The Heart of the Desert | Page 2

"Hold tight a minute!" said the young man.

And before Rhoda could protest he had punctured the red center of the
swelling with a little scalpel, had held the cut open and had filled it
with a white powder that bit. Then he pulled a clean handkerchief from
his pocket and tore it in two. With one half he bound the ankle above
the cut tightly. With the other he bandaged the cut itself.
"Are you a doctor?" asked Rhoda faintly.
"Far from it," replied the young man with a chuckle, tightening the
upper bandage until Rhoda's foot was numb. "But I always carry this
little outfit with me; rattlers and scorpions are so thick over on the ditch.
Somebody's apt to be hurt anytime. I'm Charley Cartwell, Jack
Newman's engineer."
"Oh!" said Rhoda understandingly. "I'm so dizzy I can't see you very
well. This is very good of you. Perhaps now you'd go on and get the
buckboard. Tell them it's for Rhoda, Rhoda Tuttle. I just went out for a
walk and then--"
Her voice trailed into nothingness and she could only steady her
swaying body with both hands against the rock.
"Huh!" grunted young Cartwell. "I go on to the house and leave you
here in the boiling sun!"
"Would you mind hurrying?" asked Rhoda.
"Not at all," returned Cartwell.
He plucked the stocking and slipper from the yucca and dropped them
into his pocket. Then he stooped and lifted Rhoda across his broad
chest. This roused her.
"Why, you can't do this!" she cried, struggling to free herself.
Cartwell merely tightened his hold and swung out at a pace that was
half run, half walk.
"Close your eyes so the sun won't hurt them," he said peremptorily.

Dizzily and confusedly, Rhoda dropped her head back on the broad
shoulder and closed her eyes, with a feeling of security that later on
was to appall her. Long after she was to recall the confidence of this
moment with unbelief and horror. Nor did she dream how many weary
days and hours she one day was to pass with this same brazen sky over
her, this same broad shoulder under her head.
Cartwell looked down at the delicate face lying against his breast, at the
soft yellow hair massed against his sleeve. Into his black eyes came a
look that was passionately tender, and the strong brown hand that
supported Rhoda's shoulders trembled.
In an incredibly short time he was entering the peach orchard that
surrounded the ranch-house. A young man in white flannels jumped
from a hammock in which he had been dozing.
"For heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "What does this mean?"
Rhoda was too ill to reply. Cartwell did not slack his giant stride
toward the house.
"It means," he answered grimly, "that you folks must be crazy to let
Miss Tuttle take a walk in clothes like this! She's got a scorpion sting in
her foot."
The man in flannels turned pale. He hurried along beside Cartwell, then
broke into a run.
"I'll telephone to Gold Rock for the doctor and tell Mrs. Newman."
He started on ahead.
"Never mind the doctor!" called Cartwell. "I've attended to the sting.
Tell Mrs. Jack to have hot water ready."
As Cartwell sprang up the porch steps, Mrs. Newman ran out to meet
him. She was a pretty, rosy girl, with brown eyes and curly brown hair.
"Rhoda! Kut-le!" she cried. "Why didn't I warn her! Put her on the

couch here in the hall, Kut-le. John, tell Li Chung to bring the
hot-water bottles. Here, Rhoda dear, drink this!"
For half an hour the three, with Li Chung hovering in the background,
worked over the girl. Then as they saw her stupor change to a natural
sleep, Katherine gave a sigh that was almost a sob.
"She's all right!" she said. "O Kut-le, if you hadn't come at that
moment!"
Cartwell shook his head.
"It might have gone hard with her, she's so delicate. Gee, I'm glad I ran
out of tobacco this morning and thought a two-mile tramp across the
desert for it worth while!"
The three were on the porch now. The young man in flannels, who had
said little but had obeyed orders explicitly eyed Cartwell curiously.
"You're Newman's engineer, aren't you?" he asked. "My name's DeWitt.
You've put us all under great obligations, this morning."
Cartwell took the extended hand.
"Well, you know," he said carefully, "a scorpion sting may or may not
be serious. People have died of them. Mrs. Jack here makes no more of
them than of a mosquito bite, while Jack goes about like a drunken
sailor with one for a day, then forgets it. Miss Tuttle will be all right
when she wakes up. I'm off till dinner time, Mrs. Jack.