The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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only waiting.”
“For what?” asked Jim, after a long silence.
“God only knows! Perhaps for a time; possibly for a final decision, and, it may be, for a reason, the very thought of which makes me faint.”
“Tell us,” said Edwards, speaking quietly, for he had ever been the calmest of the missionaries.
“Never mind. Perhaps it’s only my nerves. I’m all unstrung, and could suspect anything tonight.”
“Heckewelder, tell us?” Jim asked, earnestly.
“My friends, I pray I am wrong. God help us if my fears are correct. I believe the Indians are waiting for Jim Girty.”
CHAPTER XXII.
Simon Girty lolled on a blanket in Half King’s teepee. He was alone, awaiting his allies. Rings of white smoke curled lazily from his lips as he puffed on a long Indian pipe, and gazed out over the clearing that contained the Village of Peace.
Still water has something in its placid surface significant of deep channels, of hidden depths; the dim outline of the forest is dark with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character. So Simon Girty’s hard, bronzed face betrayed the man. His degenerate brother’s features were revolting; but his own were striking, and fell short of being handsome only because of their craggy hardness. Years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness of wasted life, had graven their stern lines on that copper, masklike face. Yet despite the cruelty there, the forbidding shade on it, as if a reflection from a dark soul, it was not wholly a bad countenance. Traces still lingered, faintly, of a man in whom kindlier feelings had once predominated.
In a moment of pique Girty had deserted his military post at Fort Pitt, and become an outlaw of his own volition. Previous to that time he had been an able soldier, and a good fellow. When he realized that his step was irrevocable, that even his best friends condemned him, he plunged, with anger and despair in his heart, into a war upon his own race. Both of his brothers had long been border ruffians, whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in the faraway camps of hostile tribes. George Girty had so sunk his individuality into the savage’s that he was no longer a white man. Jim Girty stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and with his hideous smile of death. Both of these men were far lower than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of darkness that Simon Girty owed his infamous name.
Today White Chief, as Girty was called, awaited his men. A slight tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. The Huron chief, Half King, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the teepee. He squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe on his knee, and smoked in silence. The habitual frown of his black brow, like a shaded, overhanging cliff; the fire flashing from his eyes, as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool; his closely-shut, bulging jaw, all bespoke a nature, lofty in its Indian pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death.
Another chief stalked into the teepee and seated himself. It was Pipe. His countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made Wingenund’s face so noble; it was even coarser than Half King’s, and his eyes, resembling live coals in the dark; the long, cruel lines of his jaw; the thin, tightly-closed lips, which looked as if they could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning and brutality.
“White Chief is idle today,” said Half King, speaking in the Indian tongue.
“King, I am waiting. Girty is slow, but sure,” answered the renegade.
“The eagle sails slowly round and round, up and up,” replied Half King, with majestic gestures, “until his eye sees all, until he knows his time; then he folds his wings and swoops down from the blue sky like the forked fire. So does White Chief. But Half King is impatient.”
“Today decides the fate of the Village of Peace,” answered Girty, imperturbably.
“Ugh!” grunted Pipe.
Half King vented his approval in the same meaning exclamation.
An hour passed; the renegade smoked in silence; the chiefs did likewise.
A horseman rode up to the door of the teepee, dismounted, and came in. It was Elliott. He had been absent twenty hours. His buckskin suit showed the effect of hard riding through the thickets.
“Hullo, Bill, any sign of Jim?” was Girty’s greeting to his lieutenant.
“Nary. He’s not been seen near the Delaware camp. He’s after that chap who married Winds.”
“I thought so. Jim’s roundin’ up a tenderfoot who will be a bad man to handle if he has half a chance. I saw as much the day he took his horse away from Silver. He finally did fer the Shawnee, an’ almost put Jim out. My brother oughtn’t to give rein to personal revenge at a time like this.” Girty’s face did not change, but his tone was one of annoyance.
“Jim said he’d be here today, didn’t he?”
“Today is as long as we allowed to wait.”
“He’ll come. Where’s Jake and Mac?”
“They’re here somewhere, drinkin’ like fish, an’ raisin’ hell.”
Two more renegades appeared at the door, and, entering the teepee, squatted down in Indian fashion. The little wiry man with the wizened face was McKee; the other was the latest acquisition to the renegade force, Jake Deering, deserter, thief, murderer—everything that is bad. In appearance he was of medium height, but very heavily, compactly built, and evidently as strong as an ox. He had a tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face; big, dull eyes, like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of beastliness.
Deering and McKee were intoxicated.
“Bad time fer drinkin’,” said Girty, with disapproval in his glance.
“What’s that ter you?” growled Deering. “I’m here ter do your work, an’ I reckon it’ll be done better if I’m drunk.”
“Don’t git careless,” replied Girty, with that cool tone and dark look such as dangerous men use. “I’m only sayin’ it’s a bad time fer you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to git onto you bein’ the renegade that was with the Chippewas an’ got thet young feller’s girl, there’s liable to be trouble.”
“They ain’t agoin’ ter find out.”
“Where is she?”
“Back there in the woods.”
“Mebbe it’s as well. Now, don’t git so drunk you’ll blab all you know. We’ve lots of work to do without havin’ to clean up Williamson’s bunch,” rejoined Girty. “Bill, tie up the tent flaps an’ we’ll git to council.”
Elliott arose to carry out the order, and had pulled in the deer-hide flaps, when one of them was jerked outward to disclose the befrilled person of Jim Girty. Except for a discoloration over his eye, he appeared as usual.
“Ugh!” grunted Pipe, who was glad to see his renegade friend.
Half King evinced the same feeling.
“Hullo,” was Simon Girty’s greeting.
“’Pears I’m on time fer the picnic,” said Jim Girty, with his ghastly leer.
Bill Elliott closed the flaps, after giving orders to the guard to prevent any Indians from loitering near the teepee.
“Listen,” said Simon Girty, speaking low in the Delaware language. “The time is ripe. We have come here to break forever the influence of the white man’s religion. Our councils have been held; we shall drive away the missionaries, and burn the Village of Peace.”
He paused, leaning forward in his exceeding earnestness, with his bronzed face lined by swelling veins, his whole person made rigid by the murderous thought. Then he hissed between his teeth: “What shall we do with these Christian Indians?”