“Ye’ve axed the chap a question which he can’t answer while you continner to choke his wind off,” said Girty, clutching the exasperated trader’s arm. “Take yer fingers away, an’ we’ll see what he sez to yer question.”
Sullenly the Frenchman complied, for he saw Girty’s hand touch the ornamented hilt of a huge Spanish dirk that glistened in his girdle.
“Now answer my question, white dog!” he cried, stepping a pace from the prisoner, who eyed him with something of a look of triumph mingled with defiance. “Where’s Effie—my gal!”
“Where I left her, Mitre St. Pierre!”
The scout’s answer drove a yell of rage from the trader’s throat; he shot forward, and before Joe Girty could interpose his hand, again griped Mark’s throat, and a pistol-barrel glittered in the starlight.
There was murder in St. Pierre’s eyes.
To prevent the deed, several braves and Simon Girty darted forward; but their assistance was not needed for the White Ottawa had knocked the weapon from the Frenchman’s hand, and hurled its frenzied owner to the earth. And when he rose again, looks told him that his personal safety depended on quietude.
“Now what shall we do with the spy?” demanded Joe Girty.
A majority of the Indians cried aloud for immediate execution by the terrible ordeal of fire; but the whites, exclusive of Joe Girty, overruled them.
“Wait until the braves return with May and M’Lellan,” said Captain McKee, addressing the savages. “Our men are sure to catch the two spies who were prowling around Fort Miami, and when they return we’ll burn all together.”