A cry, half-shriek, half-groan, burst from Wacomet’s lips, and he staggered like a drunken man, then sunk upon his knees.
Still clutching the smoking double-barreled pistol, Effie St. Pierre waited for the smoke to clear away that she might witness the result of her shot. She knew that it had not been without effect, for she had seen the savage sink to the stones; but yet he might not be dead—only wounded, and, like the bear, a greater terror when wounded than before.
Despite his wounds the pistol-shot had forced Rudolph Runnion from his couch, and now he looked around for something with which to defend himself, for he believed that other braves had followed the stricken chief into the cave. And for him to be taken prisoner by the red-men now, was death, not at their hands, but by those of his countrymen—his comrades in arms.
The smoke had not begun to clear away when a form, bleeding from a frightful wound in the cheek, rushed through the thick volumes, and knocked the pistol from Effie’s hand, before she could bring it to bear upon him, so unexpected was the wounded Indian’s recovery.
A shriek escaped her when she found herself in the grasp of the devil, who dashed the Briton to earth with a blow with his tomahawk, as he advanced, for his own as well as the girl’s safety.
“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.”