“But, anyway, after Quicksilver John had been held some days, and expected to be killed every minute, he was carried up to the top of the cliff from which the eagle had knocked him, and told to git.”
The marshal stopped and puffed at his cigar, which had nearly gone out.
“And then,” he said, breathing deeply and blowing out the smoke, “you can bet he got—he skedaddled.”
Some of the men who had come in and heard the story, laughed; they had heard it before, and saw only its comedy elements.
“I reckon you don’t believe that story, Cody,” remarked Woods, glancing at the scout. “It’s a purty stiff yarn, and I dunno as I believe it myself. But what Quicksilver John wanted to tell it for, if it was a lie, gits me; he didn’t gain anything by it.”
“He told it for the same reason that makes a man like to tell the biggest fish story,” said some one in the crowd.
“He said,” went on the marshal, “that the Injuns was Toltecs, and was under that old coyote called Red Feather, though whether Red Feather is livin’ or dead, or anything much about him, nobody knows. Maybe there ain’t any old Fire Top, and no such queer Toltecs in them hills; but there aire Apaches there, and that’s enough for me. Wherever there aire Apaches I keep out. Sabe?”
He hesitated, and went on:
“But Toltec Tom says there is, or was, a chief called Fire Top; and Injuns wearin’ red feathers have been seen round here, and they’re said to be Toltecs, and live in them Cumbres Hills. But that’s all we know, Cody; maybe all that anybody knows. Except that this kid is gone—seems to ’a’ been stolen—and we found Injun pony tracks, and this Injun earring, or nose ring, or whatever it is.
“And so, after talkin’ the thing over, when we couldn’t do anything, or very much, ourselves, we sent that messenger to Fort Grant, askin’ for your help; and here you aire.”