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.