Both of his brothers had long been border
ruffians, whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in
the faraway camps of hostile tribes. George Girty had so sunk his
individuality into the savage's that he was no longer a white man.
Jim Girty stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his
long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and
with his hideous smile of death. Both of these men were far lower
than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of
darkness that Simon Girty owed his infamous name.
To-day White Chief, as Girty was called, awaited his men. A slight
tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. The Huron chief,
Half King, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the
teepee. He squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe
on his knee, and smoked in silence. The habitual frown of his black
brow, like a shaded, overhanging cliff; the fire flashing from his
eyes, as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool; his
closely-shut, bulging jaw, all bespoke a nature, lofty in its Indian
pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death.
Another chief stalked into the teepee and seated himself. It was
Pipe. His countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made
Wingenund's face so noble; it was even coarser than Half King's, and
his eyes, resembling live coals in the dark; the long, cruel lines
of his jaw; the thin, tightly-closed lips, which looked as if they
could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning
and brutality.
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