Effie St. Pierre and Rudolph Runnion looked upon the Indian’s revenge with different thoughts. They knew that the red tribes would suffer terribly for that night’s work--that the Girl Avenger would not rest until every dried scalp was replaced by a fresh one. Suddenly Wacomet turned toward the corridor again, and presently he was conducting his prisoners down the gloomy passage. He forced them near his half-naked body by a rope of sinews attached to their wrists, and secured to his girdle, and accompanied his commands for silence by threats of a death too horrible to be mentioned here. At length the cool night-air fanned the faces of the trio, and looking over Wacomet’s broad shoulders Effie saw the scintillating celestial worlds. But a moment later the current of air was interrupted, and Wacomet forced his prisoners into a natural niche before which he had paused. In the deeper gloom of the niche the trio remained as motionless as rocks, and presently they felt six figures, undistinguishable in the blackness, move past, like giant animals. No noise accompanied the new-comers to indicate their identity, but Wacomet knew each one as he passed. They were the members of the Death League, and Joe Girty crept at their head. When the sounds died away in the gloomy distance, Wacomet drew a breath of relief and again glided toward the opening. Soon the three stood upon the flat rock just beyond the corridor, and faster than was requisite for safety the red chief hurried the two whites down the rocks. In safety, however, the base of the cliff was reached, and along the bank, toward the head of the little stream, the Indian bounded, compelling his captives to keep pace with him. He would seek the hidden place with his captives, and then return to the Death League with a mouth full of lies. Already he had planned a deceptive story, and his wounded cheek would lend confirmation to his words. Wacomet was a wily dog. CHAPTER X. THE RESCUE AND WHAT FOLLOWED.