Kate Merriweather was quite exhausted when the renegade’s forest home was reached.

Her strange abduction, rescue and recapture had told upon her nature, and she crossed Girty’s threshold with a sigh of despair which did not escape her companion’s notice.

“Oh, you will not find Jim Girty’s home so bad as your imagination has pictured it,” he said with a smile. “A British officer at Fort Miami tells about a place that had over its door the words, ’who enters here leaves hope behind;’ but that isn’t my home.”

Kate shuddered at his heartless levity, which he applauded with a coarse laugh.

She felt that the legend that blazed over the portals of Dante’s hell might with propriety have been inscribed above Girty’s door.

She felt like abandoning hope, and resolved not to plead with the brute into whose hands she had fallen.

But she determined to protect herself from insult while under his roof.

Of the coarse meal which the renegade sat before her Kate partook, for fatigue had rendered her hungry, and Girty eyed her triumphantly while she ate.

The breakfast was at last concluded, and Girty began to remove the remains of the matutinal meal.

While engaged in this duty a quick step alarmed him, and a lithe young Indian appeared in the door-way.

Girty stepped forward with a smile of recognition, for the youth was clad in the scanty costume of a runner, and the message which he bore was speedily delivered.

Buckhougahelas, the great sachem, and the confederate chiefs were about to advance upon Wayne, and requested the White Whirlwind’s presence.

During the delivery of the dispatch an uneasiness was visible in Girty’s face, which would not have escaped the notice of an older warrior. It was evident that he did not expect the news at that hour.

“What says the Whirlwind?”

“I will come. Before the end of another sleep I will be with my braves.”

The runner bowed, and snatching a piece of venison from the rough table, he bounded away, eating as he ran.

“A pretty fix! a pretty fix!” muttered the renegade to himself, turning from the door and glancing at his captive. “I am one of them as much as Mataquan, the runner. I have helped on the war; I have stirred up the nations; I have made them mad and bloodthirsty. Shall I desert them now, because I have a woman on my hands? If I remained from the fight my life would not be worth a leaf, for the survivors would hunt me down.”

He stepped to the table with the last word on his lips, and his hand was about to continue his work, when the door which he had closed was burst open and two Indians leaped into the room.

There were but few savages whom the renegade had reason to dread, for was he not virtually an Indian, though white-skinned and English? But he turned quickly upon the intruders, and started back when he saw their faces.

They were Parquatoc, and Sackadac, the Shawnee; the ring leaders of the cabal against his life!

James Girty, ever quick to act in the face of danger, sprang to his rifle; but before his hand could seize the trusty weapon, the Seneca youth bounded upon him and bore him to the cabin wall.

It was the work of a moment, and no giant could have withstood the terrible spring.

The outlaw recovered in an instant, and his great strength would have released him from Parquatoc’s power if the Shawnee had not flown to his comrade’s aid. Girty was in the hands of two men who had sworn to rid the world of his detestable shape.

He was disarmed in a moment, and found himself at the mercy of his foes, who confronted him with weapons, eager to drink his blood.

“Call white hunter,” said the Seneca to his companion, and Sackadac went to the door.

At a signal from his lips a third party joined the Indians, and as he crossed the threshold a cry of joy was heard, and Kate Merriweather leaped forward to fall into his arms. It was her lover, Oscar Parton.

Girty ground his teeth as he witnessed the meeting, and fixed his eyes upon his captors.

“The blood of Parquatin is on the Whirlwind’s knife!” said the Seneca. “He cut his heart because he dared to talk for peace.”

“Not for that!” grated the renegade. “He called me coward, and no man calls me that and lives.”

“The Whirlwind is a coward!” flashed the youth! “He kills a boy when he stands before him unarmed. Parquatin was but a boy; he was wearing his first eagle feathers, and he had never made love to a woman.”

“And he never will!” said Girty with sarcasm which cut its way to the Indian brother’s heart.

Parquatoc raised his rifle with a meaning glance at the Shawnee, and stepped toward the door.

“The Whirlwind has killed his last man!” the youth resumed, as the barrel crept up to a level with the renegade’s breast. “He will never press the grass trails again with his moccasins, and the white women will sleep in peace with their papooses at their side. Parquatin’s blood must flow over the Whirlwind’s; the new moon must smile upon his carcass.”

“Shoot and be done with it!” Girty said, without a quiver of the muscles. “I am in your power, and as every man can’t live over the time which has been marked out for him, I am not going to play the baby here.”

They say that murderers are cowards. A greater murderer than James Girty never cursed the early west; but not a single instance of cowardice stands against his record. He looked into Parquatoc’s rifle without fear, and his countenance did not change when the Indian’s cheek dropped upon the stock.

It was a moment fraught with the wildest interest, and in the silence the beating of hearts was heard.

But that tableau was rudely broken, and that by a white man who suddenly threw himself into the cabin and pushed the rifle of the Seneca aside.

Every eye was turned upon him, and the tomahawks of the Indians leaped from their belts.

“I hate that man with all my heart,” the new comer cried, addressing the Indians as he pointed to the renegade, surprised with the rest. “I wouldn’t spare his life but for a little while. He knows something which I must know; then my red brother’s rifle may send the bullet to his heart.”

Girty looked, stared into the speaker’s face.

“Who are you?” he asked before the Indian could reply.

“My name is Catlett.”

“A spy of Wayne’s?”

“Yes.”

The savages exchanged looks, and Parquatoc spoke:

“The Blacksnake’s spy has no right to step between Parquatoc and his captive,” he said.

“No!” hissed the Shawnee.

“Stand aside!” continued the Seneca, menacingly.

But Harvey Catlett did not stir.

The Indians advanced upon him.

“Hold!” cried Oscar Parton. “He will join us! He will wear the mark which you gave me.”

“No white spy shall wear it!” was the reply.

Face to face with the two savages stood Wayne’s young scout, composed and unyielding. He intended to kill the first savage who raised a hand against him.

But all at once James Girty moved from the wall. With one of his powerful bounds, he hurled himself upon the spy, whom he sent reeling against Parquatoc, and the next moment he was running for life through the forest.

It was in vain that Oscar Parton and the Shawnee, the first to recover, tried to cover him with their rifles. The renegade was fleet of foot, and a yell announced his escape and future revenge.

James Girty was at large again, but captiveless; for Kate Merriweather had fallen into hands that would not desert her.

Harvey Catlett turned to the Indians when he had recovered his equilibrium. He told then why he wished to spare Girty’s life—for the secret of Little Moccasin’s parentage—and when he had finished, Parquatoc said:

“The Blacksnake’s spy must join us. All who hate the White Whirlwind must wear the mark.”

At Oscar’s solicitation the young spy consented, and Parquatoc’s knife cut the sign of the banded brotherhood on his breast.

“Back to the white people with their child!” the Seneca said. “The big fight is coming on.”

They parted there—red and white—and Kate once more turned her face toward her relatives