It was the oath of children orphaned by the tomahawk. CHAPTER V. ONE OF MAD ANTHONY’S SPIES. Mitre St. Pierre reached the shade of the cottonwood in time to hear the story of the tragedy at the fort from Major Runnion’s lips. The old man was thunder-struck. During the narration of the bloody deed he narrowly noted the manner of the speaker, clearly perceived in the bright moonlight, and he felt that the officer was grossly misrepresenting the affair. If he struck Firman Campbell, as he said, in self-defense, why should he fear the trial that was approaching? Ah! the old man feared it was an unprovoked murder, and, as the officer proceeded, the trader cocked his rifle as though he had divined the finale of the moonlight meeting. Now, for the first time, he knew that Effie did not love the Briton, and then it rushed upon his mind that she had not forgotten one whom he had driven from his Post, telling him to remain away upon the pain of death. Almost with bated breath, he watched the twain under the tree, and when Effie flashed the pistol into the major’s face, an inaudible ejaculation of admiration welled from his heart. “Shoot the white dog, Effie!” he murmured, now thoroughly disgusted at the conduct of one whom he had long respected. “Shoot him down, an’ I’ll carry him back to the fort an’ say: ‘Hyar’s the dog that slew the lamb.’ What!” when the weapon was knocked from Effie’s hand. “This’ll never do. I’ve a say in this muss, Ru’ Runnion, an’ hyar it goes.” The infuriated major had seized the young girl in his arms, and was hissing his devilish intentions in her ears, when the trader’s gun struck his shoulder, and sent forth the ball with a result already witnessed by the reader. Mitre St. Pierre had started from his concealment with a cry of horror, for he thought the bullet had accomplished a double work of death, when he saw a dark form drop from the branches of the cottonwood. Mechanically he executed an abrupt halt, and crouched in the tall grass unperceived by the new-comer. The Indian--for such the figure that dropped from the tree proclaimed itself--alighted beside the motionless form of Effie St. Pierre, which he quickly held in his arms, and was gazing down into her white face, with eyes aflame with triumph. “It’s Wacomet!” ejaculated Mitre, springing up from the grass, and bounding to the side of the brave. “Chief--” The trader’s touch sent an electric thrill to the Indian’s heart, and the brawny fellow, still holding Effie from the earth, turned upon him with an exclamation of astonishment. St. Pierre held a clubbed rifle over his feather-protected head. “Wacomet!” “Mitre St. Pierre!” The trader started back at the sound of that voice, and a light laugh broke from the speaker’s lips.