AN INTERLUDE
Late in the afternoon, Rhoda woke. Kut-le stood beside her. His
expression was half eager, half tender.
"How do you feel now?" he asked.
"Quite well," answered Rhoda. "Will you call Marie? I want to dress."
"You must rest in bed today," replied the Indian. "Tomorrow will be
soon enough for you to get up."
Rhoda looked at the young man with irritation.
"Can't you learn that I am not a squaw? That it maddens me to be
ordered about? That every time you do you alienate me more, if
possible?"
"You do foolish stunts," said Kut-le calmly, "and I have to put you
right."
Rhoda moaned.
"Oh, how long, how long must I endure this! How could they be so
stupid as to let you slip through their fingers so!"
Kut-le's mouth became a narrow seam.
"As soon as I can get you into the Sierra Madre, I shall marry you.
You are practically a well woman now. But I am not going to hurry
overmuch. You are going to love me first and you are going to love
this life first. Then we will go to Paris until the storm has passed."
Rhoda did not seem to hear him. She tossed her arms restlessly.
"Please send Marie to me," she said finally. "You will permit me to
eat something perhaps?"
Kut-le left the room at once. In a short time he returned with Marie,
who bore a steaming bowl which he himself flanked with a dish of
luscious melon. The woman propped Rhoda adroitly to a sitting position
and Kut-le gravely balanced the bowl against the girl's knees. The
stew which the bowl contained was delicious, and Rhoda ate it to the
last drop. She ate in silence, while Kut-le watched her with
unspeakable longing in his eyes. The room was almost dark when the
simple meal was finished. Marie brightened the fire and smoothed
Rhoda's blankets.
"Kut-le go now," said the Pueblo woman. "You rest. In morning, Marie
bring white squaw some clothes."
Rhoda was glad to pillow her head on her arm but it was long before she
slept. She tried to piece together her faint and distorted
recollection of the occurrences since the morning when the mesa had
risen through the dawn. But her only clear picture was of John
DeWitt's wild face as she disappeared into the fissure. She recalled
its look of agony and sobbed a little to herself as she realized what
torture he and the Newmans must have endured since her disappearance.
And yet she was very hopeful. If her friends could come as close to
her as they did before the mesa, they must be learning Kut-le's
methods. Surely the next time luck would not play so well for the
Indian.
Rhoda woke in the morning to the sound of song. Marie knelt on the
ground before a sloping slab of stone and patiently kneeded corn with a
smaller stone. Her song, a quaint repetition of short mellow syllables
pleased Rhoda's sensitive ear and she lay listening. When Marie saw
Rhoda's wide eyes she came to the girl's side.
"You feel good now?" she queried.
"Yes, much better. I want to get up."
The Indian woman nodded.
"Marie clean white squaw's clothes. White squaw wear Marie's. Now
Marie help you wash."
Rhoda smiled.
"You are not an Apache if you want me to bathe!"
Marie answered indignantly.
"Marie is Pueblo squaw!"
The clothes that Marie brought, Rhoda thought very attractive. There
was a soft wool underdress of creamiest tint. Over this Marie pulled,
fastening it at one shoulder, a gay, many-colored overdress which, like
the one she herself wore, reached to the knees. Rhoda pulled on her
own high laced boots which had been neatly mended. Then the two turned
their attention to the neglected braid of hair.
When it was loosened and hung in tangled masses nearly to Rhoda's
knees, Marie's delight in its loveliness knew no expression. She
fetched a queer battered old comb which she washed and then proceeded
with true feminine rapture to comb the wonderful waving locks. In the
midst of this Kut-le entered. He gazed on Rhoda's new disguise with
delight. Indeed her delicate face, above the many-hued garment, was
like a harebell growing in a gaudy nasturtium bed.
"We can only let you on the roof," said Kut-le, who was carrying
Rhoda's sombrero.
Rhoda made no reply but when Marie had plaited her hair in a rippling
braid she followed Kut-le up the short ladder. Her sense of
cleanliness after the weeks of disorder was delightful. As she stepped
on the flat-topped roof and the sweet clear air filled her lungs she
felt as if reborn. With Navajo blankets, Kut-le had contrived an
awning that not only made a bit of shade but precluded view from below.
The rich tints of the blankets were startlingly picturesque against the
yellow gray of the adobe. Rhoda, dropped luxuriantly to the heap of
blankets and turned her face toward the mountain, many-colored and bare
toward the base, deep-cloaked with piñon, oak and Juniper on the
uplands. From its base flowed the little river, gurgling over its
shallow bed of stone and rich with green along its flat banks. Close
beside the river was the Pueblo village, the many-terraced buildings,
on one of the roofs of which Rhoda sat.
Kut-le, stretched on the roof near by, smoked cigarette after cigarette
as he watched the girl's quiet face, but he did not speak. For three
or four hours the two sat thus in silence. Just as the sun sank behind
the mountain, a bell clanged and then fell to tolling softly. Then
Kut-le broke his silence.
"That's the bell of the old mission. Some one has been buried, I
guess. We can look. There are no tourists now."
There was a sound of wailing: a deep mournful sound that caught Rhoda's
heart to her throat and blanched her face. It was the sound of the
grief of primitive man, the cry of the forlorn and broken-hearted,
uncloaked by convention. It touched a primitive chord of response in
Rhoda that set her to trembling. Surely, when the world was young she
too had wept so. Surely she too had voiced a poignant, unbearable loss
in just such a wild outpouring of grief!
They moved to the edge of the terrace and looked below into the street.
Down the rocky way a line of Indians was bearing hand-mills and jars
and armloads of ornaments.
"They will take those to the 'killing place' and break them that the
dead owner may have them afterward," explained Kut-le softly. "It
always makes me think of a verse in the Bible. I can't recall the
words exactly though."
Rhoda glanced up into the dark face with a look of appreciation.
"'And the grinders shall cease because they are few!'" she said, "'and
those that look out of the windows be darkened. And the doors shall be
shut in the street when the sound of the grinding is low, because man
goeth to his long home and mourners go about the street.'"
"And there is something else," murmured Kut-le, "about 'the silver
cord.'"
"'Or ever the silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken or the
pitcher be broken at the fountain or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was and the spirit to God
who gave it.'"
They stood in silence again. The wailing died into the distance. The
sun touched to molten gold the heavy shadows of the mountain arroyos.
Rhoda was deeply moved by the scene below her. She felt as if she had
been thrust back through the ages to look upon the sorrow of some
little Judean town. The little rocky street, the vivid robes, the
weird, dying wail, the broken ornaments and utensils that some folded
tired hands would use no more, and, above all, the simple unquestioning
faith, roused in her a sudden longing for a life that she never had
known. For a long time she stood in thought. As darkness fell she
roused herself.
"Let me go back to my room," she said.
As they turned, neither noticed that Rhoda's little handkerchief, which
she had carried through all her experiences, fluttered from her sleeve
to the street.
Again it was long before Rhoda slept. Through her window there floated
the sound of song, the evening singing of Indian lads in the village
street. There was a vibrant quality in their voices that Rhoda could
liken only to the music of stringed instruments. There was neither the
mellow smoothness of the negro voice nor the flute-like sweetness of
the white, yet the voices compassed all the mystical appealing quality
of violin notes.
The music woke in Rhoda a longing for she knew not what. It seemed to
her as if she were peering past a misty veil into the childhood of the
world to whose simple beauty and delights civilization had made her
alien. The vibrating voices chanted slower and slower. Rhoda stirred
uneasily. To be free again as these voices were free! Not to long for
the civilization she had left but for open skies and trails! To be
free again!
As the voices melted into silence, a guitar was touched softly under
Rhoda's window and Kut-le's voice rose in _La Golondrina_:
"Whither so swiftly flies the timid swallow?
What distant bourne seeks her untiring wing?
To reach her nest what needle does she follow
When darkness wraps the poor wee storm-tossed thing?"
Rhoda stirred restlessly and threw her arms above her head.
"To build her nest near to my couch I'll call her!
Why go so far dark and strange skies to seek?
Safe would she be, no evil should befall her,
For I'm an exile sad, too sad to weep!"
Mist-like floated across Rhoda's mind a memory of the trail with voice
of mating bird at dawn, with stars and the night wind and the open way.
And going before, always Kut-le--Kut-le of the unfathomable eyes, of
the merry smile, of the gentle touch. The music merged itself into
Rhoda's dreams.
She spent the following day on the roof. Curled on her Navajo she
watched the changing tones on the mountains and listened to the soft
voices of the Pueblo women in the street below. Naked brown babies
climbed up and down the ladders and paddled in the shallow river Indian
women with scarlet shawls across their shoulders filled their ollas at
the river and stood gossiping, the brimming ollas on their heads. In
the early morning the men had trudged to the alfalfa and melon fields
and returned at sundown to be greeted joyfully by the women and
children.
Kut-le spent the day at Rhoda's side. They talked but little, though
Rhoda had definitely abandoned her rule of silence toward the Indian.
Her mind during most of the day was absorbed in wondering why she so
enjoyed watching the life in this Indian town and why she was not more
impatient to be gone.
As the sun dropped behind the mountain Marie appeared on the roof, her
black eyes very bright.
"Half-breed Philip find white squaw's handkerchief. Give to white men,
maybe! Marie see Philip get handkerchief from little girl."
Kut-le gave Rhoda an inscrutable look, but she did not tell him that
she shared his surprise.
"Well," said Kut-le calmly, "maybe we had better mosey along."
They descended to find Marie hastily doing up a bundle of bread and
fruit. While Kut-le went for blankets Rhoda, at Marie's request,
donned her old clothing of the trail. She had been wearing the squaw's
holiday outfit. Very shortly, with a hasty farewell to Marie, they
were in the dusky street. "Shall I gag you," asked Kut-le, "or will
you give me your word of honor to give neither sign nor sound until we
get to the mountain, and to keep your face covered with your Navajo?"
Rhoda sighed.
"Very well, I promise," she said.
In a very short time they had reached the end of the little street and
were climbing an arroyo up into the mountain. When they reached the
piñons Kut-le gave the coyote call. It thrilled Rhoda with the misery
of the night of her capture. Almost immediately there was an answering
call and close in the shadow of the piñon they found Alchise and the
two squaws. Molly ran to Rhoda with a squeal of joy and patted the
girl's hand but Alchise and Cesca gave no heed to her greeting.
The ponies were ready and Rhoda swung herself to her saddle, with a
thrill at the touch of the muscular little horse. And once more she
rode after Kut-le with the mystery of the night trail before her.
The sound of water falling, the cheep of wakening birds, the subtle
odor of moisture-drenched soil roused Rhoda from her half sleep on the
horse's back at the end of the night's journey. The trail had not been
hard, through an endless pine forest for the most part. Kut-le drew
rein beside a little waterfall deep in the mountain fastness. Rhoda
saw a chaos of rock masses huge and distorted, as if an inconceivably
cruel and gigantic hand had juggled with weights seemingly immovable;
about these the loveliness of vine and shrub; above them the towering
junipers dwarfed by the rocks they shaded; and falling softly over the
harsh brown rifts of rock, the liquid green and white of a mountain
brook which, as it reached the level, rushed away in a roar of foam.
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.
"The woods are full of them!" he grunted. With one hand across Rhoda's
mouth, he ran around the falls and dropped six feet to a narrow back
trail.
"My own ground!" Rhoda heard him chuckle.