powerful grip of his fingers. Girty uttered a frightful curse; he
writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like
clutch. He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow
at Joe. He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and
turned the course of the keen hatchet. But the weapon struck Joe a
glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.

The renegade's nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. He was
frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained
in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the
forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.

The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who
evidently were pleased with Girty's discomfiture. They jabbered
among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words
spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.

What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they
sounded like French. He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had
heard a savage speak a foreign language. At any rate, whatever had
been said was trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay
to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every
side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round
the chief.

"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it
had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.

"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.

"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"

"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a
scholar.

"The Wind of Death."

"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"

"No doubt it is some Indian omen."

The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to
the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open
forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the
bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and always
stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a
footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the
lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the
Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.

At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised
in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed
where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silverti