Kut-le’s mouth became a narrow seam.

“As soon as I can get you into the Sierra Madre, I shall marry you.  You are practically a well woman now.  But I am not going to hurry overmuch.  You are going to love me first and you are going to love this life first.  Then we will go to Paris until the storm has passed.”

Rhoda did not seem to hear him.  She tossed her arms restlessly.

“Please send Marie to me,” she said finally.  “You will permit me to eat something perhaps?”

Kut-le left the room at once.  In a short time he returned with Marie, who bore a steaming bowl which he himself flanked with a dish of luscious melon.  The woman propped Rhoda adroitly to a sitting position and Kut-le gravely balanced the bowl against the girl’s knees.  The stew which the bowl contained was delicious, and Rhoda ate it to the last drop.  She ate in silence, while Kut-le watched her with unspeakable longing in his eyes.  The room was almost dark when the simple meal was finished.  Marie brightened the fire and smoothed Rhoda’s blankets.

“Kut-le go now,” said the Pueblo woman.  “You rest.  In morning, Marie bring white squaw some clothes.”

Rhoda was glad to pillow her head on her arm but it was long before she slept.  She tried to piece together her faint and distorted recollection of the occurrences since the morning when the mesa had risen through the dawn.  But her only clear picture was of John DeWitt’s wild face as she disappeared into the fissure.  She recalled its look of agony and sobbed a little to herself as she realized what torture he and the Newmans must have endured since her disappearance.  And yet she was very hopeful.  If her friends could come as close to her as they did before the mesa, they must be learning Kut-le’s methods.  Surely the next time luck would not play so well for the Indian.

Rhoda woke in the morning to the sound of song.  Marie knelt on the ground before a sloping slab of stone and patiently kneeded corn with a smaller stone.  Her song, a quaint repetition of short mellow syllables pleased Rhoda’s sensitive ear and she lay listening.  When Marie saw Rhoda’s wide eyes she came to the girl’s side.

“You feel good now?” she queried.

“Yes, much better.  I want to get up.”

The Indian woman nodded.

“Marie clean white squaw’s clothes.  White squaw wear Marie’s.  Now Marie help you wash.”

Rhoda smiled.

“You are not an Apache if you want me to bathe!”

Marie answered indignantly.

“Marie is Pueblo squaw!”

The clothes that Marie brought, Rhoda thought very attractive.  There was a soft wool underdress of creamiest tint.  Over this Marie pulled, fastening it at one shoulder, a gay, many-colored overdress which, like the one she herself wore, reached to the knees.  Rhoda pulled on her own high laced boots which had been neatly mended.  Then the two turned their attention to the neglected braid of hair.