The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail by Zane Grey Page B

anywhere as a white man. His skin was burned to a dark bronze, but it had not the red tinge which characterizes the Indian. This white man had, indeed, a strange physiognomy. The forehead was narrow and sloped backward from the brow, denoting animal instincts. The eyes were close together, yellowish brown in color, and had a peculiar vibrating movement, as though they were hung on a pivot, like a compass needle. The nose was long and hooked, and the mouth set in a thin, cruel line. There was in the man’s aspect an extraordinary combination of ignorance, vanity, cunning, and ferocity.
    While the two chiefs held a short consultation, this savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.
    â€œWho’re you, an’ where you goin’?” he asked gruffly, confronting Jim.
    â€œMy name is Downs. I am a preacher, and was on my way to the Moravian Mission to preach to the Indians. You are a white man; will you help us?”
    If Jim expected the information would please his interrogator, he was mistaken.
    â€œSo you’re one of ’em? Yes, I’ll do suthin’ fer you when I git back from this hunt. I’ll cut your heart out, chop it up, an’ feed it to the buzzards,” he said fiercely, concluding his threat by striking Jim a cruel blow on the head.
    Joe paled deathly white at this cowardly action, and his eyes, as they met the gaze of the ruffian, contracted with their characteristic steely glow, as if some powerful force within the depths of his being were at white heat and only this pale flash came to the surface.
    â€œYou ain’t a preacher?” questioned the man, meeting something in Joe’s glance that had been absent from Jim’s.
    Joe made no answer, and regarded his questioner steadily.
    â€œEver see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?” he asked boastfully.
    â€œBefore you spoke I knew you were Girty,” answered Joe quietly.
    â€œHow d’you know? Ain’t you afeared?”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œMe—me?”
    Joe laughed in the renegade’s face.
    â€œHow’d you know me?” growled Girty. “I’ll see thet you hev cause to remember me after this.”
    â€œI figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied.”
    â€œBoy, ye’re too free with your tongue. I’ll shet off your wind.” Girty’s hand was raised, but it never reached Joe’s neck.
    The big Indian had an hour or more previous cut Joe’s bonds, but he still retained the thong which was left attached to Joe’s left wrist. This allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which, badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action.
    When the renegade reached toward him Joe knocked up the hand, and, instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the powerful grip of his fingers. Girty uttered a frightful curse; he writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the viselike clutch. He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow at Joe. He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and turned the course of the keen hatchet. But the weapon struck Joe a glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.
    The renegade’s nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. He was frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.
    The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who evidently were pleased with Girty’s discomfiture. They jabbered among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.
    What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they sounded like French. He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had heard a savage speak a foreign language. At any rate, whatever had been said was