The chase was a long one.  Overton was mounted upon a powerful and noble steed, but the ground was broken and uneven; he could not get out of the sight of his pursuers.  However, he reached a platform covered with fine pine trees, and thought himself safe, as on the other side of the wood there was a long level valley extending for many miles; and there he would be able to distance his pursuers, and escape.  Away he darted like lightning, their horrible yell still ringing in his ears; he spurred his horse, already covered with foam, entered the plain, and, to his horror and amazement, found that between him and the valley there was a horrible chasm, twenty-five feet in breadth and two hundred feet in depth, with acute angles of rocks, as numerous as the thorns upon a prickly pear.  What could he do?  His tired horse refused to take the leap, and he could plainly hear the voice of the Indians encouraging each other in the pursuit.

Along the edge of the precipice there lay a long hollow log, which had been probably dragged there with the intention of making a bridge across the chasm.  Overton dismounted, led his horse to the very brink, and pricked him with his knife the noble animal leaped, but his strength was too far gone for him to clear it; his breast struck the other edge, and he fell from crag to crag into the abyss below.  This over, the fugitive crawled to the log, and concealed himself under it, hoping that he would yet escape.  He was mistaken, for he had been seen; at that moment, the savages emerged from the wood, and a few minutes more brought them around the log.  Now certain of their prey, they wished to make him suffer a long moral agony, and they feigned not to know where he was.

“He has leaped over,” said one; “it was the full jump of a panther.  Shall we return, or encamp here?”

The Indians agreed to repose for a short time; and then began a conversation.  One protested, if he could ever get Overton, he would make him eat his own bowels.  Another spoke of red-hot irons and of creeping flesh.  No torture was left unsaid, and horrible must have been the position of the wretched Overton.

“His scalp is worth a hundred dollars,” said one.

“We will get it some day,” answered another.  “But since we are here, we had better camp and make a fire; there is a log.”

Overton now perceived that he was lost.  From under the log he cast a glance around him:  there stood the grim warriors, bow in hand, and ready to kill him at his first movement.  He understood that the savages had been cruelly playing with him, and enjoying his state of horrible suspense.  Though a scoundrel, Overton was brave, and had too much of the red blood within him not to wish to disappoint his foes—­he resolved to allow himself to be burnt, and thus frustrate the anticipated pleasure of his cruel persecutors.  To die game to the last is an Indian’s glory, and under the most excruciating tortures, few savages will ever give way to their bodily sufferings.