“At last! at last!” cried our friends, one evening, several days after the last battle, as they came in sight of a strong French settlement on the lake shore.
Well might they shout for joy, for the dangers of the wilderness were paused.
“The White Tigers have buried the hatchet forever. Henceforward yonder woods echo no more to their tread. The Chippewa will see their crosses on the trees, but he shall not shudder as of yore.”
Dorsey Webb was the speaker, and he stood in the gloaming of an August day, pointing to the lodge of the Chippewa.
“The Past can never return, thank Heaven!” responded the beautiful creature at his side. “The name of White Tiger has lost itself in that of Dorsey Webb, and the wild cognomen of Silver Rifle in the softer one of—”
“Wife!”
She blushed, gave him a cheek to kiss, as Ahdeek came up.
He held a little board in one hand, a piece of chalk in the other.
“Come, White Tiger,” he said, smiling, “make mark just once more.”
Then he broke the chalk, and for the last time the avengers made their mark!