The Indian smiled sardonically. "I already have Mrs. Jack's permission. Billy Porter will be in, in a moment. If you would rather have a white man than an Indian, as escort, I'm quite willing to retreat." Rhoda flushed delicately. "Your frankness is almost--almost impertinent, Mr. Cartwell." "I don't mean it that way at all!" protested the Indian. "It's just that I saw so plainly what was going on in your mind and it piqued me. If it will be one bit pleasanter for you with Billy, I'll go right out and hunt him up for you now." The young man's naivete completely disarmed Rhoda. "Don't be silly!" she said. "Go get your famous top-buggy and I'll be ready in a minute." In a short time Rhoda and Cartwell, followed by many injunctions from Katherine, started off toward the irrigating ditch. At a slow pace they drove through the peach orchard into the desert. As they reached the open trail, thrush and to-hee fluttered from the cholla. Chipmunk and cottontail scurried before them. Overhead a hawk dipped in its reeling flight. Cartwell watched the girl keenly. Her pale face was very lovely in the brilliant morning light, though the somberness of her wide, gray eyes was deepened. That same muteness and patience in her trouble which so touched other men touched Cartwell, but he only said: "There never was anything bigger and finer than this open desert, was there?" Rhoda turned from staring at the distant mesas and eyed the young Indian wonderingly. "Why!" she exclaimed, "I hate it! You know that sick fear that gets you when you try to picture eternity to yourself? That's the way this barrenness and awful distance affects me. I hate it!" "But you won't hate it!" cried Cartwell. "You must let me show you its bigness. It's as healing as the hand of God." Rhoda shuddered. "Don't talk about it, please! I'll try to think of something else." They drove in silence for some moments. Rhoda, her thin hands clasped in her lap, resolutely stared at the young Indian's profile. In the unreal world in which she drifted, she needed some thought of strength, some hope beyond her own, to which to cling. She was lonely--lonely as some outcast watching with sick eyes the joy of the world to which he is denied. As she stared at the stern young profile beside her, into her heart crept the now familiar thrill. Suddenly Cartwell turned and looked at her quizzically. "Well, what are your conclusions?" Rhoda shook her head. "I don't know, except that it's hard to realize that you are an Indian." Cartwell's voice was ironical. "The only good Indian is a dead Indian, you know. I'm liable to break loose any time, believe me!" Rhoda's eyes were on the far lavender line where the mesa melted into the mountains. "Yes, and then what?" she asked. Cartwell's eyes narrowed, but Rhoda did not see. "Then I'm liable to follow Indian tradition and take whatever I want, by whatever means!"