He who was
the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the
Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded
his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a
small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and
pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.
Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if
he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect
poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud
plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before
the Christians, inert and lifeless.
No one moved; it was as if no one breathed. The superstitious
savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning
stroke, another visitation from the paleface's God.
But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had
recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of a bullet
which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King's. He
had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron, yet the Avenger
had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not
such a death too merciful for the frontier Deathshead? He yelled in
his craven fear:
"Le vent de la Mort!"
The well known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a
fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred.
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