“Good Lord!” he cried.  “Respect him!  Wouldn’t that come and get you!  Do you mean that you want to stay with that Injun?”

A slow flush covered Rhoda’s tanned cheeks.  Her cleft chin lifted a little.

“At the very first chance,” she replied, “I shall escape.”

Porter sighed in great relief.

“That’s all right, Miss Rhoda,” he said leniently.  “Respect him all you want to.  I don’t see how you can, but women is queer, if you don’t mind my saying so.  I don’t blame you for feeling thankful about your health.  You’ve stood this business better than any of us.  Say, that squaw seems to be puttin’ all her time on making up my pack.  Can’t I negotiate for something to eat right now?  Tell her not to put pison into it.”

Kut-le grinned.

“Maybe Miss Tuttle will fix up something for you, so you can eat without worrying.”

“Well, she won’t, you know!” growled Porter. “Her wait on me!  She ain’t no squaw!”

“Oh, but,” cried Rhoda, “you don’t know how proud I am of my skill!  I can run the camp just as well as the squaws.”  Then, as Porter scowled at Kut-le, “He didn’t make me!  I wanted to, so as to be able to take care of myself when I escaped.  When you and I get away from him,” she looked at the silent Indian with an expression of daring that brought a glint of amusement to his eyes, “I’ll be able to live off the trail better than you!”

“Gee!” exclaimed Porter admiringly.

“Of course, in one way it’s no credit to me at all,” Rhoda went on, stirring the rabbit stew she was warming up.  “Kut-le—­” she paused.  Of what use was it to try to explain what Kut-le had done for her!

She toasted fresh tortillas and poured the stew over them and brought the steaming dish to Porter.  He tasted of the mess tentatively.

“By Hen!” he exclaimed, and he set upon the stew as if half starved, while Rhoda watched him complacently.

Seeing him apparently thus engrossed, Kut-le turned to speak to Alchise.  Instantly Porter dropped the stew, drew a revolver and fired two rapid shots, one catching Alchise in the leg, the other Injun Tom.  Before he could get Kut-le the young Indian was upon him.

“Run, Rhoda, run!” yelled Porter, as he went down, under Kut-le.

Rhoda gave one glance at Injun Tom and Alchise writhing with their wounds, at Porter’s fingers tightening at Kut-le’s throat, then she seized the canteen she had filled for Porter and started madly down the trail.  The screaming squaws gave no heed to her.

She ran swiftly, surely, down the rocky way, watching the trail with secondary sense, for every other was strained to catch the sounds from above.  But she heard nothing but the screams of the squaws.  The trail twisted violently near the desert floor.  She sped about one last jutting buttress, then stopped abruptly, one hand on her heaving breast.