“I’d take my chances with Mr. Provenso,” she said, joyfully conscious that nothing could have hurt Kut-le more than this reply.

Kut-le’s lips stiffened.

“Lunch is ready,” he said.

“None of your grub for mine,” remarked Jim.  “What are you going to do with me?”

“Alchise!” called Kut-le.  “Eat something, then take this fellow out and lose him.  Take the rest of the day to it.  You know the next camp!”

Then he folded his arms across his chest and waited for Alchise to finish his meal.  Jim stood in sullen silence for a minute.  Then he seated himself on a nearby rock.

“No, you don’t,” he said.  “If you get me out of here, you’ll have to use force.”

Kut-le shrugged his shoulders.

“A gun at your back will move you!”

Rhoda was looking at the white man’s face with a great longing.  He was rough and ugly, but he was of her own breed.  Suddenly the longing for her own that she was beginning to control surged to her lips.

“I can’t bear this!” she cried.  “I’m going mad!  I’m going mad!”

All the camp turned startled faces toward the girl, and Rhoda recovered her self-possession.  She ran to Kut-le and laid her hand on his arm, lifting a lovely, pleading face to his.

“O Kut-le!  Kut-le!” in the tone that she had used to Cartwell.  “Can’t you see that it’s no use?  He is white, Kut-le!  Let me go with him!  Let me go back to my own people!  O Kut-le, let me go!  O let me go!”

Kut-le looked down at the hand on his arm.  Rhoda was too excited to notice that his whole body shook at this unwonted touch.  His voice was caressing but his face remained inscrutable.

“Dear girl,” he answered, “he is not your kind!  He might originally have been of your color, but now he’s streaked with yellow.  Let him go.  You are safer here with me!”

Rhoda turned from him impatiently.

“It’s quite useless,” she said to Jim; “no pleading or threat will move him.  But I do thank you—­” her voice breaking a little.  “Go back with Alchise and tell them to come for me quickly!”

Some responsive flash of sympathy came to Jim’s bleared eyes.

Rhoda stood watching Alchise marshall him out of the camp.  She moaned helplessly: 

“O my people, my own people!” and Kut-le eyed her with unfathomable gaze.

As soon as lunch was finished, camp was broken.  All the rest of the day and until toward midnight they wound up a wretched trail that circled the mountain ranges, For hours, Kut-le did not speak to Rhoda.  These days of Rhoda’s contempt were very hard on him.  The touch of her hand that morning, the old note in her voice, still thrilled him.  At midnight as they watched the squaws unroll her blankets, he touched her shoulder.

“Dear,” he said, in his rich voice, “it is in you to love me if only I am patient.  And—­God, but it’s worth all the starvation in the meantime!  Won’t you say good-night to me, Rhoda?”