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