“I sometimes think you are a bigger woman than I am, Molly,” she said humbly.

“You are heap good to look at.”  Molly spoke wistfully.  “Molly heap homely.  You think that makes any difference to the Great Spirit?”

Rhoda’s eyes widened, a little.  Did it make any difference?  After all, what counted with the Great Spirit?  She stared at the barren ranges that lifted mute peaks to the silent heavens.  Always, always the questions and so vague the answers!  Suddenly Rhoda knew that her beauty had counted greatly with her all her life, had given her her sense of superiority to the rest of the world.  Rhoda squirmed.  She hated this faculty of the Indians and the desert to make her seem small.  She never had felt so with her own kind.  Her own kind!  Would she never again know the deference, the gentleness, the loving tenderness of her own people?  Rhoda forgot Molly’s wistful question.

“O Molly!” she cried.  “I can’t stand this!  I want my own people!  I want my own people!”

Molly’s eyes filled with tears.

“No!  No cry, little Sun-streak!” she pleaded, putting an arm around Rhoda and holding her to her tenderly.  “Any peoples that loves you is your own peoples.  Kut-le loves you.  Molly loves you.  We your peoples too!”

“No!  No!  Never!” sobbed Rhoda.  “Molly, if you love me, take me back to my own kind!  You shall never leave me, Molly!  I do love you.  You are an Indian but somehow I have a feeling for you I never had for any one else.”

A sudden light of passionate adoration burned in Molly’s eyes, a light that never was to leave them again when they gazed on Rhoda.  But she shook her head.

“You ask Molly to give up her peoples but you don’t want to give up yours.  You stay with Molly and Kut-le.  Learn what desert say ’bout life, ’bout people.  When you sabe what the desert say ’bout that you sabe almost much as Great Spirit!”

“Molly, listen!  When Kut-le and Alchise go off on one of their hunts and Cesca goes to sleep, you and I will steal off and hide until night, and you will show me how to get home again.  O Molly, I’ll be very good to you if you will do this for me!  Don’t you see how foolish Kut-le is?  I can never, never marry him!  His ways are not my ways.  My ways are not his!  Always I will be white and he Indian.  He will get over this craze for me and want one of his own kind.  Molly, listen to your heart!  It must tell you white to the white, Indian to the Indian.  Dear, dear Molly, I want to go home!”

“No!  No!  Molly promise Kut-le to keep his white squaw for him.  Injuns they always keep promises.  And Molly sabe some day when you learn more you be heap glad old Molly keep you for Kut-le.”

Rhoda turned away with a sigh at the note of finality in Molly’s voice.  Kut-le was climbing the trail toward the camp with a little pile of provisions.  So far he had not failed to procure when needed some sort of rations—­bacon, flour and coffee—­though since her abduction Rhoda had seen no human habitation, Cesca was preparing supper.  She was pounding a piece of meat on a flat stone, muttering to herself when a piece fell to the ground.  Sometimes she wiped the sand from the fallen bit on her skirt.  More often she flung it into the stew-pot unwiped.