The slayer of the Ottawa was a girl, rounding the last month of her sixteenth year! A form and figure, admirably disclosed by the close-fitting garments, were faultless in grace and proportion, and her oval face was beautiful almost beyond description. The fair white skin, beautified by here and there a dimple, proclaimed the avenger the favored child of health. Her eyes were deep blue, like the patches of sky seen through the interstices of the broad leaves, and a mass of golden hair fell over her shoulders like graceful plumage of orient birds. She wore a close-fitting hunting-frock, surmounted by a doe-skin cape, the edges of which were fringed with beads, strung on thin sinews. Her nether limbs were clad in elaborately wrought leggings of the same material, cut wide at the bottom, which almost caused the hiding of the moccasins that incased the _petite_ feet. From the head drooped the gigantic feathers of the nut-brown heron, and mingled with her golden locks as wavy as the stream toward which she hastened. At her side trailed the weapon that had dealt death to the Ottawa brave. It was a delicate weapon, quite resembling a sporting gun, but a deadly one, as the dead man before her witnessed. The bore seemed out of proportion to the long slender barrel, which caught and reflected back from its polished surface the rays of the declining sun. The stock and butt of the gun were ornamented by silver crosses and crescents, arranged in alternate order. The first cross was punctured by many holes, the crescent was disfigured in like manner; then the next cross, and the succeeding crescent wanted two perforations, in the lower horn, of being completed--judging from the systematic perforating of the preceding ornaments. The history of this Girl Avenger let the following pages detail. A few bounds brought her to the body of her victim, lying across the stricken stag, and as her little hand drew a tiny scalping-knife from her girdle, a silvery triumphant laugh parted the lips and displayed two rows of pearly teeth. “Ha! ha! ha!” said the laugh. “Another dark lock for my lone home--another puncture for my crescent--another red-man dead before the avenging rifle! How fast they fall before my eyes! When my gun speaks, the Manitou’s lodge opens to receive a spirit. How long will such work last?” and she glanced at her rifle. “How long? Until the last crescent is full of little holes; then--and not until then--the dead will have been avenged.” With the last words still quivering on her lips, she stooped and wound the Ottawa’s raven scalp-lock around her left hand. A quick sweep of the scalping-knife, and with the gory scalp clutched in her hand, the Girl Avenger rose to her feet.