“If what Toltec Tom said was so,” put in the marshal, “the kid that was stolen by the Red Feathers thirty years ago was a girl.”
The woman fumbled in the bosom of her dress and drew out a photograph.
“That’s his picture,” she said; “taken two months ago, when we was visiting down in Madgeburg. Everybody says it looks like him.”
Buffalo Bill studied the photograph, seeing there a bright-eyed, handsome little fellow in semisailor clothing, a smile on his lips, as he looked straight out at the beholder and stood up sturdily on his well-formed legs. His long hair fell down on the collar of the sailor suit, and was, in front, cut square off across his well-rounded forehead. It was the picture of an attractive, cheerful, healthy boy.
“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.”