A closer survey showed that the floor of that room was composed of hand-hewn timbers, known as puncheon, and that some of them had been removed, making a hole in the center of the room. As he peered in he saw a man come out of the hole, carrying a heavy keg, which he rolled against the wall. Then he went back and helped another man remove a keg from the same place. They talked in an undertone for several moments, and then replaced the puncheon. Each of them took a keg and carried it beyond Bud's line of vision. Then a door creaked open and he heard them shut it from the outside. They were talking again and their voices were plainer. One of them said, "They can't pack all this in tonight, unless they want to take a chance and take it in the wagon." The other replied in too low a tone for Bud to hear, but their voices died away in the distance. "So this is where Monk Magee keeps his hootch cached, eh?" mused Bud. "Sort of a supply station, I reckon. Well, it's none of my business." He went over to the door and touched a lighted match to the pile of splinters, which were heavily impregnated with pitch. Inside of a minute the cabin was lighted with the glow, and the black smoke was seeping out through the chinking. Somewhere a man yelled a warning, but Bud was unable to tell whether it was a white man or an Indian. The flames roared against the seasoned pine of the door, and the room was filling with smoke. Then came an Indian's voice, crying a warning. Bud sprang to the wall and climbed like a monkey, clinging with tooth and nail to the rough logs. Sideways he moved until he was directly over the door, where the stifling smoke boiled out of the unchinked logs. Came the sound of running feet, a jumble of Indian gutturals and the door was flung open. The smoke swirled out of the door, and enabled Bud to see the two Indians, who had kicked the fire aside and were peering in through the smoke. As they moved further in, holding their guns ready, Bud dropped like a plummet, feet-first onto the broad back of one of them. The Indian grunted hoarsely, dropped forward from the crushing weight and Bud pitched sideways into the other Indian, knocking him backward and out of the cabin by the sheer weight of his attack. They went down into the mud, rolling over and over. The Indian had lost his rifle, and most of his breath had been knocked from his body, but he clawed wildly at Bud, fighting like a wild animal. But Bud was not idle. He was schooled in the rough-and-tumble methods of battle and he mauled the Indian without mercy. The other Indian, still half-stunned, recovered his rifle and came to his companion's assistance. It was impossible for him to shoot at Bud, without taking a big chance of hurting his companion; so he danced around them, trying to strike Bud with the butt of his rifle. Behind them the fire blazed merrily, as the pine logs of the cabin picked up the flames, and the scene was well lighted.