e exhausted himself trying to explain, to
think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He
even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there
stolidly silent Joe's rage burst out.

"Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a
missionary. I am Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the
companion of Le Vent de la Mort!"

Joe's passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his
flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of
the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the
spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all
Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony,
for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian's
heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The
indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.

"Let the white father stand forth," sternly called Wingenund.

A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore
a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference.
The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern
resolve in the gray eyes identical--they were twin brothers.

Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly
with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not
suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.

"Let Wingenund's daughter come," he ordered.

A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her
beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.

"Wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as
a doe's, keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the
Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father."

Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim's arm.

"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank
Wingenund's daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"

He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.

"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.

"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.

They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance
betrayed his fear--he would never see his brother again. The light
in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable
spirit--while there was life there was hope.

"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded
Wingenund.

When the missionary left the lodge