rmant forces; a sudden resolve leaped
into his brain. He saw that the Indians had put aside their bows and
guns, most of which were leaning against the boles of trees here and
yonder. What if he could knock Long-Hair down and run away? This might
possibly be easy, considering the Indian's broken arm. His heart jumped
at the possibility. But the shrewd savage was alert and saw the thought
come into his face.

"You try git 'way, kill dead!" he snarled, lifting his tomahawk ready
for a stroke. "Brains out, damn!"

Beverley glanced down the waiting and eager lines. Swiftly he
speculated, wondering what would be his chance for escape were he to
break through. But he did not take his own condition into account.

"Ugh, run!"

Again the elbow of Long-Hair's hurt arm pushed him toward the expectant
rows of Indians, who flourished their clubs and uttered impatient
grunts.

This time he did not fall; but in trying to run he limped stiffly at
first, his legs but slowly and imperfectly regaining their strength and
suppleness from the action. Just before reaching the lines, however, he
stopped short. Long-Hair, who was close behind him, took hold of his
shoulder and led him back to the starting place. The big Indian's arm
must have given him pain when he thus used it, but he did not wince.
"Fool--kill dead!" he repeated two or three times, holding his tomahawk
on high with threatening motions and frequent repetitions of his one
echo from the profanity of civilization. He was beginning to draw his
mouth down at the corners, and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits.

Beverley understood now that he could not longer put off the trial. He
must choose between certain death and the torture of the gauntlet, as
frontiersmen named this savage ordeal. An old man might have preferred
the stroke of the hatchet to such an infliction as the clubs must
afford, considering that, even after all the agony, his captivity and
suffering would be only a little nearer its end. Youth, however, has
faith in the turn of fortune's wheel, and faith in itself, no matter
how dark the prospect. Hope blows her horn just over the horizon, and
the strain bids the young heart take courage and beat strong. Moreover,
men were men, who led the van in those days on the outmost lines of our
march to the summit of the world. Beverley was not more a hero than any
other young, brave, unconquerable patriot of the frontier army. His
situation simply tried him a trifle ha