"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. He understood that the savages had
been cruelly playing with him, and enjoying his state of horrible
suspense. Though a scoundrel, Overton was brave, and had too much of the
red blood within him not to wish to disappoint his foes--he resolved to
allow himself to be burnt, and thus frustrate the anticipated pleasure
of his cruel persecutors. To die game to the last is an Indian's glory,
and under the most excruciating tortures, few savages will ever give way
to their bodily sufferings.
Leaves and dried sticks soon surrounded and covered the log--fire was
applied, and the barbarians watched in silence. But Overton had reckoned
too much upon his fortitude. His blood, after all, was but half Indian,
and when the flames caught his clothes he could bear no more. He burst
out from under the fire, and ran twice round within the circle of his
tormentors. They were still as the grave, not a weapon was aimed at him,
when, of a sudden, with all the energy of despair, Overton sprang
through the circle and took the fearful leap across the chasm.
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