tter.

He could not resist, for his rifle lay on the river bank, and before he
could collect his ideas he was lifted from his boat into that of his
captors'.

CHAPTER X.

LITTLE MOCCASIN'S "FATHER."

Leaving Kate Merriweather in the hands of her as yet, to the reader,
unknown abductor, and Oscar Parton a captive in the warriors' canoe, let
us return to two characters of whom, for a while, we have lost sight.

Deep in the forest that extended to the northern bank of the Maumee, and
with but few trees felled about it, stood in the year '94 and for
several years afterwards, a small cabin erected after the manner of
western buildings, with logs dovetailed, strong oaken doors and heavy
clapboard roof.

So thickly stood the trees around it, that the keen-eyed hunter could
not have perceived it at any noticeable distance.

No little patch of Indian corn grew near to indicate the home of a
settler, and no honeysuckles shaded the low-browed door to tell that a
woman's gentle hand and loving taste had guided them heavenward.

It really looked like the lair of a beast, for there were cleanly-picked
bones before the door, beside which a fresh wolf skin had been nailed.

It was not the home of refinement; but he who often slept beneath its
roof and called it his, could sway hearts and drench the land in blood.

It stood scarce ten miles from the scene of Kate Merriweather's
abduction, a cabin memorable in the annals of the Northwestern
Territory, for beyond its threshold the darkest treacheries of the times
had been plotted.

About the hour when the fugitives beside the river discovered that one
of their number had been taken from their midst, a man emerged from the
forest, and stepping quickly across the space from door to tree, entered
the cabin.

He did not have to stoop, as a tall person would have been compelled to
do upon entering, for he was short in stature, but with a physique that
denoted great strength.

He was clad in the garb of a backwoodsman, and carried all the weapons
borne by such a character. His face, almost brutish in anatomy, denoted
the glutton, and his first step was to the larder, from which he drew an
enormous chunk of meat upon which he fell with great voracity.

"It must be eleven o'clock," he said, as he thrust the pewter plate
empty into the cupboard, and went to the door as if to take
observations. "He cannot be later than one, and, saying that it is
eleven now, I have but two