JIM GIRTY AND HIS PRISONER.
James Girty was one of a quartette of brothers to which the notorious
Simon belonged. He became the prisoner of the Indians early in
Braddock’s ill-fated campaign, when he was in his fourteenth year,
and was adopted by the Shawnees. Growing to manhood, he loved the
life and customs of the red rovers of the trackless forests, and
hated all whom they hated. His passions were as fiery as Simon’s, but
for some unaccountable reasons, he has not figured as conspicuously
on the page of history.
Simon Girty, notwithstanding his multitudinous crimes, possessed a
few good qualities; but James possessed not one. Simon often pleaded
for the life of a prisoner, James never; and his countenance was the
incarnation of all that is repulsive.
At the opening of our romance he had attained his sixty-ninth year,
notwithstanding which he still possessed a giant’s frame and a
giant’s strength.
So well did he bear the burden of his years, that he looked beneath
fifty, and scarce a gray hair was visible upon his head. His eyes
still flashed the fire of manhood’s prime, from beneath long,
midnight lashes, and not a crow’s foot furrowed his forehead.
His face was covered by splotches of red hair, through which
cutaneous eruptions, caused by his dissolute habits, were constantly
making their appearance. When not influenced by wine, he was not
quarrelsome; but for many years he had drawn scarce a single sober
breath. He was an unerring marksman, and his influence over the
Indians was unbounded.
While hunting in Virginia he encountered Eudora Morriston, whose
beauty fanned the fires of his evil nature; and, as Mayne Fairfax has
already related, he swooped down upon the happy home, at the head
of a band of Shawnees, massacred every one of its inmates, save the
beautiful girl, whom he bore to the Indian village, and placed under
the guardianship of two of the most pliant of his red tools.
Bright and translucently beautiful upon the Shawnee village broke
the morn that followed the transaction of the events related in the
foregoing chapters.
James, or as he was commonly called, Jim Girty, would have slumbered
late, had he not been startled from his sleep by the grip of a
human hand upon his arm. He opened his baleful eyes, and beheld a
middle-aged savage bending over him. The first streaks of morning but
illy dispersed the gloom of his lodge, and the renegade sprung to his
feet, with the oath, never absent from his lips.
“Alaska is a storm!” cried the Indian, springing from Girty’s side,
and throwing aside the curtain of skins that served for a door. “See!
she goes to the lodge of the Pale Flower. Her wolves will kill the
guards, and tear to pieces the White Wolf’s prisoner. Last night the
Lone Man shot Alaska’s gray wolf, and she will now have the blood of
the white captive for it.”
Astounded at the sight to which the savage directed his gaze--the
Wolf-Queen, guarded by a dozen terrible wolves, and followed by
near a hundred Indians, advancing toward the lodge where dwelt his
prisoner, guarded by but ten braves--Jim Girty jerked his rifle from
its pins over his couch, and bounded to the scene.
He seemed to fly over the ground, and threw himself between Eudora’s
guards, as the foremost wolves were preparing for the combat.
“Back!” he yelled, fixing his gaze upon Alaska. “Why does Alaska seek
the life of my prisoner?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the madwoman, long and loud. “’Tis for the
White Wolf to question, but for Alaska to answer. Last night Alaska
met a young pale-faced hunter on the little stream. She pierced him
with her shaft, but he was brave. He would use his rifle as a club.
Alaska’s gray wolf--the only snow wolf of Alaska’s band--sought the
hunter’s throat, when the Lone Man, concealed by many bushes, shot
Lupino. Now lies he cold and dead in Alaska’s wigwam. She must have
blood for his, and that blood must flow from the Pale Flower’s heart.”
She finished, and stepped forward, while her grip tightened on the
long-bladed knife that glittered in the first beams of the sun.
Girty’s rifle shot to his shoulder.
He did not dare shoot the Wolf-Queen, for she knew not the value of
life, and her death at his hands would soon be followed by his, by
the claws and fangs of her wolves.
He directed his weapon at the head of her favorite wolf--a monster
black fellow, around whose neck was a wide beaded collar, and over
the shaggy back dropped a rich mantle.
“If Alaska does not stay her hand,” he cried, “the White Wolf will
have Leperto’s blood!”
The Wolf-Queen suddenly paused, and glanced from Girty to the
threatened wolf. Indecision ruled her form, and Girty was on the eve
of triumph, when an old Indian, bent with more than three-score years
and ten, stepped to Alaska’s side.
His eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in the orbs of age, when his
gaze fell upon the renegade.
“Let the White Wolf shoot Leperto,” he cried, addressing the
madwoman. “Old Miantomah will give her another. Let the Pale Flower
die for the act of the Lone Man, and if the White Wolf resists, let
Alaska’s wolves, his brothers, tear him to pieces.”
Miantomah exercised a weird influence over the Wolf-Queen, and,
inspired by his words, she spoke to her wolves.
The mad animals fixed their eyes upon Girty, and crawled forward.
It was a critical moment.
“Shall an old, empty-headed man rule a mad-woman with his forked
tongue?” cried Girty, appealing to the crowd of warriors. “Let the
White Wolf’s brothers gather around him. He has led them to victory,
and will they now desert him for a crack-headed squaw?”
“No!” cried Oonalooska, drawing his tomahawk, and springing to
Girty’s side. “Oonalooska is not a squaw. Warriors, follow him!”
His action electrified the warriors, and, a moment later, all, save
a dozen, surrounded Girty, and displayed a hollow square glistening
with knives, to the Wolf-Queen.
“Back to your wigwam now, and bury your dead!” cried Girty, in
triumph.
Alaska regarded him in silence.
He repeated the command.
“Alaska moves not hence without the Pale Flower’s blood,” she at
length replied. “Her braves are on the war-path, and at their head,
marches the great Tecumseh, against whom the White Wolf dare not
stand. They will return ere yon ball of fire again rises over the
hills. Then, let the White Wolf fear, then will Alaska have the Pale
Flower’s heart. Here she will remain until Tecumseh comes,” and she
seated herself upon the ground, in the midst of her wolves.
At the mention of Tecumseh’s name, Girty’s guard exchanged looks
of fear. The great chief was on ill terms with the renegade, and,
fearing to incur the anger of Tecumseh, several braves deserted
Girty, and went over to the mad-woman.
“Be firm!” cried Girty, lowering upon the disaffection. “They who
stand by me shall be rewarded, and Tecumseh will act justly when he
comes.”
This retained a goodly portion of his guard.
The long hours wore away, both parties longing, yet fearing, for the
night.
Oonalooska knew that Tecumseh would favor the Wolf-Queen, and, with
a determined resolve in his heart, he stepped into the lodge, where
knelt a trembling girl, praying to her God for deliverance.
He touched her arm.
She looked up, her eyes bathed in pearly tears.
“Let the Pale Flower tremble not,” whispered the young brave.
“Tecumseh will not return till midnight, and ere he comes Oonalooska
will save the White Wolf’s captive. The young hunter lives in the
lodge of the great Lone Man.”
Then he turned away, without noticing the look of gratitude Eudora
bestowed upon him.
Oh, for the night!
What had it in store for Eudora Morriston--life or death?