“The Injun is Little Turtle, the greatest chief among the Miamis,” replied the Irish trapper, also lowering his voice, for he saw the two white men frowning in his direction. Bob noticed that his old friend kept his long-barrelled rifle close under his arm, and his finger touching the trigger.
“And the two others?” Bob went on. “I have never met either of them before, that I can remember; and yet I have seen most of the white men who roam the woods in this region of the Ohio.”
“Wull,” whispered Pat, “ye niver missed much, thin, for, by the same token, there niver lived greater rascals than the same precious pair ye say before yees this minute. The wan ag’inst the tree, wid the scowl on his black face, is none ither than the infamous Simon Girty; while his frind’s name it do be McKee; and there are hapes av people thot say he be the blackest renegade that iver wint over till the Injuns, to wage war on his own kind.” ([Note 5.])
Both boys heard what Pat said, although he had lowered his voice to a whisper; and, of course, they were chilled to the marrow at the idea of looking upon such notorious persons, for already their names were being held up to execration among all honest settlers. Both Girty and McKee had been seen in the ranks of the hostile Shawanees when attacks were made on frontier settlements; and there were threats going the rounds as to what fate awaited them should the fortunes of war ever throw them into the hands of the whites.
To the eyes of the pioneer boys they looked doubly ugly on this night, when met so unexpectedly in company with a noted Miami chief, whose hostility towards the invading palefaces was so well known.
Meanwhile the two Indians were engaged in a conversation that by degrees became more and more heated. Indeed, neither Bob nor Sandy could ever remember seeing their young friend, Blue Jacket, quite so worked up. He made dramatic gestures when he talked, and seemed to be replying to the taunts of the older chief.
It began to look as though there might be trouble, and Sandy fingered the lock of his gun, taking a sly look down to make sure that there was powder in the pan, for the spark from flint and steel to reach, in case it became necessary for him to depend on a quick discharge of the musket.
“What are they talking about, Pat?” asked Sandy; for he knew that the Irish trapper was able to follow what the two Indians said in their warm discussion.
“Sure, thot scum av the aarth, Little Turtle, do be taunting Blue Jacket wid bein’ frinds-like wid the palefaces,” the other replied, cautiously, keeping one eye all the while upon the pair of treacherous renegades, whom he would not trust for a single second to get behind his back. “He tills him thot ivery ridskin ought to be the mortual foe av the palefaces who would stale their land away from thim. He kapes on sayin’ thot he hates the white men as hotly as the sun shines in summer, and will niver, niver make frinds wid the same.” ([Note 6.])
“But, no matter what he says, it will not cause Blue Jacket to turn against the Armstrong family, even if he some day takes up the hatchet against the whites,” Sandy went on to say, with a confidence born of an intimate acquaintance with the young Shawanee brave, whose name was also fated to figure in the history of the times.