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.