a short consultation, this
savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.
"Who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting
Jim.
"My 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.
"So 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.
"You 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 questioner steadily.
"Ever see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?" he asked boastfully.
"Before you spoke I knew you were Girty," answered Joe quietly.
"How d'you know? Ain't you afeared?"
"Of what?"
"Me—me?"
Joe laughed in the renegades face.
"How'd you knew me?" growled Girty. "I'll see thet you hev cause to
remember me after this."
"I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who
is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied."
"Boy, 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 vise-like
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 trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay
to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every
side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round
the chief.
"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it
had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.
"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.
"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"
"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a
scholar.
"The Wind of Death."
"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"
"No doubt it is some Indian omen."
The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to
the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open
forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the
bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and
savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.
"Who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting
Jim.
"My 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.
"So 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.
"You 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 questioner steadily.
"Ever see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?" he asked boastfully.
"Before you spoke I knew you were Girty," answered Joe quietly.
"How d'you know? Ain't you afeared?"
"Of what?"
"Me—me?"
Joe laughed in the renegades face.
"How'd you knew me?" growled Girty. "I'll see thet you hev cause to
remember me after this."
"I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who
is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied."
"Boy, 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 vise-like
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 trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay
to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every
side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round
the chief.
"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it
had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.
"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.
"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"
"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a
scholar.
"The Wind of Death."
"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"
"No doubt it is some Indian omen."
The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to
the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open
forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the
bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and
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