His melancholy reflections were interrupted by the passing of a noisy group surrounding two who bore some burden. As they neared him, Bullen saw with amazement that it was the bath-tub of which he had been so proud, which had been the source of so much pleasure, in which he had suffered, and the loss of which had been a source of genuine grief. It had evidently been retained by the Indians as a novel trophy, and was as evidently to be connected in some manner with his approaching fate. The tub was carried beyond his sight, and a few minutes later he was led to the end of a long, narrow lane, bordered by two living walls of human beings. Then he knew that he was to undergo the terrible ordeal of the gantlet, which had been so often described to him that he felt familiar with all its sickening details.
The entire population of the village was ranged in two parallel rows facing each other, and all were armed with sticks, clubs, dog-whips or some similar weapon with which to strike at the poor wretch who would be forced to run for his life down the dreary lane.
As Bullen faced this ordeal he recalled how other men had acted under similar circumstances. Some had been beaten to death ere completing half the course; while others had been so fleet of foot as to escape almost unhurt. One, he remembered, was a tall man of such strength and agility that he snatched a club from the nearest Indian at the moment of starting and brandished it with such effect as he ran that no one dared strike him.
But the paymaster was neither tall, nor strong, nor agile. He was short and stout. As for running, he had not done such a thing since he was a child, nor even then that he could remember. Now it would certainly kill him to run for even a short distance, while he would as certainly be killed if he did not run. The little man was in despair; it was so pitiful and mean a fate to be beaten to death with clubs like a mad dog—oh! if he only were one, how he would scatter that throng of howling savages. With this thought an inspiration came to him like a ray of sunlight piercing the blackness of a dungeon. He felt among the inner folds of his ragged blanket, withdrew a small object and thrust it into his mouth. A second later the blanket was snatched from his body leaving him clad only in a breech clout, and he was given a push into the lane as a hint that his time for running had come.
A hush of expectancy fell upon the eager throng, and each grasped his stick more firmly with the resolve to have at least one good cut at that bald-headed white man as he ran or staggered past. The first one on the right, who happened to be the Zebra, lifted a switch and struck the paymaster a smart though not a cruel blow across the shoulders as an intimation that the fun had begun.
The first one on the left, a burly black-browed giant who hated all white men with a bitter hatred, raised a heavy club with a vicious swing. Ere it could descend Bullen sprang at him and blew from his mouth a cloud of froth full in the giant's face. The latter staggered back, dropped his club, clapped both hands to his eyes and uttered a yell of terror. Then the little man folded his arms and walked composedly down the long lane, making a snarling, gurgling noise in his throat and frothing at the mouth as though he had indeed been smitten with the peculiar form of madness for which he had just wished.
A great fear fell on the assemblage as one and all recalled the tales of this white man's magic power. Not a hand was lifted against him as he passed, and the awe-stricken savages drew back at his approach as though he had been plague-stricken. So he made his unmolested way to the very end of the lane, his enemies parting before him, but crowding behind and following him with an eager curiosity.
At length he paused and gazed with mingled horror and rage at something that barred his further progress. On two logs, between which burned a small fire, was set his own bath-tub. The water with which it was half filled was just beginning to simmer, and near at hand was a pile of dry wood cut into short lengths. In an instant the awful meaning of these preparations flashed across his mind. They intended to boil him alive! For a moment he felt sick and dizzy. All things spun in a mad whirl before his blurred vision, and he feared his senses were departing. Recovering himself by a supreme effort of will, and animated by an access of fury, he sprang forward, overturned the tub, so that its contents were poured on the hissing flames, instantly extinguishing them, and hurled it to one side. Then clearing his mouth of the last of the frothy matter which had been produced by chewing a bit of soap, the little man turned and confronted his tormentors.
Angry murmurs rose among them and deepened into a confused clamor. Some were for killing him at once, but the majority dared not. Neither were they willing that he should go free, nor was one found bold enough to adopt him as husband, brother, or son, as by Indian custom any had the right to do who felt so inclined. The discussion was finally ended by the black-browed giant who had been the object of Bullen's attack and who still smarted from the indignity. Silencing the clamor, with an authoritative voice, he proposed a plan that was unanimously adopted.
A minute later another white man, whom to his amazement the paymaster recognized as his long lost "Tummas," was dragged and pushed through the throng. In his hands he bore several pots of paint and a number of rude brushes. Now he was ordered to begin work at once on his former master and decorate him in the highest style of savage art.