The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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voice. “Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there. Wetzel is on your trail! He missed you last night; but it was because of the girl. He’s after you, Girty; he’ll get you one of these days, and when he does—My God!—”
Nothing could be more revolting than that swarthy, evil face turned pale with fear. Girty’s visage was a ghastly, livid white. So earnest, so intense was Joe’s voice, that it seemed to all as if Wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk uplifted to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. The renegade’s white, craven heart contained no such thing as courage. If he ever fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. The resemblance ceased here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and Girty, driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now at the mention of Wetzel’s enmity he trembled.
“I’ll shet yer wind,” he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making for Joe.
Silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. He led Girty back to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade’s feelings.
“Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him,” implored Joe.
“Paleface brave—like Injun chief. Paleface Shawnee’s prisoner—no speak more,” answered Silvertip, with respect in his voice.
“Oh, where’s Nellie?”
A grief-stricken whisper caught Jim’s ear. He turned to see Kate’s wide, questioning eyes fixed upon him.
“Nell was rescued.”
“Thank God!” murmured the girl.
“Come along,” shouted Girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping Kate’s arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then, picking up his rifle, he led her into the forest. Silvertip followed with Joe, while the remaining Indian guarded Jim.
* * * *
The great council-lodge of the Delawares rang with savage and fiery eloquence. Wingenund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the missionary. The brothers had been taken to the chief, who immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a half circle around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and apprehension at this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves, but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces had never frequented the Village of Peace. Nearly all were of the Wolf tribe of Delawares. Jim whispered to Joe, interpreting that part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them. Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions before Wingenund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these men and Jim Girty, and accordingly concluded he was the famous renegade, or so-called white Indian, Simon Girty. The other man was probably Elliott, the Tory, with whom Girty had deserted from Fort Pitt. Jim Girty was not present. Upon nearing the encampment he had taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine.
Shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners, eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as Shingiss. Kotoxen was for the death penalty; the implacable Pipe for nothing less than burning at the stake. Not one was for returning the missionary to his Christian Indians. Girty and Elliott, though requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence.
Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified interval before addressing the council.
“Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white Indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the palefaces. Pipe wants the blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief demands the stake. Wingenund says free the white father who harms no Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white father’s brother should die. Kill the companion of Deathwind!”
A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the dread appellation.
“The white father is free,” continued Wingenund. “Let one of my runners conduct him to the Village of Peace.”
A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.
Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.
“No, no. I am not the missionary,” cried Joe, staring aghast at his brother. “Jim, have you lost your senses?”
Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the Christianity he had taught.
“The white father is brave, but he is known,” broke in Wingenund’s deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. “Let him go back to his Christian Indians.”
The Indian runner cut Joe’s bonds, and once more attempted to lead him from the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad’s face. He pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there stolidly silent Joe’s rage burst out.
“Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a missionary. I am Deathwind’s friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the companion of Le Vent de la Mort!”
Joe’s passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony, for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian’s heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.
“Let the white father stand forth,” sternly called Wingenund.
A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference. The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern resolve in the gray eyes identical—they were twin brothers.
Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.
“Let Wingenund’s daughter come,” he ordered.
A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.
“Wingenund’s daughter has her mother’s eyes, that were beautiful as a doe’s, keen as a hawk’s, far-seeing as an eagle’s. Let the Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father.”
Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim’s arm.
“Missionary, begone!” came the chieftain’s command. “Thank Wingenund’s daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!”
He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim’s arm.
“Good-by, Joe,” brokenly said Jim.
“Old fellow, good-by,” came the answer.
They took one last, long look into each others’ eyes. Jim’s glance betrayed his fear—he would never see his brother again. The light in Joe’s eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit—while there was life there was hope.
“Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black,” commanded Wingenund.
When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but the dread command that followed