Rhoda’s horse drank thirstily and she stood beside him watching the mystical gray of the dawn lift to the riotous rose of the sunrise.  She wondered at the quick throb of her pulse.  It was very different from its wonted soft beat.  Then she threw herself on her blanket to sleep.

When Rhoda woke, late in the day, Kut-le had spread Marie’s cakes and fruit on leaves which he had washed in the brook.

“They are quite clean, I think,” he said a little anxiously.  “At least the squaws haven’t touched them.”

Rhoda and Kut-le sat on a rock and ate hungrily.  When she had finished Rhoda clasped her hands about her knees.  She looked singularly boyish, with her sombrero pushed back from her face and short locks of damp hair curling from beneath the crown.

“Isn’t it queer,” she said, “that you elude Jack and John DeWitt so easily?”

“The trouble is,” said Kut-le, “that you don’t appreciate the prowess of your captors.”

“Humph!” sniffed Rhoda.

“Listen!” cried Kut-le with sudden enthusiasm.  “Once in my boyhood Geronima and about twenty warriors, with twice as many squaws and children, fled to the mountains.  They never drew rein until they were one hundred and twenty miles from the reservation.  Then for six months they were pursued by two thousand American soldiers and they never lost a man!”

“How many whites were killed?” asked Rhoda.

“About a hundred!”

“I don’t understand yet,” Rhoda shook her head, “how savages could outwit whites for so long a time.”

“But it’s not a contest of brains.  Whites must travel like whites, with food and rests.  The Apache travels like the coyote, living off the country.  Your ancestors have been training your brain for a thousand years.  Mine have spent centuries of days, twenty-four hours a day, training the body to endure hardships.  You have had a glimpse of what the hardships of this country might mean to a white!”

As Kut-le talked, Rhoda sat with her eyes fastened on the rough face of a distant rock.  As she watched she saw a thick, leafy bush move up to the rock.  Rhoda caught her breath, glanced at the unconscious Kut-le, then back at the bush.  It moved slowly back among the trees and after a moment Rhoda saw the undergrowth far beyond move as with a passing breeze.  She glanced at the nodding Alchise and the squaws, then smiled and turned to Kut-le.

“Go on with your boasting, Kut-le.  It’s your one weakness, I think.”

Kut-le grinned.

“Well now, honestly, what do you think that a lot of Caucasians can do with an enemy whose existence has always been a fist to fist fight with nature at her cruelest?  We have fought with our bare hands and we have won,” he continued, half to himself.  “No white man or any number of whites can capture me on my own ground!”

“Boaster!” laughed Rhoda.

Just beyond the falls an aspen quivered.  John DeWitt stepped into view.  Haggard and wild-eyed, he stared at Rhoda.  She raised her finger to her lips, but too late.  Kut-le too looked up, and raised his gun.  Rhoda hurled herself toward him and struck up the barrel.  Kut-le dropped the gun and caught Rhoda in his arms.