The Heart of the Desert | Page 6

were mounting the steps.

CHAPTER II
THE CAUCASIAN WAY
When Rhoda entered the dining-room some of her pallor seemed to

have left her. She was dressed in a gown of an elusive pink that gave a
rose flush to the marble fineness of her face.
Katherine was chatting with a wiry, middle-aged man whom she
introduced to Rhoda as Mr. Porter, an Arizona mining man. Porter
stood as if stunned for a moment by Rhoda's delicate loveliness. Then,
as was the custom of every man who met Rhoda, he looked vaguely
about for something to do for her. Jack Newman forestalled him by
taking Rhoda's hand and leading her to the table. Jack's curly blond hair
looked almost white in contrast with his tanned face. He was not as tall
as either Cartwell or DeWitt but he was strong and clean-cut and had a
boyish look despite the heavy responsibilities of his five-thousand-acre
ranch.
"There," he said, placing Rhoda beside Porter; "just attach Porter's
scalp to your belt with the rest of your collection. It'll be a new
experience to him. Don't be afraid, Porter."
Billy Porter was not in the least embarrassed.
"I've come too near to losing my scalp to the Apaches to be scared by
Miss Tuttle. Anyhow I gave her my scalp without a yelp the minute I
laid eyes on her."
"Here! That's not fair!" cried John DeWitt. "The rest of us had to work
to get her to take ours!"
"Our what?" asked Cartwell, entering the room at the last word. He was
looking very cool and well groomed in white flannels.
Billy Porter stared at the newcomer and dropped his soup-spoon with a
splash. "What in thunder!" Rhoda heard him mutter.
Jack Newman spoke hastily.
"This is Mr. Cartwell, our irrigation engineer, Mr. Porter."
Porter responded to the young Indian's courteous bow with a surly nod,

and proceeded with his soup.
"I'd as soon eat with a nigger as an Injun," he said to Rhoda under
cover of some laughing remark of Katherine's to Cartwell.
"He seems to be nice," said Rhoda vaguely. "Maybe, though, Katherine
is a little liberal, making him one of the family."
"Is there any hunting at all in this open desert country?" asked DeWitt.
"I certainly hate to go back to New York with nothing but sunburn to
show for my trip!"
"Coyotes, wildcats, rabbits and partridges," volunteered Cartwell. "I
know where there is a nest of wildcats up on the first mesa. And I know
an Indian who will tan the pelts for you, like velvet. A jack-rabbit pelt
well tanned is an exquisite thing too, by the way. I will go on a hunt
with you whenever the ditch can be left."
"And while they are chasing round after jacks, Miss Tuttle," cut in
Billy Porter neatly, "I will take you anywhere you want to go. I'll show
you things these kids never dreamed of! I knew this country in the days
of Apache raids and the pony express."
"That will be fine!" replied Rhoda. "But I'd rather hear the stories than
take any trips. Did you spend your boyhood in New Mexico? Did you
see real Indian fights? Did you--?" She paused with an involuntary
glance at Cartwell.
Porter, too, looked at the dark young face across the table and
something in its inscrutable calm seemed to madden him.
"My boyhood here? Yes, and a happy boyhood it was! I came home
from the range one day and found my little fifteen-year-old sister and a
little neighbor friend of hers hung up by the back of their necks on
butcher hooks. They had been tortured to death by Apaches. I don't like
Indians!"
There was an awkward pause at the dinner table. Li Chung removed the

soup-plates noiselessly. Cartwell's brown fingers tapped the tablecloth.
But he was not looking at Porter's scowling face. He was watching
Rhoda's gray eyes which were fastened on him with a look half of pity,
half of aversion. When he spoke it was as if he cared little for the
opinions of the others but would set himself right with her alone.
"My father," he said, "came home from the hunt, one day, to find his
mother and three sisters lying in their own blood. The whites had
gotten them. They all had been scalped and were dead except the baby,
three years old. She--she--my father killed her."
A gasp of horror went round the table.
"I think such stories are inexcusable here!" exclaimed Katherine
indignantly.
"So do I, Mrs. Jack," replied Cartwell. "I won't do it again."
Porter's face stained a deep mahogany and he bowed stiffly to
Katherine.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newman!"
"I feel as if I were visiting a group of anarchists," said Rhoda
plaintively, "and had