you, you Apache Indian!” she said clearly.  “I loathe you!  Your touch poisons me!  But I’m not afraid of you!  I shall choke myself with my bare hands before you shall harm me!  And if you keep me long enough I shall try to kill you!”

Kut-le gave a short laugh.

“Listen, Rhoda.  Your protests show that you are afraid of me.  But you need not be.  Your protection lies in the fact that I love you—­love you with all the passion of a savage, all the restraint of a Caucasian.  I’d rather die than harm you!  Why, girl, I’m saving you, not destroying you!  Rhoda!  Dear one!” He paused and Rhoda could hear his quickened breath.  Then he added lightly, “Let’s get on with our little stroll!”

Rhoda wrung her hands and groaned.  Only to escape—­to escape!  Suddenly turning, she ran down the track.  Kut-le watched her, motionless, until she had run perhaps a hundred yards, then with a few mighty leaps he overtook her and gathered her to his great chest.  Moaning, Rhoda lay still.

“Dear,” said Kut-le, “don’t exert yourself foolishly.  If you must escape, lay your plans carefully.  Use your brain.  Don’t act like a child.  I love you, Rhoda!”

“I loathe you!  I loathe you!” whispered the girl.

“You don’t—­ah—­” He stopped abruptly and set the girl on the ground.  They were standing beside a side-track near a desert water-tank.  “I’ve caught my foot in a switch-frog,” muttered Kut-le, keeping his hold on Rhoda with one hand while with the other he tugged at his moccasined foot.

Rhoda stood rigid.

“I hear a train!” she cried.  “O dear God, I hear a train!” Then, “The other Indians are too far away to reach you before the train does,” she added calmly.

“But I’ll never loose my grip on you,” returned the Indian grimly.

He tore at the imprisoned foot, ripping the moccasin and tearing at the road bed.  The rails began to sing.  Far down the track they saw a star of light Rhoda’s heart stood still.  This, then, was to be the end!  After all the months of distant menace, death was to be upon her in a moment!  This, then, was to be the solution!  And with all the horror of what life might mean to her, she cried out with a sob: 

“Oh, not this way!  Not this way!”

Kut-le gave her a quick push.

“Hurry,” he said, “and try to remember good things of me!”

With a cry of joy, Rhoda jumped from the track, then stopped.  There flashed across her inner vision the face of young Cartwell, debonair and dark, with unfathomable eyes; young Cartwell who had saved her life when the scorpion had stung her, who had spent hours trying to lead her back to health.  Instantly she turned and staggered back to the Indian.