Producing a stout leathern thong, about twelve feet in length, one of the savages advanced to coil it around the captive’s ankles.
As he stooped, Vere drew his foot back suddenly and planted it with tremendous force squarely in his face, flattening his long nose and knocking out several of his sharp white teeth.
The Indian rolled over on the ground with a wild screech.
The pain was terrible, and he lay for a moment, pressing his disfigured face and giving utterance to a series of hoarse, agonized groans.
Then he sprung up suddenly with a wild yell of rage and vengeance.
He was upon Vere in an instant, his long fingers entwined in his hair and his scalping-knife circling with lightning rapidity around his head.
The young hunter’s arms were securely pinioned.
He was utterly powerless in the red fiend’s hands.
Death—sudden and terrible—seemed certain; but he did not flinch.
His fearless eye was fixed on the Indian’s face, and his own did not change when he felt the keen knife-point pricking the skin upon the crown of his head.