Buddy Runs True To Type





One never could predict with any certainty how long Indians would dance

before they actually took the trail of murder and pillage. So much

depended upon the Medicine, so much on signs and portents. It was even

possible that they might, for some mysterious reason unknown to their

white neighbors, decide at the last moment to bide their time. The

Tomahawk outfit worked from dawn until dark, and combed the foothills

of the Snowies hurriedly, riding into the most frequented, grassy basins

and wide canyons where the grass was lush and sweet and the mountain

streams rushed noisily over rocks. As fast as the cattle were gathered

they were pushed hastily toward the Platte, And though the men rode

warily with rifles as handy as their ropes, they rode in peace.



Buddy, proud of his job, counting himself as good a man as any of them,

became a small riding demon after rebellious saddle horses, herding them

away from thick undergrowth that might, for all he knew, hold Indians

waiting a chance to scalp him, driving the REMUDA close to the cabins

when night fell, because no man could be spared for night herding,

sleeping lightly as a cat beside a mouse hole. He did not say much,

perhaps because everyone was too busy to talk, himself included.



Men rode in at night dog-weary, pulled their saddles and hurried stiffly

to the cabin where Step-and-a-Half was showing his true worth as a cook

who could keep the coffee-pot boiling and yet be ready to pack up and

go at the first rifle-shot. They would bolt down enormous quantities of

bannock and boiled beef, swallow their coffee hot enough to scald a hog,

and stretch themselves out immediately to sleep.



Buddy would be up and on his horse in the clear starlight before dawn,

with a cup of coffee swallowed to hearten him for the chilly ride after

the remuda. Even with the warmth of the coffee his teeth would chatter

just at first, and he would ride with his thin shoulders lifted and a

hand in a pocket. He could not sing or whistle to keep himself company.

He must ride in silence until he had counted every dark, moving shape

and knew that the herd was complete, then ease them quietly to camp.



On the fourth morning he rode anxiously up the valley, fearing that the

horses had been stolen in the night, yet hoping they had merely strayed

up the creek to find fresh pastures. A light breeze that carried the

keen edge of frost made his nose tingle. His horse trotted steadily

forward, as keen on the trail as Buddy himself; keener, for he would be

sure to give warning of danger. So they rounded a bend in the creek and

came upon the scattered fringe of the remuda cropping steadily at the

meadow grass there.



Bud circled them, glancing now and then at the ridge beyond the valley.

It seemed somehow unnatural--lower, with the stars showing along its

wooded crest in a row, as if there were no peaks. Then quite suddenly he

knew that the ridge was the same, and that the stars he saw were little,

breakfast camp-fires. His heart gave a jump when he realized how many

little fires there were, and knew that the dance was over. The Indians

had left the reservation and had crossed the ridge yesterday, and had

camped there to wait for the dawn.



While he gathered his horses together he guessed how old Colorou had

planned to catch the Tomahawk riders when they left camp and scattered,

two by two, on "Circle." He had held his band well out of sight and

sound of the Big Creek cabin, and if the horses had not strayed up the

creek in the night he would have caught the white men off their guard.



Buddy looked often over his shoulder while he drove the horses down the

creek. It seemed stranger than luck, that he had been compelled to ride

so far on this particular morning; as if mother's steadfast faith in

prayer and the guardianship of angels was justified by actual facts.

Still, Buddy was too hard-headed to assume easily that angels had driven

the horses up the creek so that he would have to ride up there and

discover the Indian fires. If angels could do that, why hadn't they

stopped Colorou from going on the warpath? It would have been simpler,

in Buddy's opinion.



He did not mention the angel problem to his father, however. Bob Birnie

was eating breakfast with his men when Buddy rode up to the cabin and

told the news. The boys did not say anything much, but they may have

taken bigger bites by way of filling their stomachs in less time than

usual.



"I'll go see for myself," said Bob Birnie. "You boys saddle up and

be ready to start. If it's Indians, we'll head for Laramie and drive

everything before us as we go. But the lad may be wrong." He took the

reins from Buddy, mounted, and rode away, his booted feet hanging far

below Buddy's short stirrups.



Speedily he was back, and the scowl on his face told plainly enough that

Buddy had not been mistaken.



"They're coming off the ridge already," he announced grimly. "I heard

their horses among the rocks up there. They think to come down on us at

sunrise. There'll be too many for us to hold off, I'm thinking. Get ye a

fresh horse, Buddy, and drive the horses down the creek fast as ye can."



Buddy uncoiled his rope and ran with his mouth full to do as he was

told. He did not think he was scared, exactly, but he made three throws

to get the horse he wanted, blaming the poor light for his ill luck;

and then found himself in possession of a tall, uneasy brown that Dick

Grimes had broken and sometimes rode. Buddy would have turned him loose

and caught another, but the horses had sensed the suppressed excitement

of the men and were circling and snorting in the half light of dawn; so

Buddy led out the brown, pulled the saddle from the sweaty horse that

had twice made the trip up the creek, and heaved it hastily on the

brown's back. Dick Grimes called to him, to know if he wanted any help,

and Buddy yelled, "No!"



"Here they come--damn 'em--turn the bunch loose and ride!" called Bob

Birnie as a shrill, yelling war-whoop, like the yapping of many 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 or less flat; the roof had a slight slope. In the

middle of the tiny attic thus formed Buddy managed to worm his body

through a hole in the gable next to the creek.



He wriggled back to the end next the cabin and lay there very flat and

very quiet, peeping out through a half-inch crack, too wise in the ways

of silence to hold his breath until he must heave a sigh to relieve

his lungs. It was hard to breathe naturally and easily after that swift

dash, but somehow he did it. An Indian had swerved and ridden behind the

cabin, and was leaning and peering in all directions to see if anyone

had remained. Perhaps he suspected an ambush; Buddy was absolutely

certain that the fellow was looking for him, personally, and that he had

seen, Buddy run toward the creek.



It was not a pleasant thought, and the fact that he knew that buck

Indian by name, and had once traded him a jackknife for a beautifully

tanned wolf skin for his mother, did not make it pleasanter.

Hides-the-face would not let past friendliness stand in the way of a

killing.



Presently Hides-the-face dismounted and tied his horse to a corner log

of the cabin, and went inside with the others to see what he could find

that could be eaten or carried off. Buddy saw fresh smoke issue from the

stone chimney, and guessed that Step-and-a-Half had left something that

could be cooked. It became evident, in the course of an hour or so, that

his presence was absolutely unsuspected, and Buddy began to watch them

more composedly, silently promising especial forms of punishment to this

one and that one whom he knew. Most of them had been to the ranch many

times, and he could have called to a dozen of them by name. They had sat

in his father's cabin or stood immobile just within the door, and had

listened while his mother played and sang for them. She had fed them

cakes--Buddy remembered the good things which mother had given these

despicable ones who were looting and gobbling and destroying like a

drove of hogs turned loose in a garden, and the thought of her wasted

kindness turned him sick with rage. Mother had believed in their

friendliness. Buddy wished that mother could see them setting fire

to the low, log stable and the corral, and swarming in and out of the

cabin.



Painted for war they were, with red stripes across their foreheads,

ribs outlined in red which, when they loosened their blankets as the

sun warmed them, gave them a fantastic likeness to the skeletons Buddy

wished 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 squarely against the incredible

assumption that God must love them. He did not in the least mean to be

irreverent, but when he watched those painted bucks his opinion of God

changed slightly. He decided that he himself was neither pure nor full

of faith, and that he would not pray just yet. He would let God go ahead

and do as He pleased about it; except that Buddy would never let those

Indians get him alive, no matter what God expected.



Hides-the-face walked over toward the dugout. Buddy crooked his left arm

and laid the gun barrel across it to get a "dead rest" and leave nothing

to chance. Hides-the-face stared at the dugout, moved to one side--and

the muzzle of the gun followed, keeping its aim directly at the left

edge of his breastbone as outlined with the red paint. Hides-the-face

craned, stepped into the path down the bank and passed out of range.

Buddy gritted his teeth malevolently and waited, his ears strained

to catch and interpret the meaning of every soft sound made by

Hides-the-face's moccasins.



Hides-the-face cautiously pushed open the door of the cellar and looked

in, standing for interminable minutes, as is the leisurely way of

Indians when there is no great need of haste. Ruddy cautiously lowered

his face and peered down like a mouse from the thatch, but he could not

handily bring his gun to bear upon Hides-the-face, who presently turned

back and went up the path, his shoulder-muscles moving snakishly under

his brown skin as he climbed the bank.



Hides-the-face returned to the others and announced that there was a

place where they could camp. Buddy could not hear all that he said, and

Hides-the-face had his back turned so that not all of his signs were

intelligible; but he gathered that these particular Indians had chosen

or had been ordered to wait here for three suns, and that the cellar

appealed to Hides-the-face as a shelter in case it stormed.



Buddy did not know whether to rejoice at the news or to mourn. They

would not destroy the dugout, so he need not shoot himself, which was of

course a relief. Still, three suns meant three days and nights, and the

prospect of lying there on his stomach, afraid to move for that length

of time, almost amounted to the same thing in the end. He did not

believe that he could hold out that long, though of course he would try

pretty hard.



All that day Buddy lay watching through the crack, determined to take

any chance that came his way. None came. The Indians loitered in the

shade, and some slept. But always two or three remained awake; and

although they sat apparently ready to doze off at any minute, Buddy knew

them too well to hope for such good luck. Two Indians rode in toward

evening dragging a calf that had been overlooked in the roundup; and

having improvidently burned the cabin, the meat was cooked over the

embers which still smouldered in places where knots in the logs made

slow fuel.



Buddy watched them hungrily, wondering how long it took to starve.



When it was growing dark he tried to keep in mind the exact positions

of the Indians, and to discover whether a guard would be placed over

the camp, or whether they felt safe enough to sleep without a sentinel.

Hides-the-face he had long ago decided was in charge of the party, and

Hides-the-face was seemingly concerned only with gorging himself on

the half-roasted meat. Buddy hoped he would choke himself, but

Hides-the-face was very good at gulping half-chewed hunks and finished

without disaster.



Then he grunted something to someone in the dark, and there was movement

in the group. Buddy ground his growing "second" teeth together, clenched

his fist and said "Damn it!" three times in a silent crescendo of rage

because he could neither see nor hear what took place; and immediately

he repented his profanity, remembering that God could hear him.

In Buddy's opinion, you never could be sure about God; He bestowed

mysterious mercies and strange punishments, and His ways were past

finding out. Buddy tipped his palms together and repeated all the

prayers his mother had taught him and then, with a flash of memory,

finished with "Oh, God, please!" just as mother had done long ago on the

dry drive. After that he meditated uncomfortably for a few minutes

and added in a faint whisper, "Oh, shucks! You don't want to pay any

attention to a fellow cussing a little when he's mad. I could easy make

that up if you helped me out some way."



Buddy believed afterwards that God yielded to persuasion and decided to

give him a chance. For not more than five minutes passed when a far-off

murmur grew to an indefinable roar, and the wind whooped down off the

Snowies so fiercely that even the dugout quivered a little and rattled

dirt down on Buddy through the poles just over his head.



At first this seemed an unlucky circumstance, for the Indians came down

into the dugout for shelter, and now Buddy was afraid to breathe in

the quiet intervals between the gusts. Just below him he could hear the

occasional mutters of laconic sentences and grunted answers as the bucks

settled themselves for the night, and he had a short, panicky spell of

fearing that the poles would give way beneath him and drop him in upon

them.



After a while--it seemed hours to Buddy--the wind settled down to a

steady gale. The Indians, so far as he could determine, were all asleep

in the cellar. And Buddy, setting his teeth hard together, began to

slide slowly backward toward the opening through which he had crawled

into the roof. When he had crawled in he had not noticed the springiness

of the poles, but now his imagination tormented him with the sensation

of sagging and swaying. When his feet pushed through the opening he had

to grit his teeth to hold 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 the--habit--" Then he went

slack and a man swearing to hide his pity picked him up in his arms and

carried him into the tent.





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