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An Indian in the deep brush could not be seen and the renegade's savage heart thrilled at the thought that after all he might be setting a trap into which his enemy would walk. Then his boat moved forward, more slowly now, and hugging the bank more closely than ever. Wyatt knew the way well. He had been several times along this river, a fine broad stream.
He had marked the pegs where the renegade's rifle hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. He took down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with one last shuddering glance at poor Kate, left the place. He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered no pain. His garments were dripping with blood.
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.
Dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his buckskin coat and leggins, and dotted his white eagle plumes. Dark stains, horribly suggestive, covered him from head to foot. Blood stains! The innocent blood of Christians crimsoned his renegade's body, and every dark red blotch cried murder. "Girl, I burned the Village of Peace to git you," growled Girty. "Come here!"
Wyatt was on the far side of the fire, where the flames lighted up his face, and Henry was startled by the savagery manifested there. The renegade's face, despite his youth, was worn and lined. His black hair fell in dark locks upon his temples. He still wore the British uniform that he had adopted in the East, but sun and rain had left little of its original color.
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