CHAPTER XVIII.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 areso 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.”
“Tom Conover.”
“Tom Conover.”
“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.