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.