It's only half as
big as it wus onct, an' another flood will take away this sand-bar,
these few birches--an' Milly's grave."
The old frontiersman's story affected all his listeners. The elder
minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake
his nieces. The young minister looked again, as he had many times
that day, at Nell's winsome face. The girls cast grave glances at
the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the
fire-glow. Once more Joe's eyes glinted with that steely flash, and
as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face
grew cold and rigid.
"I'll allow I might hev told a more cheerful story, an' I'll do so
next time; but I wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know
somethin' of the kind of country ye're goin' into. The frontier
needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them. An' Jim Girty,
with more of his kind, ain't dead yit."
"Why don't some one kill him?" was Joe's sharp question.
"Easier said than done, lad. Jim Girty is a white traitor, but he's
a cunnin' an' fierce redskin in his ways an' life. He knows the
woods as a crow does, an' keeps outer sight 'cept when he's least
expected. Then ag'in, he's got Simon Girty, his brother, an' almost
the whole redskin tribe behind him. Injuns stick close to a white
man that has turned ag'inst his own people, an' Jim Girty hain't
ever been ketched.
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