shed they were; red stripes on their arms, the number showing their
rank in the tribe; open-seated, buckskin breeches to their knees where
they met the tightly wrapped leggings; moccasins laced snugly at the
ankle--they were picturesque enough to any eyes but Buddy's. He saw the
ghoulish greed in their eyes, heard it in their voices when they shouted
to one another; and he hated them even more than he feared them.

Much that they said he understood. They were cursing the Tomahawk
outfit, chiefly because the men had not waited there to be surprised and
killed. They cursed his father in particular, and were half sorry that
they had not ridden on in pursuit with the others. They hoped no white
man would ride alive to Laramie. It made cheerful listening to Buddy,
flat on his stomach in the roof of the dugout!

After a while, when the cabin had been gutted of everything it contained
save the crude table and benches, a few Indians brought burning brands
from the stable and set it afire. They were very busy inside and out,
making sure that the flames took hold properly. Then, when the dry logs
began to blaze and flames licked the edges of the roof, they stood back
and watched it.

Buddy saw Hides-the-face glance speculatively toward the dugout, and
slipped his hand back where he could reach his six-shooter. He felt
pretty certain that they meant to demolish the dugout next, and he
knew exactly what he meant to do. He had heard men at the posts talk of
"selling their lives dearly ", and that is what he intended to do.

He was not going to be in too much of a hurry; he would wait until they
actually began on the dugout--and when they were on the bank within a
few feet of him, and he saw that there was no getting away from death,
he meant to shoot five Indians, and himself last of all.

Tentatively he felt of his temple where he meant to place the muzzle
of the gun when there was just one bullet left. It was so nice and
smooth--he wondered if God would really help him out, if he said Our
Father with a pure heart and with faith, as his mother said one must
pray. He was slightly doubtful of both conditions, when he came to think
of it seriously. This spring he had felt grown-up enough to swear a
little at the horses, sometimes--and he was not sure that shooting the
Indian that time would not be counted a crime by God, who loved all
His creatures. Mother always stuck to it that Injuns were God's
creatures--which brought Buddy sq