He hardly knew which way
to turn. He would make one more effort. He crossed the clearing to
where the renegades' teepee stood. McKee and Elliott were sitting on
a log. Simon Girty stood beside them, his hard, keen, roving eyes on
the scene. The missionary was impressed by the white leader. There
was a difference in his aspect, a wilder look than the others wore,
as if the man had suddenly awakened to the fury of his Indians.
Nevertheless the young man went straight toward him.
"Girty, I come---"
"Git out! You meddlin' preacher!" yelled the renegade, shaking his
fist at Jim.
Simon Girty was drunk.
Jim turned from the white fiends. He knew his life to them was not
worth a pinch of powder.
"Lost! Lost! All lost!" he exclaimed in despair.
As he went toward the church he saw hundreds of savages bounding
over the grass, brandishing weapons and whooping fiendishly. They
were concentrating around Girty's teepee, where already a great
throng had congregated. Of all the Indians to be seen not one
walked. They leaped by Jim, and ran over the grass nimble as deer.
He saw the eager, fire in their dusky eyes, and the cruelly clenched
teeth like those of wolves when they snarl. He felt the hissing
breath of many savages as they raced by him. More than one whirled a
tomahawk close to Jim's head, and uttered horrible yells in his ear.
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