Long-Hair indicated the direction and drove Beverley onward as fast as he could.
"Try run 'way, kill, damn!" he kept repeating, while with his left hand on the young man's shoulder he guided him from behind dexterously through the wood for some distance.

Then he stopped and grunted, adding his favorite expletive, which he used with not the least knowledge of its meaning.

To him the syllable "damn" was but a mouthful of forcible wind.
They had just emerged from a thicket into an open space, where the ground was comparatively dry.

Overhead the stars were shining in great clusters of silver and gold against a dark, cavernous looking sky, here and there overrun with careering black clouds.

Beverley shivered, not so much with cold as on account of the stress of excitement which amounted to nervous rigor.