There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--the mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of sagacity and renown.

Three renegades completed the circle; and these three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an awful, bloody trail over the country.

Simon Girty, the so-called White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly; Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the demon of the frontier--Jim Girty.
The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves pushed the hunter forward.

Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction; Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the other Girty exhibited an exultant joy.

These desperadoes had feared this hunter.
Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.
The deadly foes were once again face to face.