to lead expeditions, and his
invariable success, had raised him higher and higher until he stood
alone. He was the most powerful man west of the Alleghenies. His
fame was such that the British had importuned him to help them, and
had actually, in more than one instance, given him command over
British subjects.

All of which meant that he had a great, even though an infamous
name. No matter what he was blamed for; no matter how many dastardly
deeds had been committed by his depraved brothers and laid to his
door, he knew he had never done a cowardly act. That which he had
committed while he was drunk he considered as having been done by
the liquor, and not by the man. He loved his power, and he loved his
name.

In all Girty's eventful, ignoble life, neither the alienation from
his people, the horror they ascribed to his power, nor the sacrifice
of his life to stand high among the savage races, nor any of the
cruel deeds committed while at war, hurt him a tithe as much as did
this sanctioning the massacre of the Christians.

Although he was a vengeful, unscrupulous, evil man, he had never
acted the coward.

Half King waited long for Girty to speak; since he remained silent,
the wily Huron suggested they take a vote on the question.

"Let us burn the Village of Peace, drive away the missionaries, and
take the Christians back to the Delaware towns--all without spilling
blood," said Girty, determined to carry his point, if possible.

"I say the same," added Elliott, refusing the war-club held out to
him by Half King.

"Me, too," voted McKee, not so drunk but that he understood the
lightninglike glance Girty shot at him.

"Kill 'em all; kill everybody," cried Deering in drunken glee. He
took the club and pounded with it on the ground.

Pipe repeated his former performance, as also did Half King, after
which he handed the black, knotted symbol of death to Jim Girty.

Three had declared for saving the Christians, and three for the
death penalty.

Six pairs of burning eyes were fastened on the Deaths-head.

Pipe and Half King were coldly relentless; Deering awoke to a brutal
earnestness; McKee and Elliott watched with bated breath. These men
had formed themselves into a tribunal to decide on the life or death
of many, and the situation, if not the greatest in their lives,
certainly was one of vital importance.

Simon Girty cursed all the fates. He dared not openly oppose the
voting, and he could not, before th