“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,