Rhoda shuddered.
"Don't talk about it, please! I'll try to think of something else."
They drove in silence for some moments. Rhoda, her thin hands clasped in her lap, resolutely stared at the young Indian's profile. In the unreal world in which she drifted, she needed some thought of strength, some hope beyond her own, to which to cling. She was lonely—lonely as some outcast watching with sick eyes the joy of the world to which he is denied. As she stared at the stern young profile beside her, into her heart crept the now familiar thrill.
Suddenly Cartwell turned and looked at her quizzically.
"Well, what are your conclusions?"
Rhoda shook her head.
"I don't know, except that it's hard to realize that you are an Indian."
Cartwell's voice was ironical.
"The only good Indian is a dead Indian, you know. I'm liable to break loose any time, believe me!"
Rhoda's eyes were on the far lavender line where the mesa melted into the mountains.