His clothes were still wet and muddy and the upper part of his body was blood-stained from the cut on his head, which had stopped bleeding. His cartridge belt and gun were gone.
He managed to get to his feet and stagger over to the door. It was fastened from the outside and was as solid as the four walls.
"Well, they sure respect a Montana cowpuncher enough t' lock me in a place where I'll stay put," he observed. He circled the walls carefully, but nothing less than an axe or dynamite would ever make an impression on those heavy logs.
"She's so danged tight yuh couldn't even pour water out of it," he declared to himself, "so I reckon I'll stay right in here, like a nice little boy."
He sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall, just as the door swung open and closed quickly behind two Indians. One of them carried a blackened pot and both had rifles, with which they kept Bud covered. They were both evil-faced bucks, seemingly half-drunk.
Bud started to his feet, but one of them shoved a rifle against him, grunted a warning and Bud sat down.
"How's all yore folks?" asked Bud pleasantly.
The one with the pot motioned toward the receptacle and said thickly, "Eat."
"I don't have to, if I don't want to, do I?" queried Bud.