“I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue,” groaned Joe.  “I wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel.”

“Do they?  Well, I rather think so.  Did you not hear them scream that French name?  As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were killed instantly.  The others died during the night.  I had to sit here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the name of their slayer, even in their death-throes.  Deathwind!  They have named him well.”

“I guess he nearly killed Girty.”

“Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade.”

“Jim Girty’s doomed,” whispered Joe, earnestly.  “He’s as good as dead already.  I’ve lived with Wetzel, and know him.  He told me Girty had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry with his son.  The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind you, he did not tell me that.  I saw it in his eyes.  It wouldn’t surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment.  I’m looking for it.  If he knows there are only three left, he’ll be after them like a hound on a trail.  Girty must hurry.  Where’s he taking you?”

“To the Delaware town.”

“I don’t suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but Kate and I would be better off dead.  If we can only delay the march, Wetzel will surely return.”

“Hush!  Girty’s up.”

The renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the Shawnee’s arm.  Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only stunned.  Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance.

“Where’s the yellow-haired lass?” he demanded, pushing away Silvertip’s friendly arm.  He glared around the glade.  The Shawnee addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree, cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled rage.  His fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was compelled to sit down.

“She’s safe, you villainous renegade!” cried Joe.

“Hush, Joe!  Do not anger him.  It can do no good,” interposed Jim.

“Why not?  We couldn’t be worse off,” answered Joe.

“I’ll git her, I’ll git her agin,” panted Girty.  “I’ll keep her, an’ she’ll love me.”

The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous, that for a moment Joe was dumbfounded.

“Bah!  You white-livered murderer!” Joe hissed.  He well knew it was not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it.  This beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him.  “Any white woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million years afterward rather than love you!”

“I’ll see you killed at the stake, beggin’ fer mercy, an’ be feed fer buzzards,” croaked the renegade.

“Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished buzzard-feasts,” cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice.  “Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there.  Wetzel is on your trail!  He missed you last night; but it was because of the girl.  He’s after you, Girty; he’ll get you one of these days, and when he does—­My God!—–­”