The sun, sailing westward in a burnished sea of blue, seemed to stand
still for a moment and then dropped down behind the range, as if to
escape from the hellish scene. The shadows served only to increase the
gloom in the heart of the captive. Glancing over his shoulder toward the
east, he observed that his captors had brought him down near to the edge
of the plain. Having satisfied themselves that their victim had plenty
of life left in him, the Indians began to arrange the fuel. With the
return of consciousness came an inexpressible longing to live. Suddenly
his iron will asserted itself, and appealing to his great strength,
surged until the rawhide ropes were buried in his flesh. Not for a
moment while he stood on his feet and fought them on the morning of that
day had hope entirely deserted him. Four years of hardship, of
privation, and adventure had so strengthened his courage that to give up
was to die.

Presently, when he had exhausted his strength and sat quietly, the
Indians went on with the preliminaries. The gold in the west grew
deeper, the shadows in the foothills darker, as the moments sped.
Swiftly the captive's mind ran over the events of the past four years.
This was his first failure, and this was the end of it all--of the
years of working and waiting.

Clenching his fists, he lifted his hot face to the dumb sky, but no
sound escaped from his parched and parted lips. Suddenly a light shone
on the semicircle of feather-framed faces in front of him, and he heard
the familiar crackling of burning boughs. Glancing toward the ground he
saw that the fagots were on fire. He felt the hot breath of flame, and
then for the first time realized what torture meant. Again he surged,
and surged again, the cedars crackled, the red fiends danced. Another