"Is he tired of war? Is he going to turn gentleman? He is a coward! He is not worthy the name of Girty." These words fell in audible tones from the renegade's lips. They were hissed from a heart which was a very cauldron of anger. "James?" At the sound of his name the outlaw stopped, and turning, recognized the speaker. "I am tired of war; but I am not a coward." The renegade brothers stood face to face in the forest. For a moment neither spoke. They stood apart, as if each had determined not to approach the other. "You are for peace, Simon," James said. "I would stay the slaughter that will follow our meeting with Wayne," was the reply. Simon Girty trying to prevent the effusion of blood? It seemed one of the impossibilities of his nature. A grim smile passed over the Whirlwind's face. "Then fly to-night," he said bitterly. "Go to the great cities and exchange your bloody hatchet for the priests' robes of religion. I am for war! No man shall ever say that Jim Girty turned from a chance to shed American blood. We are brothers. Simon, is it true that you are tired of slaughter?" "I am. We have been devils long enough, James." "When did you experience this wonderful change?" The speaker's sarcasm made the solitary listener bite his lip. "Do you know who is with Wayne?" he said. "Two thousand men that long to drink my blood." "_He_ is there--_they_ are there!" "Ha?" "Abner Stark reached Wayne not long since. He brought a family of fugitives into camp. That man has been hunting you ever since you murdered his family in Kentucky. Fifty more avengers of desolated homes are with Wayne, and there are people in our own ranks who hate you. The blood of Parquatin will be avenged." For a moment James Girty looked searchingly into Simon's face. "Parquatin!" he said. "Simon, his blood is on your hands. You put him up to what he did in the council. I should have spared the boy, and killed you. Oh, what a brother you have been to me! And now with fiendish delight you tell me that I will fall to-morrow. Let it come! No man shall say that I ever played the coward. Go your way. I am ashamed to know that I have a brother whose name is Simon!" The last word still quivered the outlaw's lips as he turned on his heel and deliberately walked away. Simon Girty watched him until the ghostly shadows of the trees hid him from sight, and said, as he turned toward the Indian camp: "Simon Girty will be brotherless to-morrow night." There was a tinge of regret in his tone, for despite their hates and jealousies, their inhumanity to one another, the renegade brothers were not devoid of every spark of brotherly affection. And the night wore on, and at last the day came. It was the bloody and disastrous twentieth of August, 1794. CHAPTER XVII. FIELD OF THE FALLEN TIMBERS.