It's Saturday.

The drums seemed to beat in Laura's head. They seemed to beat deep inside her. The wild, fast yipping yells were worse than wolves. Something worse was coming, Laura knew it. Then it came the Indian war-cry. A nightmare is not so terrible as that night was. A nightmare is only a dream, and when it is worst you wake up. But this was real and Laura could not wake up. She could not get away from it. When the war-cry was over, Laura knew it had not got her yet. She was still in the dark house and she was pressed close against Ma. Ma was trembling all over. Jack's howling ended in a sobbing growl. Carrie began to scream again, and Pa wiped his forehead and said that he had never heard anything like it. He asked how they supposed they had learned to do it, but nobody answered that. He said that they didn't need guns, abnd that yell was enough to scare anybody to death, and his mouth was so dry he couldn't whistle a tune to save his life. He asked Laura to bring him some water. That made Laura feel better. She carried a dipper full of water to Pa at the window. He took it and smiled at her, and that made her feel very much better. He drank a little and smiled again and said that now he could whistle. He whistled a few notes to show her that he could. Then he listened. And Laura, too, heard far away the soft pitter-pat, pat-pat, pitter-pat pat, of a pony's galloping. It came nearer. From one side of the house came the drumthrobbing and the fast, shrill, yapping yells, and from the other side came the lonely sound of the rider's galloping. Nearer and nearer it came. Now the hoofs clattered loudly and suddenly they were going by. The galloping went by and grew fainter, down the creek road. In the moonlight Laura saw the behind of a little black Indian pony, and an Indian on its back.