THE STOLEN CHILD.
Before Buffalo Bill could comment on the queer story of Quicksilver
John, or on any of the other things which the worthy marshal of the town
of Skyline had imparted to him, there was a sound of scraping feet
beyond the door, in the direction of the piazza, and a man and woman
came into the office.
The marshal jumped to his feet when he saw them, and the scout also
rose, knowing that here were the father and mother of the child that had
been supposedly stolen by Indians.
The man was a sturdy-looking fellow of the miner type, about thirty
years old. The woman was younger and girlish, and was a beauty. Her skin
was fair, her eyes a bright blue, her hair a gold-brown; so that,
altogether, she had, in spite of the poorness and simplicity of her
clothing, something in her appearance that suggested one of Titan’s
pictures of angels.
So fair and girlish, though a wife and mother, she was, that Buffalo
Bill could not, as he came to his feet, repress a look of admiration.
“These are the people I told you about,” said Woods, introducing them.
“This is Morgan and Missus Morgan; and it’s their kid that has
disappeared.”
The blue eyes of the woman filled with tears as she looked up at the
tall and handsome scout who stood before her; his kind and kingly looks
warmed her heart, and gave her a feeling of confidence even before he
spoke to her.
As soon as the introductions had been put through by the marshal,
Buffalo Bill began to ask Morgan and his wife questions, finding them
intelligent and eager to impart all the information they possessed.
“He”—she referred to the child—“was playing out of the knoll when it
happened. He played there nearly every day when the weather was good,
and it’s been mostly good lately. I didn’t hear him cry out, or
anything, but I did hear the hoofs of a horse out there somewheres,
though at the minute I didn’t think anything about that in particular.
But somehow I got uneasy by and by, and went to the door and called him.
And when he didn’t come I ran out there—and he was gone!
“A good distance off, in the direction of the Cumbres trail, was a cloud
of dust; but I couldn’t see what was in it. For a minute I was that
scared I couldn’t hardly do anything. I ran all round, looking for him;
and then I ran to the neighbors; though maybe I ought to have done that
first.
“Then one of ’em told me that the day before she had seen an Indian
riding along there, with a red feather in his hair, and a blanket on
him, which she hadn’t thought much of at the time, as Indians come often
into the town.”
“Not the Red Feathers!” interrupted the marshal of Skyline.
“I don’t know what Indians they are, and the woman didn’t know that he
was different from any others; but when I told her about the cloud of
dust, she said at once it was probably an Indian done it, and told me
about the one she’d seen the day before, with a red feather in his hair.
“Then Mr. Jones—that’s her husband—he ran into the town here and
reported it, and after that a lot of men tried to follow the Indian,
but——”
She stopped with a pathetic break in her voice, and looked at Buffalo
Bill, tears showing in her eyes.
“How old was the child?” the scout asked, mildly and kindly.
“Fi—five years old!” she faltered.
“A boy, I believe you said?”
She assented by an inclination of her head, and put her handkerchief to
her eyes.
“If what Toltec Tom said was so,” put in the marshal, “the kid that was
stolen by the Red Feathers thirty years ago was a girl.”
The woman fumbled in the bosom of her dress and drew out a photograph.
“That’s his picture,” she said; “taken two months ago, when we was
visiting down in Madgeburg. Everybody says it looks like him.”
Buffalo Bill studied the photograph, seeing there a bright-eyed,
handsome little fellow in semisailor clothing, a smile on his lips, as
he looked straight out at the beholder and stood up sturdily on his
well-formed legs. His long hair fell down on the collar of the sailor
suit, and was, in front, cut square off across his well-rounded
forehead. It was the picture of an attractive, cheerful, healthy boy.
“Can you think of anything else it may be important for me to know?”
said the scout, as he handed back the photograph.
“You will try to find him?” she asked tremulously. “I can’t think of
anything else. Only, I have been hearing such awful things; and the
Indians are so cruel and terrible, and he’s such a little fellow, and so
good and dear. Do you think they will kill him—have killed him?”
“I don’t think they have killed him!” the scout declared with emphasis.
“And you think you can find him?” she quavered.
“Mrs. Morgan, I and my friends stand ready to do everything that can be
done in the matter.”
“But the delay!” she urged. “I have heard some awful talk—about how the
Indians sacrifice children, and torture them, and all that. It’s
breaking my heart.”
She began to cry; and in her nervousness it seemed that with difficulty
she restrained a desire to clutch hold of the great scout and thrust him
out of the office, and on the trail, in pursuit of the abductors of her
boy.
Buffalo Bill, understanding her feelings, said all that he could to
quiet her and give her the comforting warmth of hope. He repeated that
he would take the trail with his aids and run the Indians down.
“You will begin at once?” she urged.
“Yes,” he answered; “as soon as I can get ready for so long and
dangerous a trip.”
“It will be long—very long?”
She wanted her boy rescued instantly.
“They have probably retreated deep into the Cumbres Mountains,” the
scout told her. “We shall have to follow them there; and it will be a
dangerous journey, for which we shall have to make preparations. It is
an unfamiliar country to me, and my companions, too, and we may need to
look for a competent guide.”
“You’ll get none here, Cody,” said the marshal; “you couldn’t get any
man here to follow old Fire Top into the Cumbres—if it was old Fire
Top.”
There was an interruption at the door, and a man came into the office
hurriedly.
He was from the jail, and bore a letter.
“For Buffalo Bill,” he announced.
The letter was a note scrawled with a pencil on a page that appeared to
have been torn from a notebook.
When Buffalo Bill opened it, he saw by the signature that it was from
the jail prisoner, Toltec Tom.
It was brief, and ran as follows:
“BUFFALO BILL: You may remember me, old pard, but perhaps you won’t,
as we rawhided around together a good many years ago and our trails
haven’t crossed much lately, if any. What all I’ve been doing since
then doesn’t matter. But I hear you’re in town—saw you, in fact, as
you and your friends came into the place. I’m putting up at the Town
Hotel, and can’t say that I like the accommodations. I want to get
out, and that’s why I write you. The marshal will tell you why I’m
here, if you haven’t already heard about it. Come over and see me as
soon as you can, and we’ll have a talk. I want to get out of this
hole mighty bad.
“Your one-time pard and present well-wisher,
“TOM CONOVER.”
“From Tom Conover,” said the scout, looking up and addressing Woods, the
town marshal. “He wants to see me, and I’d like you to go over to the
jail with me!”
Woods got on his feet.
“All right,” he said; “that can be arranged easy.”
The woman and her husband stood waiting.
“I’ll see this man who is held in jail here,” said the scout to her,
“and then I’ll make my arrangements. Cheer up. I can promise you that we
will do all that men can do to rescue your boy.”
He shook hands with her and her husband, and then with Woods left the
office and went out into the street, where Nomad and Wild Bill were
still “guffing” with the crowd that surrounded them and the Indian
scouts.