ny coyotes,
sounded from the cottonwoods that bordered the creek. "Yuh all right,
Buddy?"

"Yeah--I'm a-comin'," shrilled Buddy, hastily looping the latigo. Just
then the sharp staccato of rifle-shots mingled with the whooping of the
Indians. Buddy was reaching for the saddle horn when the brown horse
ducked and jerked loose. Before Buddy realized what was happening the
brown horse, the herd and all the riders were pounding away down the
valley, the men firing back at the cottonwoods.

In the dust and clamor of their departure Buddy stood perfectly still
for a minute, trying to grasp the full significance of his calamity.
Step-and-a-Half had packed hastily and departed ahead of them all. His
father and the cowboys were watching the cottonwood grove many rods to
Buddy's right and well in the background, and they would not glance his
way. Even if they did they would not see him, and if they saw him it
would be madness to ride back--though there was not a man among them who
would not have wheeled in his tracks and returned for Buddy in the very
face of Colorou and his band.

From the cottonwoods came the pound of galloping hoofs. "Angels
NOTHING!" Cried Buddy in deep disgust and scuttled for the cabin.

The cabin, he knew as he ran, was just then the worst place in the
world for a boy who wanted very much to go on living. Through its gaping
doorway he saw a few odds and ends of food lying on the table, but he
dared not stop long enough to get them. The Indians were thundering down
to the corral, and as he rounded the cabin's corner he glanced back
and saw the foremost riders whipping their horses on the trail of the
fleeing white men. But some, he knew, would stop. Even the prospect of
fresh scalps could not hold the greedy ones from prowling around a white
man's dwelling place. There might be tobacco or whiskey left behind,
or something with color or a shine to it. Buddy knew well the ways of
Indians.

He made for the creek, thinking at first to hide somewhere in the brush
along the bank. Then, fearing the brightening light of day and the wide
space he must cross to reach the first fringe of brush, he stopped at a
dugout cellar that had been built into the creek bank above high-water
mark. There was a pole-and-dirt roof, and because the dirt sifted down
between the poles whenever the wind blew--which was always--the place
had been crudely sealed inside with split poles overlapping one another.
The ceiling was more o