resemblance ceased here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and
Girty, driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now at the mention

of Wetzel's enmity he trembled.
"I'll shet yer wind," he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making for Joe.

Silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. He led Girty back to his seat
and spoke low, evidentlytrying to soothe the renegade's feelings.

"Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him," implored Joe.
"Paleface brave--like Injun chief. Paleface Shawnee's prisoner--no speak

more," answered Silvertip, with respect in his voice.
"Oh, where's Nellie?"

A grief-stricken whisper caught Jim's ear. He turned to see Kate's wide,
questioning eyes fixed upon him.

"Nell was rescued."
"Thank God!" murmured the girl.

"Come along," shouted Girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping Kate's arm, he
pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then, picking up his rifle, he led her

into the forest. Silvertip followed with Joe, while the remaining Indian
guarded Jim.

The great council-lodge of the Delawares rang with savage and fiery eloquence.
Wingenund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he was, he wanted advice

before deciding what was to be done with the missionary. The brothers had been
taken to the chief, who immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a

half circle around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two
brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and apprehension at

this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves, but the majority of those
who spoke bitterly against the palefaces had never frequented the Village of

Peace. Nearly all were of the Wolf tribe of Delawares. Jim whispered to Joe,
interpreting that part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of

them. Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions before
Wingenund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these men and Jim Girty,

and accordingly concluded he was the famous renegade, or so-called white
Indian, Simon Girty. The other man was probably Elliott, the Tory, with whom

Girty had deserted from Fort Pitt. Jim Girty was not present. Upon nearing
the encampment he had taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine.

Shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners, eloquently urged
initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several other chiefs were favorably

inclined, though not so positive as Shingiss. Kotoxen was for the death
penalty; the implacable Pipe for nothing less than burning at the stake. Not

one was for returning the missionary to his Christian Indians. Girty and
Elliott, though requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence.

Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had heard all his
wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his power. Freedom or death

for the captives awaited the wave of his hand. His impassive face gave not the
slightest inkling of what to expect Therefore the prisoners were forced to

stand there with throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary
dignified interval before addressing the council.

"Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white Indian
opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the palefaces. Pipe wants the

blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief demands the stake. Wingenund says
free the white father who harms no Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the

music of his voice. The white father's brother should die. Kill the companion
of Deathwind!"

A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of stern-browed
chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the dread appellation.

"The white father is free," continued Wingenund. "Let one of my runners
conduct him to the Village of Peace."

A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.
Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.

"No, no. I am not the missionary," cried Joe, staring aghast at his brother.
"Jim, have you lost your senses?"

Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a broken
Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would sacrifice

himself, taking this opportunity to practice the Christianity he had taught.
"The white father is brave, but he is known," broke in Wingenund's deep voice,

while he pointed to the door of the lodge. "Let him go back to his Christian
Indians."

The Indian runner cut Joe's bonds, and once more attempted to lead him from
the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad's face. He pushed the runner

aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to think of Indian words enough
to show he was not the missionary. He even implored Girty to speak for him.

When the renegade sat there stolidly silent Joe's rage burst out.
"Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a missionary. I am

Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the companion of Le Vent de la
Mort!"

Joe's passionatevehemence, and the truth that spoke from his flashing eyes
compelled the respect, if not the absolutebelief of the Indians. The savages

slowly shook their heads. They beheld the spectacle of two brothers, one a
friend, the other an enemy of all Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to

suffer an awful agony, for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an
Indian's heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The indifference,

the contempt for death, won their admiration.
"Let the white father stand forth," sternly called Wingenund.

A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore a buckskin
coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference. The strong figures were

the same, the white faces alike, the stern resolve in the gray eyes
identical--they were twin brothers.

Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly with this
situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not suit him. Suddenly he

thought of a way to decide.
"Let Wingenund's daughter come," he ordered.

A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her beautiful face
glowed while she listened to her father.

"Wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as a doe's,
keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the Delaware maiden show her

blood. Let her point out the white father."
Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim's arm.

"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank Wingenund's
daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"

He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.
"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.

"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.
They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance betrayed

his fear--he would never see his brother again. The light in Joe's eyes was
the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit--while there was life there was

hope.
"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded Wingenund.

When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds had
smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but the dread

command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant hideous death. She
saw this man so like the white father. Her piteous gaze tried to turn from

that white face; but the cold, steely eyes fascinated her.
She had saved one only to be the other's doom!

She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she rescued.
She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind. She had listened

to the young missionary with rapture; she had been his savior. And now when
she looked into the eyes of this young giant, whose fate had rested on her all

unwitting words, she resolved to save him.
She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to a

paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.
As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole person radiated

with conscious pride in her power. It was the knowledge that she could save.
When she kissed his hand, and knelt before him, she expressed a tender

humility.
She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked what no

Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the paleface for her husband.
Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained kneeling.

Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip retired to his corner
with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads as if the maiden's decree was

irrevocable.
Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian, wrinkled

and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his
wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and departed chanting a long song.

Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face, and,
still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through long rows of

silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he following like one in a
dream.

He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through the
leaves. Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand. Surely this

slender, graceful figure was real.
She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in amazement