He looked straight into Braxton Wyatt's eyes, and the young renegade had an uncomfortable feeling that the chief was having fun at his expense. "It is so," he admitted reluctantly. "I have every cause to hate him. He has done me much harm, and I would do the same to him." "The youth called the Ware fights for his own people," said Timmendiquas gravely. There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute, but the flexible Girty made the best of it. "And Braxton, who is a most promising boy, fights for his, too," he said. "He has adopted the red race, he belongs to it, and it is his, as much as if he was born to it." Timmendiquas shrugged his shoulders, and, rising, walked away. Girty followed him with a bitter and malevolent glance. "I wish I was strong enough to fight against you, my haughty red friend," was his thought, "but I'm not, and so I suppose it's policy for me to fight for you." The Indians devoted the rest of that day to recuperation. Despite their losses, perfect concord still existed among the tribes, and, inflamed by their own natural passions and the oratory of Timmendiquas, they were eager to attack again. They had entire confidence in the young Wyandot chief, and when he walked among them old and young alike followed him with looks of admiration. Hunters were sent northward after game, buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys being plentiful, and the others, after cleaning their rifles, slept on the ground. The renegades still kept to themselves in a large buffalo skin tepee, although they intended to mingle with the warriors later on. They knew, despite the dislike of Timmendiquas, that their influence was great, and that it might increase. Twilight came over the Indian camp. Many of the warriors, exhausted from the battle and their emotions, still slept, lying like logs upon the ground. Others sat before the fires that rose here and there, and ate greedily of the food that the hunters had brought in. On the outskirts near the woods the sentinels watched, walking up and down on silent feet. Simon Girty, prince of renegades, sat at the door of the great buffalo skin tepee and calmly smoked a pipe, the bowl of which contained some very good tobacco. His eyes were quiet and contemplative, and his dark features were at rest. In the softening twilight he might have seemed a good man resting at his door step, with the day's work well done.