Oliver Barclay’s face blanched; but a resolution showed in his tightening jaw.
“And if I refuse——”
“Worse may befall you.”
For a moment Oliver hesitated; he saw the line of Indians, their copper-colored faces full of anticipation, the deadly bows in their hands. But he said, firmly:
“What chance have I? Your brothers will pierce me before I’ve taken a dozen steps.” His eyes searched the ground ahead, and then he added: “Give me a start. Let me reach the boulder yonder before you give the word, and I will run.”
“I agree,” said Long Panther, with savage satisfaction.
He once more spoke to the Shawnees about him and again the word was passed along the line. And the satisfaction of Long Panther was reflected in the faces of all.
“When my white brother is ready,” said the maimed bowman looking at Oliver, “I will speak the word.”
Oliver braced himself for the ordeal.
“I am ready,” said he.