himself steady. It seemed as if someone were reaching up in
the dark to catch him by the legs and pull him out. Nothing
happened, however, and after a little he inched backward
until he hung with his elbows hooked desperately inside the
opening, his head and shoulders within and protesting with
every nerve against leaving the shelter.

Buddy said afterwards that he guessed he'd have hung there
until daylight, only he was afraid it was about time to
change guard, and somebody might catch him. But he said he
was scared to let go and drop, because it must have been
pretty crowded in the cellar, and he knew the door was open,
and some buck might be roosting outside handy to be stepped
on. But he knew he had to do something, because if he ever
went to sleep up in that place he'd snore, maybe; and anyway,
he said, he'd rather run himself to death than starve to
death. So he dropped.

It was two days after that when Buddy shuffled into a mining
camp on the ridge just north of Douglas Pass. He was still on
his feet, but they dragged like an old man's. He had walked
twenty-five miles in two nights, going carefully, in fear of
Indians. The first five miles he had waded along the shore of
the creek, he said, in case they might pick up his tracks at
the dugout and try to follow him. He had hidden himself like
a rabbit in the brush through the day, and he had not dared
shoot any meat, wherefore he had not eaten anything.

"I ain't as hungry as I was at first," He grinned
tremulously. "But I guess I better--eat. I don' want--to lose