James Girty, the white renegade, was known to the various tribes as the White Whirlwind. His brother Simon was the possessor of a few attributes of kindness, but he was destitute of every redeeming trait. A repulsive face surmounted an ungainly body, but the fiend was possessed of almost supernatural strength.

He was a power in the council, and the British agents stirred the Indians to resist Wayne through him.

We have witnessed his theft of the message which Wolf Cap and young Catlett left in the hollow tree prior to their departure for the assistance of the Merriweathers and their friends. It is now our purpose to follow him and witness his dealings with the warriors of the then wild northwest.

He crossed the river in a canoe which he drew from a place of concealment on the bank, and, having hid it on the opposite shore, plunged into the forest. He seemed impatient to read the contents of the paper which he had stolen, and as he reached the summit of a wooded knoll a cry of joy burst from his throat.

For some minutes prior to his arrival on the top of the declivity, certain sounds had been wafted to his ears by the night winds. They prepared him for the sight that had burst upon his vision, but still he could not repress the exclamation.

“I wonder if they are all there?” he murmured as he sprang forward and heard the forest resound with his Indian name.

Girty had come suddenly, but not unexpectedly upon an Indian council. A fire that blazed in the ring formed by five hundred painted savages, furnished the light for the forest tableau, and revealed the renegade to the gaze of all.

His quick eye swept the circle of faces as he passed through. He saw representatives of every tribe which confronted Wayne; he noticed a fair sprinkling of his own ilk, and a group of whites handsomely attired in British uniforms.

The shouts that greeted his appearance ceased when he sprang through the cordon and halted in the fire-lit arena.

The British officers exchanged significant looks, and Simon Girty moved uneasily in his position. It was evident that the arrival of James at the council was distasteful to him.

The White Whirlwind did not speak until he had mastered the contents of the stolen message in the light of the fire.

“Warriors!” he said, in the tone which had been heard above the roar of more than one forest battle, “I see that your council has been opened. I have been on the trail, and though I sought you when the sun went down, I could not get here sooner. Boldly, like a famished wolf, the Blacksnake marches through the forest; he comes to deprive the red man of his cabin, or his lodge, and to drive his children to lands where a deer track has never been seen. My brethren, to-morrow we march forth to meet this scourge of the northwestern territory. Let us be strong, and punish the venomous Blacksnake, as we punished the big soldier long ago. Be strong and fear not, for the soldiers of the king will fight among us in the common cause of all the Indians east of the Great River.”[B]

Murmurs of approbation followed the renegade’s harangue.A chief responded in a like strain, then another and another, until twelve had spoken for war to the knife. All this time the White Whirlwind stood near the council fire, with his massive arms folded upon his giant chest, and a look of triumph in his eye. He was in his element.

The absence of such chiefs as Little Turtle, Buckhongahelas, and Blue Jacket, was noticeable; but their places were supplied with savages of lesser note, but equally belligerent.

All at once there arose to address the council an Indian who created a sensation.

He came from the portion of the living ring occupied by Simon Girty, and James gave his brother a quick glance, when he recognized the chief. But Simon appeared to be composed.

“War?” cried the new speaker, who could not have passed his twenty-sixth year, “War means death to the Indian and the rule of the American throughout our hunting grounds. Parquatin is not afraid to lead his braves to battle; but where is the use? Who comes here to-night and tells us to bear our bosoms to the rifles of the Blacksnake? Does the White Whirlwind lead his braves in open fight? No! he will tell us to rush upon the Americans, while he trails some white girl through the woods; and make her build the fires in his hut. Parquatin hates the Blacksnake; but he despises the Indian who will listen to the forked words of such a pale fox as the Whirlwind. Parquatin has spoken.”

The young chief glanced defiantly around the circle of scarlet faces.

With a face blanched to ghastliness by the first sentence, James Girty heard the speaker through—heard and stood dumfounded for a moment.

The English, who had come from Fort Miami to attend the conclave, gazed with consternation into each others’ faces, and the members of the council looked startled.

In Simon Girty’s eye there was a look of triumph, for Parquatin seemed his spokesman.

“I defend myself!” the accused renegade suddenly cried. “I lead the red men when I tell them to meet the American soldiers. Parquatin, the Wyandot, is jealous; he dares to lie about me in the great council because I lead more and braver warriors than he. But the Indians know me; they spurn the lie as they hate the good-for-nothing lying dog!”

A short cry of rage followed the cutting epithet, and with flashing tomahawk Parquatin sprang forward.

“Here I am,” said Girty, drawing his own hatchet and planting himself firmly. “I am willing to kill my enemies wherever I meet ’em!”

The seated warriors—for the participants of Indian councils are usually seated—watched the scene with interest. Parquatin, young and not strong of limb, was no match for the renegade; but he possessed the spirit of the maddened tiger, and never thought of the strength against him.

For a moment he glared at his calm antagonist, and then bounded forward. Girty received the shock with his hatchet’s iron-like handle, and by a dexterous blow in return sent Parquatin’s weapon spinning to the edge of the fire.

The young chief was now completely at his mercy, and, as James Girty seldom spared a helpless foe, his doom was as swift as terrible.

Parquatin met his fate with the red man’s famous stoicism.

With his arms folded upon his breast, he received the renegade’s blow, and without a death cry fell backward—his skull cleft by the keen-edged tomahawk.

“Now!” cried the heartless victor, swinging aloft the gory weapon, and sweeping the circle with his flashing glance, “now let the man who persuaded Parquatin to insult me in the council step forth and meet me face to face. He is here and I know him! His victim lies before me. Let him stand up and say that I lie, if he dare!”

But no voice replied, and no man rose to confront the White Whirlwind.

“Well, never mind,” he said. “I would not strike him if he did rise against me. Gentlemen,” to the English officers, “this is the bitterest moment of my life. Jim Girty is not callous to every affection. I bid you good night. Warriors, I will meet you before the big battle. Again I say, be strong!”

As the renegade turned and strode across the ground, the circle was respectfully broken, and he passed into the dark forest beyond.

It was a strange event for an Indian council, and was destined to decide the fate of many helpless families; but few knew it, then.

There was but one man in the council who knew why James Girty spoke as he did to the British soldiers.