The preparations were simple and quickly made. Each man armed
himself with a stick three feet long and about three-quarters of
an inch in diameter. Rough weapons they were, cut from boughs of
scrub-oak, knotty and tough as horn. Long-Hair unbound Beverley
and stripped his clothes from his body down to the waist. Then the
lines formed, the Indians in each row standing about as far apart
as the width of the space in which the prisoner was to run. This
arrangement gave them free use of their sticks and plenty of room
for full swing of their lithe bodies.
In removing Beverley's clothes Long-Hair found Alice's locket
hanging over the young man's heart. He tore it rudely off and
grunted, glaring viciously, first at it, then at Beverley. He
seemed to be mightily wrought upon.
"White man damn thief," he growled deep in his throat; "stole from
little girl!"
He put the locket in his pouch and resumed his stupidly
indifferent expression.
When everything was ready for the delightful entertainment to
begin, Long-Hair waved his tomahawk three times over Beverley's
head, and pointing down between the waiting lines said:
"Ugh, run!"
But Beverley did not budge. He was standing erect, with his arms,
deeply creased where the thongs had sunk, folded across his
breast. A rush of thoughts and feelings had taken tumultuous
possession of him and he could not move or decide what to do.
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