"Perhaps we had better stay at the spring until morning," suggested Rhoda, her weak legs flagging.
"Not with the hope of shelter a hundred feet above us," answered John firmly. "This trail is worn six inches into the solid rock. My guess is that there are some inhabitants here. It's queer that they haven't discovered us."
Slowly and without further protest, Rhoda followed DeWitt up the trail. Deep-worn and smooth though it was, they accomplished their task with infinite difficulty. Rhoda, stumbling like a sleep-sodden child, wondered if ever again she was to accomplish physical feats with the magical ease with which Kut-le had endowed her.
"If he were here, I'd know I was to tumble into a comfortable camp," she thought. Then with a remorseful glance at DeWitt's patient back, "What a selfish beast you are, Rhoda Tuttle!"
She reached John's side and together they paused at the top of the trail. Black against the sky, the moon crowning its top with a frost-like radiance, was a huge flat-topped building. Night birds circled about it. From black openings in its front owls hooted. But otherwise there was neither sight nor sound of living thing. The desert far below and beyond lay like a sea of death. Rhoda unconsciously drew nearer to DeWitt.
"Where are the dogs? At Chira the dogs barked all night. Indians always have dogs!"
"It must be very late," whispered DeWitt. "Even the dogs are asleep!"
"And at Chira," went on Rhoda, whispering as did DeWitt, "owls didn't hoot from the windows."
"Let's go closer," suggested John.
Rhoda thrust cold little fingers into his hand.