“Wacomet’s squaw at last!” hissed the savage, a brutal expression of long-sought triumph lighting up his swarthy face. “The White Star is Wacomet’s now! He thought to find She-wolf and White Fox here, but ah! he has discovered better prizes than they. Where they gone?” Effie returned no answer which might furnish the savages with a clue to the whereabouts of her young friends, and cause them to fall into the hands of the red avengers. The Ottawa did not press the question, but quickly bound the girl’s hands, the while gloating over his triumph, and taunting her with the poor result of her shot. “When next I shoot I will take better aim,” said Effie, looking into the Indian’s eyes, “and Wacomet must watch the white girl close that she gets not another shot.” “When she is Wacomet’s squaw she will not think of using the little gun,” said the red victor, turning to bind Runnion’s hands. “Yes, in the hidden hole, when the White Star sings songs to Wacomet’s pappooses, she will forget how to use the little guns, and build the Ottawa’s fire when the sun comes over the hill.” In a short space of time Rudolph Runnion’s arms were pinioned at his side, and a blow drew him to his feet. His face wore the ghastly pallor that belongs to the dead, for while securing him, the Indian had told him that a price was set upon his head, and that he intended to deliver him up to the insatiate hounds of justice. For late investigation had proved to the British at Fort Miami that St. Pierre’s shot had not immediately proved fatal, if at all, and it was generally believed that the slayer of Firman Campbell yet lived. While Wacomet bound the Briton, Effie St. Pierre had obtained a piece of keil, and, as well as her pinioned hands would permit, traced these words upon the gray limestone wall of the cave: “_We are the prisoners of Wacomet the Ottawa, destined for a hidden place somewhere._ Effie.” The chief did not notice the “handwriting on the wall,” when he turned to the girl, and pointed to the corridor with his tomahawk. “We go to Wacomet’s home under the ground,” he said. “Come!” The prisoners had stepped forward, when the Ottawa glanced overhead and espied the long string of scalps taken from his red brethren by the hands of the Terror of the Maumee. Beside them hung rifles, tomahawks, and richly ornamented wampums--the trophies of the Girl Avenger’s battles. A cry of indignation burst from his lips, when his eye fell upon all these, and a minute later they composed a confused heap at his feet. He caught up the wampums, and threw them on the fire, the scalps quickly followed, and the rifles and other weapons of Indian warfare crowned the crackling heap. “Won’t the She-wolf howl when she returns to her den!” he cried, with fiendish anticipation, as he gazed upon the work of his revengeful hands.