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There were yarn mottoes on the walls, framed in pine cones: “God Bless Our Home,” “Haste Makes Waste,” and “The Lord Loveth a Cheerful Giver.”

Something in those trite and homely sentiments touched the scout’s heart. The books and mottoes bespoke character—character that seemed out of place in that rough country—character that should not have been entangled in such a web of treachery and violence as had been thrown about the Perrys.

The scout opened one of two doors that were in the rear of the room, and carried the lamp into the kitchen. Here everything was in apple-pie order. Dishes were neatly arranged in a crude box cupboard, and the floor was as clean as a hickory-splint broom could make it. He tried the kitchen door, and found it locked.

Returning to the living room, he found Nate Dunbar standing in the middle of it and looking around dejectedly.

“They’ve been run off,” he declared hopelessly; “that’s what’s happened! If any harm comes to Hattie,” and here his voice fell husky and murderous, “I’ll camp on Lige Benner’s trail—and I’ll get him.”