Phil looked at it long and attentively. It was the portrait of a little boy, about seven, with yellow hair and blue eyes, a fair little lad who looked out from the picture with eyes of mirth and confidence. The resemblance to Arenberg was unmistakable. Phil passed it to Breakstone, who, after a look, passed it on to John, who in his turn, after a similar look, gave it back to Arenberg. "Your boy?" said Breakstone. Arenberg nodded. The others, sympathetic and feeling that they were in the presence of a great grief, waited until he should choose to speak. "It iss the picture of my boy," said Arenberg at last. "Hiss name is William--Billy we called him. I came to this country and settled in Texas, which was then a part of Mexico. I married an American girl, and this iss our boy. We lived at New Braunfels in Texas with the people from Germany. She died. Perhaps it iss as well that she did. It sounds strange to hear me say it, but it iss true. The Comanches came, they surprised and raided the town, they killed many, and they carried away many women and children. Ah, the poor women who have never been heard of again! My little boy was among those carried off. I fought, I was wounded three times, I was in a delirium for days afterward. "As soon as I could ride a horse again I tried to follow the Comanches. They had gone to the Northwest, and I was sure that they had not killed Billy. They take such little boys and turn them into savage warriors, training them through the years. I followed alone toward the western Comanche villages for a long time, and then I lost the trail. I searched again and again. I nearly died of thirst in the desert; another time only luck kept me from freezing in a Norther. I saw, alas! that I could not do anything alone. I went all the way to New Orleans, whence, I learned, a great train for Santa Fé was going to start. Perhaps among the fearless spirits that gather for such an expedition I could find friends who would help me in my hunt. I have found them." Arenberg stopped, his tale told, his chest heaving with emotion, but no word passing his lips. Bill Breakstone was the first to speak. "Hans," he said, "you have had to turn aside from your quest to help in Phil’s, which is now finished, and you have done a big part; now we swear one and all to help you to the extent of our lives in yours, and here’s my hand on it." He solemnly gave his hand to Arenberg, who gave it a convulsive grasp in his own big palm. Phil and John pledged their faith in the same manner, and moisture dimmed Arenberg’s honest eyes. "It will be all right, Hans, old man," said Breakstone. "We’ll get your boy sure. About how old is he now?" "Ten."