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.