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.