Mitre St. Pierre had started from his concealment with a cry of horror, for he thought the bullet had accomplished a double work of death, when he saw a dark form drop from the branches of the cottonwood.
Mechanically he executed an abrupt halt, and crouched in the tall grass unperceived by the new-comer.
The Indian—for such the figure that dropped from the tree proclaimed itself—alighted beside the motionless form of Effie St. Pierre, which he quickly held in his arms, and was gazing down into her white face, with eyes aflame with triumph.
“It’s Wacomet!” ejaculated Mitre, springing up from the grass, and bounding to the side of the brave.
“Chief—”
The trader’s touch sent an electric thrill to the Indian’s heart, and the brawny fellow, still holding Effie from the earth, turned upon him with an exclamation of astonishment.
St. Pierre held a clubbed rifle over his feather-protected head.
“Wacomet!”
“Mitre St. Pierre!”
The trader started back at the sound of that voice, and a light laugh broke from the speaker’s lips.