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.