Simon Girty lolled on a blanket in Half King's teepee.

He was alone, awaiting his allies.

Rings of white smoke curled lazily from his lips as he puffed on a long Indian pipe, and gazed out over the clearing that contained the Village of Peace.
Still water has something in its placid surface significant of deep channels, of hidden depths; the dim outline of the forest is dark with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character.

So Simon Girty's hard, bronzed face betrayed the man.

His degenerate brother's features were revolting; but his own were striking, and fell short of being handsome only because of their craggy hardness.
Years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness of wasted life, had graven their stern lines on that copper, masklike face.