"D'ye hear?" he repeated.
There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.
But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that
flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this
man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For a
moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a
foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he
shook off his craven fear. He was free; the hunter's doom was sure.
His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat once
more on the prisoner.
His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms
and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg
was raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of the
stomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried
him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging
inertly, and his face distorted with agony.
The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an
interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls
were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'
kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark
pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,
averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing
many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.
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