With his left arm, which had been bared in the fight, he held Girty by the front of his buckskin shirt, and dragged him to that tree which stood alone in the glade.

He pushed him against it, and held him there.
The white dog leaped and snarled around the prisoner.
Girty's hands pulled and tore at the powerful arm which forced him hard against the beech.

It was a brown arm, and huge with its bulging, knotted, rigid muscles.

A mighty arm, strong as the justice which ruled it.
"Girty, thy race is run!" Wetzel's voice cut the silence like a steel whip.
The terrible, ruthless smile, the glittering eyes of doom seemed literally to petrify the renegade.
The hunter's right arm rose slowly.

The knife in his hand quivered as if with eagerness.