At the significance of the terrible vow, every heart grew chill, and presently Turkey-foot drew his scalping-knife from its highly-ornamented sheath. “Turkey-foot will swear first,” he said, bringing the point of the knife to his bare red breast; “and when we all have sworn, then shall each drink the blood that shoots from the wounds we make, even as we shall swallow the heart-gore of the young She-wolf.” A moment later, the knife glided through the skin directly over the chief’s heart, and the smoking blood gushed forth like a tiny rivulet, suddenly released from the power of a dam. “Now!” The Indian bathed his hand in the red tide, and threw the gory member toward heaven. “Oh! Kai Ja Manitou--” The crack of a rifle out in the starlight, unaccompanied by the wolfish warning that had preceded so many shots fatal to the red-men of northern Ohio, interrupted the oath, and Stomah, the red artist, with a gurgle and a groan, sunk to the earth; and his blood gushed over the totems--the last work of his hands. The fatal shot seemed to glue the Death League to the bloody spot, and each found himself staring at the gory form, and almost obliterated totems! The slayer, whom prompt action might have thrown into their hands, was flying to her rocky fastness. For all recognized the crack of the death-dealing rifle, and knew that already the young She-wolf was upon the track of the Death League. Turkey-foot was the first to speak. Though horror-stricken at Stomah’s sudden taking off, he was not terrified. Instead of fear, unwonted bravery and revenge were written upon every lineament of his swarthy face. His voice roused his companions from their horror. “Another shall fill his place!” he said, calmly, pointing to the stricken chief. “So fast as one falls beneath the She-wolf’s rifle--if others do fall--his place shall be filled. The League shall always contain seven avengers.” A shout greeted this brief speech, and stooping over Stomah Turkey-foot made an incision over the pulseless heart large enough to admit the hand of a man. “Here’s blood enough for oaths that will outnumber the Great Spirit’s fires,” he cried, thrusting his right hand into the wound, and bathing it in the gore that surrounded the dead chief’s heart. “Follow Turkey-foot!” he cried, withdrawing his hand, and sweeping the circle with the bloody member. The command was obeyed. Joe Girty’s hand, with human blood, was made as red as those of the Indians, and then, with the gory members raised to heaven, while the red current trickled down their arms, they swore to bathe their hands in and drink the heart’s-blood of Nanette Froisart, the Beautiful Terror of the Maumee, and Kenowatha. Joe Girty swore more particularly regarding the latter. It was, in every sense of the word, a terrible oath!