Judge Lynch, Jr., sprung to the ground, and with Red Crest’s help loosened the lengthy lasso which they again made fast, but this time to a large rock at the foot of the canyon wall. Then the Indian leaped upon the horse just relieved from duty, and the two prepared to gallop away. “A last good-by, Rosebud,” said the boy judge, looking at the ghastly figure above. “Good-by, trailer,” said Red Crest, waving a farewell salute with his red hand. “No burning lodges on the trail that leads to the land of the Evil Spirit. Good-by, bad brother!” “_Good-by, devils!_” Whence came that voice? Or was it but an infernal echo from the shadows overhead? Instinctively the twain looked into each other’s faces. Both had heard the startling words. “Who is up yonder?” queried the white boy. “No, no! ’tis the voice of the dead Wolf! Come, brother. Red Crest has heard the spirits that speak in the gulches of the Rosebud. They foller him here. If we ride like the storm, they cannot catch us.” And the next moment the Sioux urged his horse forward, and left his young companion to follow at his leisure. “Somebody has witnessed the hanging,” he said. “But, never mind! the deed is done, and the villain, who basely attempted my life on the Rosebud, will never lift another knife, or burn another town.” Then he rode under the suspended man, and rejoined the Indian. The two went down the canyon together. CHAPTER III. The hands which had pushed the stone over the edge of the wall were small and beautiful. They belonged to a young girl who might have reached her seventeenth year. She was of medium height, rather slightly built, with a fair, fresh skin, and sparkling black eyes. At a goodly distance she might have been taken for a member of the opposite sex, for the garment that reached but a little way below the knees was fringed after the manner of the frontier hunting-frock. Her _petite_ feet were incased in a pair of Indian moccasins; and her leggins of pliable goods, reached to the strings of these picturesque shoes. On the whole, the girl on the cliffs formed a romantic piece of living statuary in the moonlight that fell unobstructed about her. If she was armed, her person bore no evidences of it. The weapon which she had just hurled at Tom Terror was one which could not be borne by such slender arms as hers. She had not witnessed the Tiger’s manner of dealing with old Jack the stage-driver. There were many shadows between her and the exciting drama going on below, but the voices came up to her, clear and distinct, without a syllable missing, and she heard Jack’s shriek and the shots of the scarlet Thugs.