One protested, if he could ever get Overton, he would make him eat his own bowels.

Another spoke of red-hot irons and of creeping flesh.

No torture was left unsaid, and horrible must have been the position of the wretched Overton.
"His scalp is worth a hundred dollars," said one.
"We will get it some day," answered another.

"But since we are here, we had better camp and make a fire; there is a log." Overton now perceived that he was lost.

From under the log he cast a glance around him: there stood the grim warriors, bow in hand, and ready to kill him at his first movement.