“Is she much hurt?” was the scout’s interested query.
“I’m hopin’ not, but we ain’t goin’ to be too rough on any white man for a thing like that, especially if ’twas an accident.”
Buffalo Bill settled back in the chair he had taken. He and Woods were in the hotel office; but the clerk had gone out on the piazza, and was listening there to the talk of old Nick Nomad and Wild Bill. The trapper’s heavy voice, uttering characteristic exclamations, floated in at the window, accompanied by the comments of some of the citizens.
“Go on,” said Buffalo Bill to the marshal. “Tell me about the child.”
“Well, you know the story?”
“Not clearly. I was not at Fort Grant when your messenger arrived; so what I know I received at third hand, from the commander there, on my return. But he said that word had come from here of the kidnaping of a child by Indians, and he ordered me to report here and see what I could do.”
“Well, that’s straight, and nearly the whole of it. It’s Bill Morgan’s boy, down at the foot of the hill over there. They live beyond the town, ye see, and so it was an easy job for the reds to sneak in and do their work, particularly as no one was thinkin’ of such a thing, and the kid was allowed to play round outdoors all he wanted. I’ve sent for Morgan and his wife, so’s they can tell you all about it, and jest how it happened; but that’s all they know, or any one does, unless it’s Tom Conover.”
He produced some cigars and passed them to the scout, as if the matter under consideration called for such care that haste would be its ruin.
“Thanks!” said Buffalo Bill, accepting a cigar in the spirit in which it was offered.
Woods struck a match, which he held out for the scout’s use, lighting his own cigar from it after the scout’s was going. Then he settled back in his chair with quite as much deliberation.