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?”

Pipe raised his war-club, struck it upon the ground; then handed it to Half King.

Half King took the club and repeated the action.

Both chiefs favored the death penalty.

“Feed ’em to ther buzzards,” croaked Jim Girty.

Simon Girty knitted his brow in thought.  The question of what to do with the converted Indians had long perplexed him.

“No,” said he; “let us drive away the missionaries, burn the village, and take the Indians back to camp.  We’ll keep them there; they’ll soon forget.”

“Pipe does not want them,” declared the Delaware.

“Christian Indians shall never sit round Half King’s fire,” cried the Huron.