But it must be remembered that he had Love with him, and where Love is there can be no cowardice, no surrender.
Long-Hair once again pushed him and said "Ugh, run!" Beverley made a direct dash for the narrow lane between the braced and watchful lines.

Every warrior lifted his club; every copper face gleamed stolidly, a mask behind which burned a strangely atrocious spirit.

The two savages standing at the end nearest Beverley struck at him the instant he reached than, but they taken quite by surprise when he checked himself between them and, leaping this way and that, swung out two powerful blows, left and right, stretching one of them flat and sending the other reeling and staggering half a dozen paces backward with the blood streaming from his nose.
This done, Beverley turned to run away, but his breath was already short and his strength rapidly going.
Long-Hair, who was at his heels, leaped before him when he had gone but a few steps and once more flourished the tomahawk.

To struggle was useless, save to insist upon being brained outright, which just then had no part in Beverley's considerations.

Long-Hair kicked his victim heavily, uttering laconic curses meanwhile, and led him back again to the starting-point.
A genuine sense of humor seems almost entirely lacking in the mind of the American Indian.