Rhoda’s brows still were arched haughtily.

“No, thank you,” she said frigidly; “I don’t wish you to undertake the care of my health.”

Kut-le made no reply but held the glass steadily before her.  Involuntarily, Rhoda looked up.  The young Indian was watching her with eyes so clear, so tender, with that strange look of tragedy belying their youth, with that something so compelling in their quiet depths, that once more her tired pulses quickened.  Rhoda looked from Kut-le out to the twisting sand-whirls, then she took the glass of milk and drank it.  She would not have done this for any of the others and both she and Kut-le knew it.  Thereafter, he deliberately set himself to watching her and it seemed as if he must exhaust his ingenuity devising means for her comfort.  Slowly Rhoda acquired a definite interest in the young Indian.

“Are you really civilized, Kut-le?” she asked one afternoon when the young man had brought a little white desert owl to her hammock for her inspection.

Kut-le tossed the damp hair from his forehead and looked at the sweet wistful face against the crimson pillows.  For a moment Rhoda felt as if his young strength enveloped her like the desert sun.

“Why?” he asked at last.  “You said the other day that I was too much civilized.”

“I know, but—­” Rhoda hesitated for words, “I’m too much civilized myself to understand, but sometimes there’s a look in your eyes that something, I suppose it’s a forgotten instinct, tells me means that you are wild to let all this go—­” she waved a thin hand toward cultivated fields and corral—­“and take to the open desert.”

Kut-le said nothing for a moment, though his face lighted with joy at her understanding.  Then he turned toward the desert and Rhoda saw the look of joy change to one so full of unutterable longing that her heart was stirred to sudden pity.  However, an instant later, he turned to her with the old impassive expression.

“Right beneath my skin,” he said, “is the Apache.  Tell me, Miss Rhoda, what’s the use of it all?”

“Use?” asked Rhoda, staring at the blue sky above the peach-trees.  “I am a fit person to ask what is the use of anything!  Of course, civilization is the only thing that lives.  I can’t get your point of view at all.”

“Huh!” sniffed Kut-le.  “It’s too bad Indians don’t write books!  If my people had been putting their internal mechanism on paper for a thousand years, you’d have no more trouble getting my point of view than I do yours.”

Rhoda’s face as she eyed the stern young profile was very sympathetic.  Kut-le, turning to her, surprised upon her face that rare, tender smile for which all who knew her watched.  His face flushed and his fine hands clasped and unclasped.

“Tell me about it, Kut-le, if you can.”

“I can’t tell you.  The desert would show you its own power if you would give it a chance.  No one can describe the call to you.  I suppose if I answered it and went back, you would call it retrogression?”