Slowly, very slowly, the herder, a sturdy ragged Mexican, moved up the canon, pausing now and again to scratch his head.  He was whistling La Paloma.  The Indians’ black eyes did not leave him and after his flute-like notes had melted into the distance they still crouched in cramped stillness on the ledge.

But shortly Kut-le freed Rhoda’s mouth, gave Alchise a swift look, and with infinite care the descent was begun.  Kut-le did not like traveling in the daylight, for many reasons.  Carefully, swiftly they moved up the canon, always hugging the wall.  Late in the afternoon they emerged on an open mesa.  All the wretched day Rhoda had traveled in a fearsome world of her own, peopled with uncanny figures, alight with a glare that seared her eyes, held in a vice that gripped her until she screamed with restless pain.  The song that the shepherd had whistled tortured her tired brain.

  “The day that I left my home for the rolling sea,
  I said, ‘Mother dear, O pray to thy God for me!’
  But e’er we set sail I went a fond leave to take—­”

Over and over she sang the three lines, ending each time with a frightened stare up into Kut-le’s face.

“Whom did I say good-by to?  Whom?  But they don’t care!”

Then again the tired voice: 

  “The day that I left my home for the rolling sea—­”

Night came and the weary, weary crossing of a craggy, heavily wooded mountain.  Kut-le did not relinquish his burden.  He seemed not to tire of the weight of the slender body that lay now in helpless stupor.  If the squaws or Alchise felt fatigue or impatience as Kut-le held them to a pace on the tortuous trail that would nearly have exhausted a Caucasian athlete, they gave no sign.  All the endless night Kut-le led the way under the midnight blackness of the pinon or the violet light of the stars, until the lifting light of the dawn found them across the ranges and standing at the edge of a little river.

In the dim light there lifted a terraced adobe building with ladders faintly outlined on the terraces.  There was no sound save the barking of a dog and the ripple of the river.  With a muttered admonition, Kut-le left Rhoda to the others and climbed one of the ladders.  He returned with a blanketed figure that gazed on Rhoda non-committally.  At a sign, Kut-le lifted Rhoda, and the little group moved noiselessly toward the dwelling, clambered up a ladder, and disappeared.

Rhoda opened her eyes with a sense of physical comfort that confused her.  She was lying on the floor of a long, gray-walled room.  In one corner was a tiny adobe fire-place from which a tinier fire threw a jet of flame color on the Navajo that lay before the hearth.  Along the walls were benches with splendid Navajos rolled cushion-wise upon them.  Above the benches hung several rifles with cougarskin quivers beneath them.  A couple of cheap framed mirrors were hung with silver necklaces of beautiful workmanship.  In a corner a table was set with heavy but shining china dishes.