spectators was watching him. He had a
sort of feeling as of cold upon the back of his neck, and he shivered a
little. He knew, therefore, that the look directed upon him was evil,
but pride kept him from showing undue curiosity before the Wyandots, who
were trained to repress every emotion. He too, had, in these respects,
instincts kindred with those of the Wyandots.

Presently he turned slowly and carelessly, and found that he was looking
into the savage, sneering eyes of Braxton Wyatt, the young renegade, who
more than once had sought the destruction of Henry and his comrades.
Although they could not find his body, he had hoped that Wyatt had
perished in the great battle on the Lower Mississippi, because it might
save the border much, but, now that he was alive and here, Henry refused
to show surprise, alarm, or any other emotion. He merely shrugged his
shoulders ever so slightly, and his glance passed on. But he knew that
Braxton Wyatt was swelling with malignant triumph. Fortune had changed
her face, and it was his day to smile. Henry Ware was there, a prisoner
among the Wyandots--and a prisoner of the Wyandots seldom escaped--while
he, Braxton Wyatt, could exult over him and see him die. Truly, it was
an amazing turn of the wheel, and Henry felt all the bitterness of it,
although his expression did not alter a particle.

The boy's eyes roamed back again, and he saw that Braxton Wyatt's was
not the only white face in the crowd. Five men stood near him, and,
tanned and browned as they were, it was obvious that they belonged to
the white race. He surmised readily by their air of perfect confidence
and freedom that they were renegades, also, and he was not wrong. As he
was soon to learn, they were Simon Girty, name of incredible infamy on
the border, Moses Blackstaffe, but little his inferior in cunning and
cruelty, and McKee, Eliot and Quarles. So Braxton Wyatt, white youth
among the Indians, was not alone. He had found men of his race as bad as
himself, and Henry knew that he would thrive in such company.

Henry guessed that the renegade who stood a little in front of the
others, who seemed by his manner and bearing to consider himself their
leader, was the terrible Girty, a man who left behind him an almost
unbelievable record for cruelty and treachery to his own race. He was
partly in Indian, partly in white dress, and when his glance fell upon
Henry it was full of most inhuman mockery. The boy's wrath flamed up.