g crowd,
presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded
him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an
extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's
staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the
deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.

Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he
had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the
lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his
captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem
of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when
Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.

If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his
ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way
to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in
their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave
not the slightest sign.

"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.

The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the
procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces
expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud
in their native tongue:

"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"

The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of
the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew
them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the
Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--the
mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and
Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of
sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these
three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an
awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called
White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;
Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like
little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the
demon of the frontier--Jim Girty.

The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves
pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;
Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the
other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperad