Rhoda was deeply touched. This was the cry of the famished motherhood of a dying race. She put her soft cheek on Molly's shoulder and she could no longer see the sun, for her eyes were tear-blinded. Kut-le, standing on the other side of the camp, looked at the picture with deepening eyes; then he crossed and put his hand on Rhoda's shoulder.
"Dear one," he said, "you must eat your supper, then we must take the trail."
Rhoda looked up into the young man's face. She was exquisite in the failing light. For a moment it seemed as if Kut-le must fold her in his arms; but something in her troubled gaze withheld him and he only smiled at her caressingly.
"Before you eat," he said, "come to the edge of the camp and look through the glasses."
Rhoda hurried after him, and stared out over the desert. A short distance out, vivid in the afterglow, moved two figures. She distinguished the short wiry figure of Porter, the gaunt figure of DeWitt, walking with determined strides. Waiting till she could command her voice, Rhoda turned to Kut-le. He was watching her keenly.
"Will they pick up our trail? Are the poor things badly lost?"
"Billy Porter lost! I guess not! And I gave him enough hints so that he ought to join Newman in another twenty-four hours."
Rhoda smiled wanly.
"Sometimes you forget to act like a cold-blooded Indian."
Kut-le gave his familiar chuckle.