"Rhoda," he said at last, "I thought most of the savage had been civilized out of me. But I tell you now that if ever I get a chance I shall kill that Apache with my bare hands!"
Rhoda laid her hand on DeWitt's arm.
"Kut-le, after all, has done me only a great good, John!"
"But think how he did it! The devil risked killing you! Think what you and we all have suffered! God, Rhoda, think!" And DeWitt threw his arm across his face with a sob that wrenched his shoulders.
Inexpressibly touched, Rhoda stopped and drew John's face down to hers, rubbing it softly with her velvet cheek.
"There, dear, there! I can't bear to see you so! My poor tired boy! You have all but killed yourself for me!"
DeWitt lifted the slender little figure and held it tensely in his arms a moment, then set her gently down.
"A woman's magnanimity is a strange thing," he said.
"Kut-le will suffer," said Rhoda. "He risked everything and has lost. He has neither friends nor country now."
"Much he cares," retorted DeWitt, "except for losing you!"