“How much chance of escape did this process offer?” Cody inquired of the chief, though he knew well how little it offered.
When made to comprehend the question, Running Water replied in substance that a strong, active warrior, who was accustomed to ruses and feints, who could dodge, and dive, and leap like a fox, and who could stand up under heavy blows, might possibly get through safely. There would be one chance in ten for him.
“But how would it be with the present prisoner?” the border king inquired, again. “What was his chance?”
“Much little,” replied the chief, smiling faintly; “’bout half of nothing at all. He no get past six squaws. He much too scare!”
Poor Hare had been tightly bound with bearskin thongs, and thrown down at the foot of a tree, where a single guard kept watch over him, but he had been provided with food, and his friends were permitted to communicate freely with him. From them he received the tidings of his doom.
He listened at first with some gleam of hope, but this soon vanished when he learned the full program of the scene to be enacted.
The women and large boys were to be placed first in the line—the oldest and least skillful of the men next, while the far end of this valley of death was to be composed of the best braves of the tribe, to whom it would be a lasting disgrace to allow the panting fugitive to get past them.
“I’ve a mind to refuse it,” said Hare, with a groan. “It’s only for their sport, as a cat plays with a mouse, which it is sure to destroy at last. But they may kill me with a blow, and that will be better than burning. No, I’ll run! At what time is it to be?”
“Soon after breakfast, and we are to have breakfast at sunrise,” Cody told him. “Try to get a good night’s sleep, and that will strengthen you for the task.”
“Yes, I shall probably sleep well and have pleasant dreams,” said the prisoner bitterly.