To-day 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 to-day,” 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.”

“To-day 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 to-day, didn’t he?”

“To-day 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.