She was compelled to pursue her journey a large portion of each night, and when her captors stopped for rest and refreshment, she was either lashed to a tree, or bound, so as to be unable to rest with the slightest ease or comfort. Under such rigorous treatment her strength rapidly declined, and, at the close of the third day, entirely failed. They had reached the foot of a beautiful wooded bluff at a bend in the Mississippi, where the town of St. Cloud has since been located. Here they were suddenly brought to a stand; the poor jaded captive had fainted. Bloody Jim saw her reeling in her saddle and instantly threw his brawny arm around her frail form. Dismounting, and laying his unconscious burden on a bed of dry leaves, which the wind had gathered under a huge oak, he produced from his knapsack a bottle of brandy, and proceeded to wet her face, and force a few drops into her mouth. At the sight of the long-concealed bottle, his men chuckled with delight, and as soon as Little Wolf exhibited signs of returning life, they requested a "treat." Bloody Jim, now deeming himself beyond pursuit for one night at least, acceded to their wishes, and also himself indulged in his favorite beverage. Little Wolf gathered from their conversation and movements that they designed to camp for the night at their present station, and their occasional rude allusions to herself filled her with terror. She struggled to throw off the oppressive faintness which she felt a second time stealing upon her, but, when she saw Bloody Jim approaching her, the horrors of her situation completely overcame her, and she again swooned. "Ugh!" grunted the disappointed savage, giving her inanimate form a rude kick. "She wake before morning," suggested one of his comrades encouragingly, as he passed him the precious bottle. Bloody Jim took it, put it to his lips, drained it dry, and handed it back. This was too much for his already half drunk consoler; he angrily flung the empty bottle into Bloody Jim's face, and in retaliation received in a twinkling his death stab. Half breed No. 3 observed the transaction with evident satisfaction. He applauded the murderer and cajoled him into furnishing from, the bowels of his knapsack a fresh supply of the poisonous liquor. After gratifying their rum appetite to the full, the athletic men gradually became as helpless as infants, and, sinking on the ground as the darkness gathered around them, they fell into heavy sleep. In about an hour Little Wolf partially recovered, but, supposing herself to be closely guarded, and still suffering from extreme lassitude, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell into profound slumber.