“Smoke o’ torture! wuss then that!” exclaimed the old scout; “the dubble-distilled essence o’ the brimstone-pit.” “Well, what’s the programme now?” asked Town., growing impatient, as he feasted his eyes upon the sweet, fair face of Madge. “We must git the gals to wunst. It’d be a easy matter, too, to sour their captors’ red ca’casses by dashin’ in onto ’em full tilt, but, maybe thar’s several guards skulkin’ ’bout, and sich a drive might git us inter trubble; but I’ll tell ye what I’ll do.” “Well?” said Town., growing more impatient. “I’ll string them ’ere two Ingins on a thread o’ fire-light, and punch the hole with a chunk o’ lead spit from the black jaws o’ ole Vibrator, then we’ll dash in and settle dad Ainesley’s hash for ’im.” As he concluded, the old scout drew the ramrod from his rifle, and fixing a screw upon one end of it, inserted it into the barrel. “You see, lad,” he said, twisting the rod around, “I’m goin’ to feed a little heavier, fur I calculate _one_ bullet to fix both o’ ’em ’ere reds, for ye see they’re settin’ in range.” In a moment he drew out the bullet from the rifle, and doubled the usual charge of powder. He then rammed the bullet home again, replaced the ramrod and said: “Thar, sir, ole Vibrator is so full her sides toot out, and now hear her speak.” Our friends were about a hundred paces from the enemy, who were plainly visible in the light of their camp-fire. The two savages sat side and side, and it was this fact that suggested to the old scout the idea of killing both with the same bullet. Carefully he raised his long, heavy rifle and fired. Town. started to his feet. The report of the piece sounded like the roar of a cannon, and the young man was sure it had exploded. Close on the crash of the rifle came the death-wail of the two savages. Then Old Tumult leaped from his covert with a roar that would have done credit to an African gorilla, and shouting to his companion to follow, he dashed into the camp. Israel Ainesley sat half reclining upon the ground when his two companions fell dead and for an instant he seemed totally paralyzed by the terrible surprise. But the shout of Old Tumult aroused him, and springing to his feet he attempted to escape into the black shadows of the forest. But Old Tumult had marked the reverend hypocrite’s movements, and in an instant he was at Ainesley’s heels. A well directed blow in the back from the scout’s sledge-hammer fist, sent the white-haired man to grass with such velocity that his heels described a half-circle through the air. Town. Farnesworth sprung to the captives. But for the presence of Clara Bryant, his first love, he would have embraced Madge with a shower of kisses. Not knowing whether he was friend or foe at first, Madge shrunk from his grasp, a vindictive gleam in her dark eyes. She would have fled into the forest, had not the hand of her lover staid her. “Fear not--it is me, darling,” said the young man.