“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.