Joe made no answer, and regarded questioner steadily.

“Ever see me afore?  Ever hear of Jim Girty?” he asked boastfully.

“Before you spoke I knew you were Girty,” answered Joe quietly.

“How d’you know?  Ain’t you afeared?”

“Of what?”

“Me—­me?”

Joe laughed in the renegades face.

“How’d you knew me?” growled Girty.  “I’ll see thet you hev cause to remember me after this.”

“I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied.”

“Boy, ye’re too free with your tongue.  I’ll shet off your wind.”  Girty’s hand was raised, but it never reached Joe’s neck.

The big Indian had an hour or more previous cut Joe’s bonds, but he still retained the thong which was left attached to Joe’s left wrist.  This allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which, badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action.

When the renegade reached toward him Joe knocked up the hand, and, instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the powerful grip of his fingers.  Girty uttered a frightful curse; he writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like clutch.  He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow at Joe.  He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and turned the course of the keen hatchet.  But the weapon struck Joe a glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.

The renegade’s nose was skinned and bleeding profusely.  He was frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.

The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who evidently were pleased with Girty’s discomfiture.  They jabbered among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.

What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they sounded like French.  He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had heard a savage speak a foreign language.  At any rate, whatever had been said was trenchant with meaning.  The Indians changed from gay to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round the chief.

“Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it had?” whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.

“It sounded like French, but of course it wasn’t,” replied Joe.

“It was French.  ‘Le Vent de la Mort.’”

“By Jove, that’s it.  What does it mean?” asked Joe, who was not a scholar.

“The Wind of Death.”

“That’s English, but I can’t apply it here.  Can you?”

“No doubt it is some Indian omen.”