Girty, the renegade, remained in his cabin door until the footsteps of Little Moccasin died away in the forest, and silence again pervaded the spot.

There was a cloud on the outlaw’s brow, and the longer he listened the more impatient and perplexed he became.

The minutes resolved themselves into hours, and when he believed that the ghostly hour of one had arrived, an oath fell from his lips, and he turned into the cabin. But he soon reappeared with a short-barreled rifle, and left the hut as if bent upon hunting for some one whom he had been expecting.

“Something unlooked for may have transpired,” he murmured. “Wolf Cap and that young fellow may have disarranged my plans by appearing suddenly at the camp; but I am sure that Wells will never get the message which they left in the tree.”

Girty smiled as he recalled the theft of Harvey Catlett’s message from the forest letter box, and congratulated himself that Wells and Hummingbird (a famous chief and spy in Wayne’s employ) would find the tree empty when they should reach it. The self-congratulations still lingered in his heart when the report of a distant rifle, faint, but clear enough, nevertheless, struck his practiced ear.

He stopped suddenly and listened.

“A rifle, but no death cry,” he said, addressing himself. “But too far off for that, perhaps.”

Then he stooped and put his ear to the ground, in which attitude he remained for several moments. But the stillness of death brooded over the vicinity. When Girty rose it was with a perplexed look; the shot seemed to revolve itself into a mystery, to which he attached the utmost importance.

“There is one person in these parts whose bullets never make a death cry,” he said; “but if she shot him, I don’t see why, for she knows that we are friends. However, I’m going down to see what the matter is.”

He started toward the river at a brisk walk. It was ten miles distant, but he knew that the mysterious shot had been fired not far away.

By and by his walk resolved itself into the dog-trot of the Indian, and he hastened through the woods as if a regular path stretched before him.

The dew lay on the grass pressed by his dingy moccasin, and, save now and then the snapping of a twig, his progress sent forth no noise.

All at once, as he reached the summit of a wooded knoll, he was brought to a stand.

At his feet, as it were, was a space of ground over which a hurricane had at some time swept with relentless fury. The results of its work, broken trees and fallen ones, were apparent to the eye. Into this place the starlight fell, and the rays of the moon, soon to bathe herself in the waters of the Maumee, penetrated like shafts of silver.

The scene that presented itself to the outlaw was enough to startle him.

He saw two figures in the light—two living ones, we mean—but not far remote, with face upturned to the stars, lay a giant form, motionless as the earth itself.

A second look told the renegade the author of the midnight shot. She stood beside a young girl, and these words in a well known voice greeted his ears:

“White girl tired, but Areotha will save her if she will go.”

“Go?” cried the one addressed, and her voice sent a thrill of pleasure to the heart beating wildly on the top of the knoll. “Go, Areotha? You cannot name a place whither I will not fly with you at this hour. I wonder if they do not believe me dead already. My God! I see through the treachery of that man,” and she glanced at the body on the ground. “Girl, is every one in these parts like him? He came to our home and persuaded father to fly to Wayne, offering to guide us; but he meditated treachery all the time. I see it now.”

“He makes no more bloody boats on the big river,” Little Moccasin said with triumph. “He was bold to steal white girl alone.”

“No, no, girl. An Indian called Oskaloo assisted, but he was killed in the boat by some one on the shore—Mr. Catlett, perhaps. He was on guard.”

Little Moccasin’s eyes gleamed with pride at the mention of the young scout’s name.

“He good hunter,” she said with growing enthusiasm. “Areotha will take the white girl back to him.”

“Yes, yes, and then I will find all of them. Let us go now. Some person may find us here if we tarry.”

Some person? Yes; that “person” was already near, and as Kate Merriweather and her protector started to fly, Jim Girty, with a single bound, reached the foot of the hillock, and stood before them.

The twain started back with a cry of terror; but Kate’s retreat was quickly checked by the renegade’s hand.

“Not so fast, my beauty!” he cried with a hideous smile, a mixture of sensuality and triumph. “I am convinced that I did not arrive a moment too late. That man was playing me false!” and he nodded at the dead. “He wasn’t on the trail that leads to my cabin. I suspect, miss, that he got struck with your beauty, and thought that he would outwit his employer and make you his own wife.”

Kate Merriweather did not reply. White faced and trembling, she stood before the outlaw, whose eyes devoured her peerless beauty, and from whose clutches she longed to escape.

“John Darknight proved to be a traitor, and your companion paid him for his treachery, though I guess that she did not suspect that she was serving me when she pulled the trigger. Perhaps you do not know me,” and there was a grim smile on Girty’s face.

“I do not, though——”

“Though you may have heard of me, you were going to say. I fancy that my name has reached your ears. There isn’t a woman in the Northwest Territory who has not heard of me. My name is Girty!”

The settler’s daughter uttered a cry of mingled terror and disgust.

“Simon Girty, the renegade?”

“No! his brother James—the worse devil of the two!” said the outlaw with a sardonic grin and a glance at the bewildered Little Moccasin.

“But you are not lost to every attribute of manhood, James Girty,” said the captive in a pleading tone that might have softened a heart of flint. “There are hearts that bleed for me to-night. Do not deal with me as they say you have dealt with others; but restore me to my dear ones, and win the lasting gratitude of all who love me.”

Following hard upon Kate Merriweather’s last word came a laugh which seemed the incarnation of fiendishness. The renegade’s eyes seemed filled with the heartless merriment.

“Restore you to the boat? Let you go, after I have gone to the pains of getting John Darknight to guide you into my hands? Why, girl, you have not studied the character of Jim Girty.”

Kate’s hope fled away, and she looked without a word upon the forest beauty at her side.

“My father, let the white girl go,” Little Moccasin said, venturing to meet the outlaw’s flashing eyes. “See! I have killed the traitor. He will never betray my father again.”

“You served him right; but you were going to take this girl back to the river when I came up,” was the reply. “She is mine, and the hand that is raised to tear her from me will fall in death. Come, my bird.”

He drew the settler’s daughter toward him, and as his eyes flashed their fire upon her cheek, Kate uttered a shriek and hung senseless in his grasp.

“Now go!” he cried to the mystery, as he pointed over her shoulder into the gloom of the forest. “Do not lift your rifle against me, for then you would never know who you are. Go! and follow me not. Don’t cross my path too often!”

She saw the outstretched hand that pointed her into forced exile; she noted the murderous eyes that darted from her into the depths of the tarn, and with a final pitying glance upon the unconscious girl, hanging over Girty’s strong arm, she obeyed. For the second time that night he had sent her from his presence.

“No man ever baffled Jim Girty!” he said, looking down into the white face which looked like death’s own in the starlight. “For this moment I have plotted. Now I can desert the tribes to their own war, for she takes away all my warlike ambition. They may not see me in the next great battle. The hand of man shall not take her from me.”

Then for a moment he studied his captive’s face in silence, admiring its contour and matchless loveliness.

At length he started forward and stood over John Darknight.

“Quite dead!” he said with evident satisfaction. “That young girl saved me a bit of lead and powder.”

Yes, the treacherous guide was dead. From that night there would be fewer bloody boats on the Maumee, and not a soul in the Northwest Territory was to regret Little Moccasin’s aim.

Leaving John Darknight where he had fallen, a prey to the vultures and the wolf, Girty turned away, and, with his still unconscious captive, hastened toward his cabin.

The outlaw had achieved another triumph; but the avenger of blood was on his trail, and on a day memorable in the history of Ohio he was to expiate the crime which we have already witnessed.