Fortunate, indeed, was it that he did so.
Nearer and nearer came the knives.
Yet it seemed to Comanche Tony that years had elapsed since they had left the hands of the savages.
Of a sudden, he felt a cool draught against his cheeks, and then he could no longer see the awful blades.
Scarce able to believe his senses, he could feel no pain.
Then it dawned on him that the bucks had been testing his courage by aiming the scalping knives so they would just miss him, if he remained motionless—and he thanked his lucky stars that he had not tried to dodge them.
It was the very refinement of torture to which he had been subjected.
And well the redmen knew it.
To see the wicked blades coming for his head and not to move it when he was free to do so was an ordeal such as only one man in a million could survive.