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MongoDB Applied Design Patterns Practical Use Cases
with the Leading NoSQL Database 1st Edition Rick
Copeland Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Rick Copeland
ISBN(s): 9781449340049, 1449340040
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 9.28 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
MongoDB Applied
Design Patterns

Rick Copeland
MongoDB Applied Design Patterns
by Rick Copeland
Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Copeland, Jr. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.
O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. Online editions are
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2013-03-01: First release

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Nutshell Handbook, the Nutshell Handbook logo, and the O’Reilly logo are registered trademarks of O’Reilly
Media, Inc. MongoDB Applied Design Patterns, the image of a thirteen-lined ground squirrel, and related
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Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as
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mark claim, the designations have been printed in caps or initial caps.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no
responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained
herein.

ISBN: 978-1-449-34004-9
[LSI]
 Table of Contents

Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Part I. Design Patterns

1. To Embed or Reference. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Relational Data Modeling and Normalization 3
What Is a Normal Form, Anyway? 4
So What’s the Problem? 6
Denormalizing for Performance 7
MongoDB: Who Needs Normalization, Anyway? 8
MongoDB Document Format 8
Embedding for Locality 9
Embedding for Atomicity and Isolation 9
Referencing for Flexibility 11
Referencing for Potentially High-Arity Relationships 12
Many-to-Many Relationships 13
Conclusion 14

2. Polymorphic Schemas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Polymorphic Schemas to Support Object-Oriented Programming 17
Polymorphic Schemas Enable Schema Evolution 20
Storage (In-)Efficiency of BSON 21
Polymorphic Schemas Support Semi-Structured Domain Data 22
Conclusion 23

3. Mimicking Transactional Behavior. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

The Relational Approach to Consistency 25
Compound Documents 26
Using Complex Updates 28

iii
 Optimistic Update with Compensation 29
Conclusion 33

Part II. Use Cases

4. Operational Intelligence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Storing Log Data 37
Solution Overview 37
Schema Design 38
Operations 39
Sharding Concerns 48
Managing Event Data Growth 50
Pre-Aggregated Reports 52
Solution Overview 52
Schema Design 53
Operations 59
Sharding Concerns 63
Hierarchical Aggregation 63
Solution Overview 64
Schema Design 65
MapReduce 65
Operations 67
Sharding Concerns 72

5. Ecommerce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Product Catalog 75
Solution Overview 75
Operations 80
Sharding Concerns 83
Category Hierarchy 84
Solution Overview 84
Schema Design 85
Operations 86
Sharding Concerns 90
Inventory Management 91
Solution Overview 91
Schema 92
Operations 93
Sharding Concerns 100

6. Content Management Systems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

iv | Table of Contents
 Metadata and Asset Management 101
Solution Overview 101
Schema Design 102
Operations 104
Sharding Concerns 110
Storing Comments 111
Solution Overview 111
Approach: One Document per Comment 111
Approach: Embedding All Comments 114
Approach: Hybrid Schema Design 117
Sharding Concerns 119

7. Online Advertising Networks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Solution Overview 121
Design 1: Basic Ad Serving 121
Schema Design 122
Operation: Choose an Ad to Serve 123
Operation: Make an Ad Campaign Inactive 123
Sharding Concerns 124
Design 2: Adding Frequency Capping 124
Schema Design 124
Operation: Choose an Ad to Serve 125
Sharding 126
Design 3: Keyword Targeting 126
Schema Design 127
Operation: Choose a Group of Ads to Serve 127

8. Social Networking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

Solution Overview 129
Schema Design 130
Independent Collections 130
Dependent Collections 132
Operations 133
Viewing a News Feed or Wall Posts 134
Commenting on a Post 135
Creating a New Post 136
Maintaining the Social Graph 138
Sharding 139

9. Online Gaming. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141

Solution Overview 141
Schema Design 142

Table of Contents | v
 Character Schema 142
Item Schema 143
Location Schema 144
Operations 144
Load Character Data from MongoDB 145
Extract Armor and Weapon Data for Display 145
Extract Character Attributes, Inventory, and Room Information for Display 147
Pick Up an Item from a Room 147
Remove an Item from a Container 148
Move the Character to a Different Room 149
Buy an Item 150
Sharding 151

Afterword. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

vi | Table of Contents
 Preface

Whether you’re building the newest and hottest social media website or developing an
internal-use-only enterprise business intelligence application, scaling your data model
has never been more important. Traditional relational databases, while familiar, present
significant challenges and complications when trying to scale up to such “big data”
needs. Into this world steps MongoDB, a leading NoSQL database, to address these
scaling challenges while also simplifying the process of development.
However, in all the hype surrounding big data, many sites have launched their business
on NoSQL databases without an understanding of the techniques necessary to effec‐
tively use the features of their chosen database. This book provides the much-needed
connection between the features of MongoDB and the business problems that it is suited
to solve. The book’s focus on the practical aspects of the MongoDB implementation
makes it an ideal purchase for developers charged with bringing MongoDB’s scalability
to bear on the particular problem you’ve been tasked to solve.

Audience
This book is intended for those who are interested in learning practical patterns for
solving problems and designing applications using MongoDB. Although most of the
features of MongoDB highlighted in this book have a basic description here, this is not
a beginning MongoDB book. For such an introduction, the reader would be well-served
to start with MongoDB: The Definitive Guide by Kristina Chodorow and Michael Dirolf
(O’Reilly) or, for a Python-specific introduction, MongoDB and Python by Niall O’Hig‐
gins (O’Reilly).

Assumptions This Book Makes

Most of the code examples used in this book are implemented using either the Python
or JavaScript programming languages, so a basic familiarity with their syntax is essential
to getting the most out of this book. Additionally, many of the examples and patterns

vii
are contrasted with approaches to solving the same problems using relational databases,
so basic familiarity with SQL and relational modeling is also helpful.

Contents of This Book

This book is divided into two parts, with Part I focusing on general MongoDB design
patterns and Part II applying those patterns to particular problem domains.

Part I: Design Patterns

Part I introduces the reader to some generally applicable design patterns in MongoDB.
These chapters include more introductory material than Part II, and tend to focus more
on MongoDB techniques and less on domain-specific problems. The techniques de‐
scribed here tend to make use of MongoDB distinctives, or generate a sense of “hey,
MongoDB can’t do that” as you learn that yes, indeed, it can.
Chapter 1: To Embed or Reference
This chapter describes what kinds of documents can be stored in MongoDB, and
illustrates the trade-offs between schemas that embed related documents within
related documents and schemas where documents simply reference one another by
ID. It will focus on the performance benefits of embedding, and when the com‐
plexity added by embedding outweighs the performance gains.
Chapter 2: Polymorphic Schemas
This chapter begins by illustrating that MongoDB collections are schemaless, with
the schema actually being stored in individual documents. It then goes on to show
how this feature, combined with document embedding, enables a flexible and ef‐
ficient polymorphism in MongoDB.
Chapter 3: Mimicking Transactional Behavior
This chapter is a kind of apologia for MongoDB’s lack of complex, multidocument
transactions. It illustrates how MongoDB’s modifiers, combined with document
embedding, can often accomplish in a single atomic document update what SQL
would require several distinct updates to achieve. It also explores a pattern for im‐
plementing an application-level, two-phase commit protocol to provide transac‐
tional guarantees in MongoDB when they are absolutely required.

Part II: Use Cases

In Part II, we turn to the “applied” part of Applied Design Patterns, showing several use
cases and the application of MongoDB patterns to solving domain-specific problems.
Each chapter here covers a particular problem domain and the techniques and patterns
used to address the problem.

viii | Preface
Chapter 4: Operational Intelligence
This chapter describes how MongoDB can be used for operational intelligence, or
“real-time analytics” of business data. It describes a simple event logging system,
extending that system through the use of periodic and incremental hierarchical
aggregation. It then concludes with a description of a true real-time incremental
aggregation system, the Mongo Monitoring Service (MMS), and the techniques and
trade-offs made there to achieve high performance on huge amounts of data over
hundreds of customers with a (relatively) small amount of hardware.
Chapter 5: Ecommerce
This chapter begins by describing how MongoDB can be used as a product catalog
master, focusing on the polymorphic schema techniques and methods of storing
hierarchy in MongoDB. It then describes an inventory management system that
uses optimistic updating and compensation to achieve eventual consistency even
without two-phase commit.
Chapter 6: Content Management Systems
This chapter describes how MongoDB can be used as a backend for a content man‐
agement system. In particular, it focuses on the use of polymorphic schemas for
storing content nodes, the use of GridFS and Binary fields to store binary assets,
and various approaches to storing discussions.
Chapter 7: Online Advertising Networks
This chapter describes the design of an online advertising network. The focus here
is on embedded documents and complex atomic updates, as well as making sure
that the storage engine (MongoDB) never becomes the bottleneck in the ad-serving
decision. It will cover techniques for frequency capping ad impressions, keyword
targeting, and keyword bidding.
Chapter 8: Social Networking
This chapter describes how MongoDB can be used to store a relatively complex
social graph, modeled after the Google+ product, with users in various circles, al‐
lowing fine-grained control over what is shared with whom. The focus here is on
maintaining the graph, as well as categorizing content into various timelines and
news feeds.
Chapter 9: Online Gaming
This chapter describes how MongoDB can be used to store data necessary for an
online, multiplayer role-playing game. We show how character and world data can
be stored in MongoDB, allowing for concurrent access to the same data structures
from multiple players.

Preface | ix
Conventions Used in This Book
The following typographical conventions are used in this book:
Italic
Indicates new terms, URLs, email addresses, filenames, and file extensions.
Constant width
Used for program listings, as well as within paragraphs to refer to program elements
such as variable or function names, databases, data types, environment variables,
statements, and keywords.
Constant width bold
Shows commands or other text that should be typed literally by the user.
Constant width italic
Shows text that should be replaced with user-supplied values or by values deter‐
mined by context.

This icon signifies a tip, suggestion, or general note.

This icon indicates a warning or caution.

Using Code Examples

This book is here to help you get your job done. In general, if this book includes code
examples, you may use the code in this book in your programs and documentation. You
do not need to contact us for permission unless you’re reproducing a significant portion
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quoting example code does not require permission. Incorporating a significant amount
of example code from this book into your product’s documentation does require
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We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution usually includes the title,
author, publisher, and ISBN. For example: “MongoDB Applied Design Patterns by Rick
Copeland (O’Reilly). Copyright 2013 Richard D. Copeland, Jr., 978-1-449-34004-9.”

x | Preface
If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or the permission given here,
feel free to contact us at [email protected].

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Preface | xi
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks go to O’Reilly’s Meghan Blanchette, who endured the frustrations of trying
to get a technical guy writing a book to come up with a workable schedule and stick to
it. Sincere thanks also go to my technical reviewers, Jesse Davis and Mike Dirolf, who
helped catch the errors in this book so the reader wouldn’t have to suffer through them.
Much additional appreciation goes to 10gen, the makers of MongoDB, and the won‐
derful employees who not only provide a great technical product but have also become
genuinely close friends over the past few years. In particular, my thanks go out to Jared
Rosoff, whose ideas for use cases and design patterns helped inspire (and subsidize!)
this book, and to Meghan Gill, for actually putting me back in touch with O’Reilly and
getting the process off the ground, as well as providing a wealth of opportunities to
attend and speak at various MongoDB conferences.
Thanks go to my children, Matthew and Anna, who’ve been exceedingly tolerant of a
Daddy who loves to play with them in our den but can sometimes only send a hug over
Skype.
Finally, and as always, my heartfelt gratitude goes out to my wonderful and beloved wife,
Nancy, for her support and confidence in me throughout the years and for inspiring me
to many greater things than I could have hoped to achieve alone. I couldn’t possibly
have done this without you.

xii | Preface
 PART I
Design Patterns
 CHAPTER 1
To Embed or Reference

When building a new application, often one of the first things you’ll want to do is to
design its data model. In relational databases such as MySQL, this step is formalized in
the process of normalization, focused on removing redundancy from a set of tables.
MongoDB, unlike relational databases, stores its data in structured documents rather
than the fixed tables required in relational databases. For instance, relational tables
typically require each row-column intersection to contain a single, scalar value. Mon‐
goDB BSON documents allow for more complex structure by supporting arrays of val‐
ues (where each array itself may be composed of multiple subdocuments).
This chapter explores one of the options that MongoDB’s rich document model leaves
open to you: the question of whether you should embed related objects within one
another or reference them by ID. Here, you’ll learn how to weigh performance, flexibility,
and complexity against one another as you make this decision.

Relational Data Modeling and Normalization

Before jumping into MongoDB’s approach to the question of embedding documents or
linking documents, we’ll take a little detour into how you model certain types of rela‐
tionships in relational (SQL) databases. In relational databases, data modeling typically
progresses by modeling your data as a series of tables, consisting of rows and columns,
which collectively define the schema of your data. Relational database theory has defined
a number of ways of putting application data into tables, referred to as normal forms.
Although a detailed discussion of relational modeling goes beyond the scope of this text,
there are two forms that are of particular interest to us here: first normal form and third
normal form.

3
What Is a Normal Form, Anyway?
Schema normalization typically begins by putting your application data into the first
normal form (1NF). Although there are specific rules that define exactly what 1NF
means, that’s a little beyond what we want to cover here. For our purposes, we can
consider 1NF data to be any data that’s tabular (composed of rows and columns), with
each row-column intersection (“cell”) containing exactly one value. This requirement
that each cell contains exactly one value is, as we’ll see later, a requirement that MongoDB
does not impose, with the potential for some nice performance gains. Back in our re‐
lational case, let’s consider a phone book application. Your initial data might be of the
following form, shown in Table 1-1.
Table 1-1. Phone book v1
id name phone_number zip_code
1 Rick 555-111-1234 30062
2 Mike 555-222-2345 30062
3 Jenny 555-333-3456 01209

This data is actually already in first normal form. Suppose, however, that we wished to
allow for multiple phone numbers for each contact, as in Table 1-2.
Table 1-2. Phone book v2
id name phone_numbers zip_code
1 Rick 555-111-1234 30062
2 Mike 555-222-2345;555-212-2322 30062
3 Jenny 555-333-3456;555-334-3411 01209

Now we have a table that’s no longer in first normal form. If we were to actually store
data in this form in a relational database, we would have to decide whether to store
phone_numbers as an unstructured BLOB of text or as separate columns (i.e., phone_num
ber0, phone_number1). Suppose we decided to store phone_numbers as a text column,
as shown in Table 1-2. If we needed to implement something like caller ID, finding the
name for a given phone number, our SQL query would look something like the
following:
SELECT name FROM contacts WHERE phone_numbers LIKE '%555-222-2345%';

Unfortunately, using a LIKE clause that’s not a prefix means that this query requires a
full table scan to be satisfied.
Alternatively, we can use multiple columns, one for each phone number, as shown in
Table 1-3.

4 | Chapter 1: To Embed or Reference

Table 1-3. Phone book v2.1 (multiple columns)
id name phone_number0 phone_number1 zip_code
1 Rick 555-111-1234 NULL 30062
2 Mike 555-222-2345 555-212-2322 30062
3 Jenny 555-333-3456 555-334-3411 01209

In this case, our caller ID query becomes quite verbose:

SELECT name FROM contacts
WHERE phone_number0='555-222-2345'
OR phone_number1='555-222-2345';
Updates are also more complicated, particularly deleting a phone number, since we
either need to parse the phone_numbers field and rewrite it or find and nullify the
matching phone number field. First normal form addresses these issues by breaking up
multiple phone numbers into multiple rows, as in Table 1-4.
Table 1-4. Phone book v3
id name phone_number zip_code
1 Rick 555-111-1234 30062
2 Mike 555-222-2345 30062
2 Mike 555-212-2322 30062
2 Jenny 555-333-3456 01209
2 Jenny 555-334-3411 01209

Now we’re back to first normal form, but we had to introduce some redundancy into
our data model. The problem with redundancy, of course, is that it introduces the pos‐
sibility of inconsistency, where various copies of the same data have different values. To
remove this redundancy, we need to further normalize the data by splitting it into two
tables: Table 1-5 and Table 1-6. (And don’t worry, we’ll be getting back to MongoDB
and how it can solve your redundancy problems without normalization really soon
now.)
Table 1-5. Phone book v4 (contacts)
contact_id name zip_code
1 Rick 30062
2 Mike 30062
3 Jenny 01209

Relational Data Modeling and Normalization | 5

Table 1-6. Phone book v4 (numbers)
contact_id phone_number
1 555-111-1234
2 555-222-2345
2 555-212-2322
3 555-333-3456
3 555-334-3411

As part of this step, we must identify a key column which uniquely identifies each row
in the table so that we can create links between the tables. In the data model presented
in Table 1-5 and Table 1-6, the contact_id forms the key of the contacts table, and the
(contact_id, phone_number) pair forms the key of the numbers table. In this case, we
have a data model that is free of redundancy, allowing us to update a contact’s name, zip
code, or various phone numbers without having to worry about updating multiple
rows. In particular, we no longer need to worry about inconsistency in the data model.

So What’s the Problem?

As already mentioned, the nice thing about normalization is that it allows for easy
updating without any redundancy. Each fact about the application domain can be up‐
dated by changing just one value, at one row-column intersection. The problem arises
when you try to get the data back out. For instance, in our phone book application, we
may want to have a form that displays a contact along with all of his or her phone
numbers. In cases like these, the relational database programmer reaches for a JOIN:
SELECT name, phone_number
FROM contacts LEFT JOIN numbers
ON contacts.contact_id=numbers.contact_id
WHERE contacts.contact_id=3;
The result of this query? A result set like that shown in Table 1-7.
Table 1-7. Result of JOIN query
name phone_number
Jenny 555-333-3456
Jenny 555-334-3411

Indeed, the database has given us all the data we need to satisfy our screen design. The
real problem is in what the database had to do to create this result set, particularly if the
database is backed by a spinning magnetic disk. To see why, we need to briefly look at
some of the physical characteristics of such devices.
Spinning disks have the property that it takes much longer to seek to a particular location
on the disk than it does, once there, to sequentially read data from the disk (see

6 | Chapter 1: To Embed or Reference

Discovering Diverse Content Through
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out of what they said he managed to extract the confession that this
was so.
“There wasn’t any crazy shootin’ up of this part of the town,
then?” he said. “It was reported there was.”
The Mexicans clamored about him, declaring that the woman was
dying, and demanding the immediate punishment of the man who
had shot her.
“But if he didn’t shoot at her, and hadn’t any intention of hittin’
her?” said the marshal, trying to lull the storm.
They still clamored.
Woods turned from them to the man who was now his prisoner.
“This thing will have to be looked into, anyhow, Conover,” he said
regretfully. “If the woman dies it may make trouble for you. But we’ll
hope she’ll git well. Anyway, I don’t see but I’ll have to take you to
jail until the thing can be looked into.”
His tone was almost an apology, and Conover understood it as
such.
 The deep flush, accentuating the liquor-red of his face, noticed
once before that morning, came again; his blue eyes contracted and
narrowed; for a moment he looked defiant, his hand dropping
toward the revolver pocket hidden by the corduroy coat. He forgot
for the instant that he had surrendered the weapon.
Then his mood changed, and he laughed, a harsh sound that had
no merriment in it.
“Oh, all right, Woods!” he said. “Just as you say. I wouldn’t shoot
a woman—not even a Mexican one; I ain’t that kind, and you know
it. I’ll go with you.”
He stepped forward, almost as if pushed by the yelping Mexicans
who crowded his heels; and the marshal’s men surrounding him, he
was led away into the town, and cast into the town jail.
“Hard luck!” he said, when the marshal’s men were gone.
He looked disconsolately about his cheerless quarters—a narrow
room, dingy and disreputable, with one high, barred window, and a
heavy, barred door. It held nothing but a broken-legged stool and a
shaky wooden cot on which was a tattered government blanket and
a makeshift of a pillow.
“I dunno as it’s any use,” he muttered when he finished his survey.
“I intended to try to be a decent man, and here I am. When a man’s
down, even Fate kicks him. I didn’t even know there was such a
creature in the world as that Mexican woman, but one of my bullets
goes huntin’ for her, and finds her; and it lands me here. And if she
dies——”
He shrugged his shoulders and dropped to a seat on the cot.
“It come about, of course, all of it, because that other woman
died; that got me to thinking again, and then I got to drinkin’ to
keep from thinkin’. I’m all sorts of a fool, on general principles, and
when I go to loading up with liquor I’m even a few more.”
Restlessly he got up from the cot, and, putting the broken stool
against the wall, he mounted it, and looked out from the barred
window.
 At first his gaze took in the town, and particularly that portion
which held the Mexican huts. He could even see the little mesquite
tree where he had stuck up the queen of hearts and fired at it.
Following the road which ran there, he looked off toward the
ragged hills and the mountains looming beyond them, his thoughts
bitter.
As he did so, he became aware that horsemen were approaching
the town along that road.
He stood on the stool staring at them until they came up to the
Mexican huts and on into the street which led to the center of the
town.
The horsemen broke into a canter.
“Injuns,” he said, “and three white men.”
He strained his eyes to make them out.
Suddenly a low whoop broke from his lips.
“Buffalo Bill, or I’m a sand hog!” he exclaimed, striking a palm
against the bars of the window.
He rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
“And the two white men with him are Wild Bill and that old trapper
they call Nick Nomad. Whoop! I reckon the Injuns aire some o’
Buffalo Bill’s scouts.”
A change passed over his face.
“But mebbe they won’t help me. When Fate kicks a man she kicks
him hard. Yet there was a time when Buffalo Bill and me were pards.
But that’s long ago, long ago.”
 CHAPTER XVII.
THE STORY OF QUICKSILVER JOHN.

Ben Woods, the marshal of the town of Skyline, met Buffalo Bill
and his pards and followers in front of the principal hotel of the
town.
The hotel piazza was filled with “prominent citizens,” as a sort of
welcoming committee backing the efforts of the marshal, while
people of lesser importance filled the street on each side of the hotel
and backed against the opposite buildings in a curious wave.
Buffalo Bill’s arrival in the town had been hourly expected, and
had been watched for from the “lookout” station on the hotel roof.
As soon as his coming was announced the news was sent flying
throughout the community.
Woods stepped down from the piazza, extending to Buffalo Bill his
thin, wiry hand.
“It seems like you’ve been a long time coming, Cody,” he said,
“but we’re glad to see you.”
He flung commands at some Mexicans grouped near.
“Pedro, Sebastian—you fellers git a move on, and take the hosses
—what ye staring at? Yes, them’s Injuns with the gentlemen! Didn’t
ye never see any before? Well, you’ll have time to git acquainted
later. Take the hosses and hustle ’em to the stables.”
The Mexicans flew to obey.
The citizens on the piazza swarmed down behind the marshal, and
the next moment Buffalo Bill and his pards were being given a
characteristic greeting of the border.
 “Any word about the child?” the great scout asked of Woods,
almost before the greetings were finished.
“Not a thing,” said Woods. “We’re reckoning that Injuns took him;
that’s what we got, from the little of the trail we could follow;
though why they would do it, or what they would want with the boy,
puzzled us, until——”
He stopped to present another “prominent citizen,” who had just
arrived in breathless haste and desired an introduction.
Leaving Wild Bill and old Nomad to converse with the group on
and about the piazza, Buffalo Bill accompanied Woods into the hotel,
as soon as he could do it without offense to the assembled people.
“I’ve sent for the kid’s father and mother,” said Woods, “and they’ll
be here in a little while, I reckon. It’s a curious case.”
“From the report I received, it is. You were about to say
something a while ago, but stopped to introduce that gentleman?”
“Oh, yes; I was sayin’, I believe, that the whole thing tangled us
all up. But I heard somethin’ this mornin’ which, maybe, is a clew.
And, by the way, I just now arrested and jailed the feller that give it
to me. Mebbe you know him? It’s Tom Conover, old Toltec Tom,
some call him, and——”
“Shot a woman?”
“Well, it was by clear accident, so he says.”
“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.
Before he went on with his story the clerk of the hotel returned to
the office, and some other men came in at the clerk’s heels. They
ranged themselves by the bar, where one or two of them called for
liquor, which the clerk dispensed from a long-necked, black bottle.
“What Tom Conover told me maybe amounts to something,” said
the marshal, “and maybe it don’t; but you’re entitled to know it, and
it may help. It’s this: About twenty or thirty years ago, he said, a
child was missin’ in jest about this same way. Skyline wasn’t standin’
here at that time. The kidnapin’ was done south o’ here, at the old
’Doby Wells, where a settler had pitched his shack and was trying to
live. Injuns swung down from the mountains and run off with the
kid; they didn’t massacree, nor burn the house, nor they didn’t make
any ginral raid; they jest snatched up the kid and hit the trail for the
mountains.”
“And what became of the child?”
“Well, if anybody knows, I don’t; Conover didn’t seem to. He jest
remembered that. But he said he recalled that when it was done
there was talk around to the effect that every twenty or thirty years
them hill Injuns did a trick like that; what for I don’t know, and I
reckon nobody don’t. My idea, though, if I was put to it, is that if the
thing ever really happened, it was for a sacrifice of some kind.”
The scout smoked in silence as Woods talked.
“Anything else?” he said, when Woods stopped.
“That’s about all; only Conover was inclined to the theory that it
was the work of old Fire Top, and so was we; I mean this present
case was the work of that old heathen, we thought. Why he thought
it I don’t know, and he never said. He’d been boozing, as I’ve told
you, and whether he really knowed what he was talkin’ about or not
I can’t say. But there you have it.”
“What else?” the scout asked again, when the marshal once more
subsided behind his cloud of smoke.
“I reckon there ain’t anything else, that I know of.”
“Why did you think it was the work of old Fire Top?”
“Well, from the fact that a red who was supposed to be one of
Fire Top’s bucks was seen sashayin’ round Morgan’s place the day
before, and from what Conover told me this morning?”
“You found a trail?”
“Not a very plain one; but there was pony tracks behind the knoll
below the house—tracks of an unshod Injun cayuse—which must
have been made about the time the kid disappeared.”
“You followed them?”
“To the point where they entered the main trail leadin’ toward the
Cumbres. We couldn’t do nothin’ after that, for the main trail is hard
as flint, with a thousand tracks, if there’s one.”
 “You might have made sure that the cayuse tracks didn’t leave the
Cumbres trail.”
“We tried to, but we didn’t find nothing—except this.” The marshal
put his hand in his pocket and drew out a battered piece of silver
that had been rudely fashioned into an Indian earring.
“Whoever wore that was most likely an Indian,” he said, “though it
might ’a’ been a Mexican; they’re all alike in wantin’ to wear shiny
things in their ears and in their hair—Mexicans aire half Injun,
anyhow, ye know. One of my men picked that up below the knoll, as
we was follerin’ that cayuse trail; and I put it in my pocket.”
“Did you send a force toward the Cumbres Mountains?” queried
the scout.
“Well, not all the way,” said the marshal, twisting uneasily in his
chair, for he knew that was a thing he should have insisted on. “I
couldn’t git any men that wanted to go farther than the Cross
Timbers. Fire Top’s Toltecs ain’t men that aire to be fooled with, and
so I didn’t go beyond that point. But I didn’t see any need, as we’d
struck no trail. And if it was Fire Top, and he got into the Cumbres,
where he holes up, then it wouldn’t do no good, anyhow.”
“Why?” said the scout quietly.
The marshal tried to laugh, but failed.
“Well, Cody,” he answered, “if you want to go into the Cumbres,
and up to Fire Top’s headquarters there, you’re welcome to; but not
for me, or any one I could git here to trail after me. It never was
done but once—by any one that came back alive; and that was
when Quicksilver John blundered down there by mistake, and got
out again by mistake. It wasn’t courage, but luck, that brought
Quicksilver John out of there that time, I’m telling you.”
He settled back again, and tried to hide his confusion by “smoking
up.”
“Maybe you don’t know about Quicksilver John and that little
adventurer, Cody? You wasn’t in this section at the time, and I don’t
think it has ever got into print, so you’re pardoned for not knowin’
anything about it.
 “Quicksilver John was huntin’ for a cinnabar lode, as usual, and he
hit into the Cumbres, takin’ nothin’ but a burro and his tools and his
water bottle and grub. It’s a desert country, and he had a hard time
straight from the start.
“He didn’t know anything about Fire Top nor them wicked Toltecs
of his, and so wasn’t figurin’ on trouble from that quarter. He didn’t
find any cinnabar, but he struck the queerest Injun town that any
one ever heard of, or dreamed of; it had reg’lar houses, somewhat
like them cliff dwellers’ houses you’ve seen, or maybe read about.
But some was better—some was of stone. It was a bang-up place,
for an Injun city, he said; and he was wonderin’ whether it could
really be Injuns livin’ there, or some settlement of whites he had
never heard of, when the queerest thing happened you could ever
imagine. I dunno whether to believe it or not! But Quicksilver John
said that while he was studyin’ them houses, a big eagle, that he
hadn’t even see, flapped down out of a tree behind him and struck
him between the shoulders.
“He was layin’ at the time on the edge of a precipice, lookin’
down; and the blow of the eagle knocked him over the edge, so that
he began to fall. But, so he reported, the claws of the eagle had got
fast in his clothes, and that kept him from dropping down like a
shot; the eagle tried to fly with him, and that held him up a bit,
though his weight kept pullin’ the eagle down and down. He was too
heavy for the eagle to carry; but at the same time the efforts of the
eagle to lift him up kept him from droppin’ swift. So together they
came right down into that queer town, nighabout in the middle of it,
the eagle flappin’ his wings and screechin’, and him swinging his
arms and legs and yellin’. It must have been a queer sight.
“And it was that way they landed, clost by some Injuns, that wore
red feathers in their hair, and was otherwise ’most naked, except for
a lot of gold bracelets. When the ground was struck the eagle
managed to pull its hooks out of the clothes of Quicksilver John, and
to fly off; and there he was left, sprawlin’.
“Well, them red-feathered Injuns swarmed round him prompt, and
whooped and hollered; and they picked him up and carried him off
to some kind of a temple, where there was a great howdy-do about
it. And then a priest, or a king, or somethin’, come; Quicksilver John
didn’t know who, or what, for this priest, or king, or whatever, was
all veiled, and wore a robe of some kind.
“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.”
He seemed mightily relieved that this was so.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
THE STOLEN CHILD.

Before Buffalo Bill could comment on the queer story of

Quicksilver John, or on any of the other things which the worthy
marshal of the town of Skyline had imparted to him, there was a
sound of scraping feet beyond the door, in the direction of the
piazza, and a man and woman came into the office.
The marshal jumped to his feet when he saw them, and the scout
also rose, knowing that here were the father and mother of the child
that had been supposedly stolen by Indians.
The man was a sturdy-looking fellow of the miner type, about
thirty years old. The woman was younger and girlish, and was a
beauty. Her skin was fair, her eyes a bright blue, her hair a gold-
brown; so that, altogether, she had, in spite of the poorness and
simplicity of her clothing, something in her appearance that
suggested one of Titan’s pictures of angels.
So fair and girlish, though a wife and mother, she was, that
Buffalo Bill could not, as he came to his feet, repress a look of
admiration.
“These are the people I told you about,” said Woods, introducing
them. “This is Morgan and Missus Morgan; and it’s their kid that has
disappeared.”
The blue eyes of the woman filled with tears as she looked up at
the tall and handsome scout who stood before her; his kind and
kingly looks warmed her heart, and gave her a feeling of confidence
even before he spoke to her.
 As soon as the introductions had been put through by the
marshal, Buffalo Bill began to ask Morgan and his wife questions,
finding them intelligent and eager to impart all the information they
possessed.
“He”—she referred to the child—“was playing out of the knoll
when it happened. He played there nearly every day when the
weather was good, and it’s been mostly good lately. I didn’t hear
him cry out, or anything, but I did hear the hoofs of a horse out
there somewheres, though at the minute I didn’t think anything
about that in particular. But somehow I got uneasy by and by, and
went to the door and called him. And when he didn’t come I ran out
there—and he was gone!
“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.
“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.”
She began to cry; and in her nervousness it seemed that with
difficulty she restrained a desire to clutch hold of the great scout and
thrust him out of the office, and on the trail, in pursuit of the
abductors of her boy.
 Buffalo Bill, understanding her feelings, said all that he could to
quiet her and give her the comforting warmth of hope. He repeated
that he would take the trail with his aids and run the Indians down.
“You will begin at once?” she urged.
“Yes,” he answered; “as soon as I can get ready for so long and
dangerous a trip.”
“It will be long—very long?”
She wanted her boy rescued instantly.
“They have probably retreated deep into the Cumbres Mountains,”
the scout told her. “We shall have to follow them there; and it will be
a dangerous journey, for which we shall have to make preparations.
It is an unfamiliar country to me, and my companions, too, and we
may need to look for a competent guide.”
“You’ll get none here, Cody,” said the marshal; “you couldn’t get
any man here to follow old Fire Top into the Cumbres—if it was old
Fire Top.”
There was an interruption at the door, and a man came into the
office hurriedly.
He was from the jail, and bore a letter.
“For Buffalo Bill,” he announced.
The letter was a note scrawled with a pencil on a page that
appeared to have been torn from a notebook.
When Buffalo Bill opened it, he saw by the signature that it was
from the jail prisoner, Toltec Tom.
It was brief, and ran as follows:
“Buffalo Bill: You may remember me, old pard, but perhaps you won’t, as we
rawhided around together a good many years ago and our trails haven’t crossed
much lately, if any. What all I’ve been doing since then doesn’t matter. But I hear
you’re in town—saw you, in fact, as you and your friends came into the place. I’m
putting up at the Town Hotel, and can’t say that I like the accommodations. I want
to get out, and that’s why I write you. The marshal will tell you why I’m here, if
you haven’t already heard about it. Come over and see me as soon as you can,
and we’ll have a talk. I want to get out of this hole mighty bad.
“Your one-time pard and present well-wisher,
 “Tom Conover.”

“From Tom Conover,” said the scout, looking up and addressing

Woods, the town marshal. “He wants to see me, and I’d like you to
go over to the jail with me!”
Woods got on his feet.
“All right,” he said; “that can be arranged easy.”
The woman and her husband stood waiting.
“I’ll see this man who is held in jail here,” said the scout to her,
“and then I’ll make my arrangements. Cheer up. I can promise you
that we will do all that men can do to rescue your boy.”
He shook hands with her and her husband, and then with Woods
left the office and went out into the street, where Nomad and Wild
Bill were still “guffing” with the crowd that surrounded them and the
Indian scouts.
 CHAPTER XIX.
THE TALK WITH TOLTEC TOM.

Buffalo Bill took Wild Bill and Nick Nomad with him when he
walked to the jail to interview Tom Conover. The marshal went along
also, as a matter of course. Left behind, Little Cayuse and his three
Apaches retreated to the stables to get away from the curious
crowd, and busied themselves there in attending to the horses.
Conover was pacing restlessly the narrow confines of his cell when
Buffalo Bill and his companions arrived.
The marshal brought him out into the little room which served as
the jail office, where he found the pards awaiting him.
“Hard luck, Conover,” said the scout, greeting him; “but we’ll hope
you won’t have to stay in here long. They’re getting ready to
investigate that shooting, and I’m told the woman isn’t really hurt
much. I guess it can be shown that the thing was a pure accident.”
“I was a fool for potting away with my hardware down by those
huts,” Conover admitted; “there’s where I was wrong. I hope you
can git me out of this without trouble; that’s why I sent for you.”
“We think we can do that,” said the scout cheerfully. “You know
my old pard, Wild Bill, I believe, and no doubt you’ve heard of Nick
Nomad.”
Nomad had doubled himself up in a chair in an uncommunicative
way, and sat staring at Conover under his shaggy brows, taking his
measure; apparently the old trapper did not like his looks any too
well.
But Wild Bill was in a different and amiable mood.
 For a few moments they discussed the accidental shooting of the
Mexican woman; after which, without preliminary, Buffalo Bill
introduced the subject of the kidnaped boy.
“That’s why we are here,” he explained. “I am under instructions
from the commander at Fort Grant to take up this matter at once;
which means, probably, a trip into the Cumbres in pursuit of the
kidnaping redskins. You’re familiar with those mountains, I believe?”
Conover’s puffed face took on a deeper red.
“Just say that all over again, Cody,” he requested, for the purpose
of getting time to think.
Buffalo Bill rehearsed the story of the kidnaping in all its details, so
far as they were known, mentioning what had been said about old
Fire Top and his Toltec Indians, called the Red Feathers.
“Tell me what you know about old Fire Top and his Red Feathers,”
he said in conclusion, “and what it was made you think Fire Top
probably had a hand in his present case.”
Conover was still hesitating; and after that question was asked so
squarely he did not speak for some seconds. Once or twice he put
his hand up to the scarlet scar on his forehead, apparently not
knowing that he did it, and his hand trembled.
“Could I talk with you alone about this, Cody?” he said finally.
Old Nick Nomad, squatting silent in his chair, shot Conover a
distrustful glance.
“Certainly,” Buffalo Bill answered, rising. “We can go into that cell
you occupied, or——”
“Oh, we’ll clear out—go outside,” said Wild Bill, also rising.
But though he made the offer so quickly, he, too, seemed not at
all pleased.
The office was cleared, and Buffalo Bill remained alone with the
prisoner.
“Maybe I’m pertickler, and I know them fellers didn’t like it,” said
Conover. “But what I’m goin’ to say concerns that time I deserted
you—flunked like a coward, over on the Niobrara.”
 “I haven’t forgotten it,” the scout admitted quickly.
Conover glanced away at the window, as if he desired to avoid the
scout’s direct gaze.
“Up to that time,” Buffalo Bill added slowly, “we had been good
pards.”
“And never was afterward,” Conover added.
“That’s right; I went my way, and you went yours. They haven’t
happened to cross since, until to-day.”
“I’d like to make myself right about that Niobrara bizness, if I can;
but maybe I can’t. We was ringed in by old Rattlesnake’s Pawnees,
you know, and our horses was hid in some cottonwoods down by
the river, and you was wounded.”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“I wisht that I could,” said Conover. “I’ve wisht that a thousand
times since. But forgettin’ the past is a hard bizness, as I’ve found.
Well, though you was wounded, you said you thought you could hold
them rocks where we were against the Pawnees, and for me to
sneak out and git the horses, and then make a dash in with ’em,
your idea being that maybe I could rush through the Pawnee line up
to the rocks in the darkness, when you could climb to the back of
your horse, and perhaps both of us git away. It seemed the only
chance, and it was as desperate a one as any man ever figured on
takin’.”
“I’ll never forget it!” the scout repeated.
“And you’ll never forget what I did—and that’s where the present
trouble comes in; for you’ll never feel like trusting me again. I made
the sneak all right through the Pawnee lines, but the reds were
thicker than I expected; and when I got to the horses my courage
failed. It wouldn’t, maybe, if I hadn’t been discovered; that rattled
me, and scared me, and instead of trying to git your horse to you I
simply straddled mine and cut out, leaving you there among the
rocks, with them murderous Pawnees all round you.”
 Buffalo Bill nodded quietly, his face unchanged. Conover was
covered with confusion.
“But the next day,” said Conover, drawing a deep breath, “I tried
to make it right; I rode to the nearest fort and gave the word, and
troopers were sent right out.”
“And found, when they got there, that I had fooled the Pawnees
and got away from them unaided, even though I was wounded; and
that the nest of rocks to which you guided them was empty and the
Pawnees gone.”
Conover was silent for a moment.
“It was a clear case of blue funk, Cody; I was scared, and I
thought only of my own scalp lock. Of course——”
“Of course you never expected to see me alive again?”
“I didn’t,” Conover confessed, “not even when I led the horse
soldiers to that spot. When I seen that the Pawnees was gone, my
thought, naturally, was that they had rubbed you out and got away;
and I believed that until I knew better, some time later.”
He stopped, and again his gaze wavered away to the window.
“That’s why I didn’t know if that note I sent you just now would
do any good; and it was the reason I didn’t want to talk about this
before Nick Nomad and Wild Bill. I admit I ain’t proud of that
record.”
He still stared at the window, his face red and puffy, the corners of
his eyes twitching. The scarlet scar on his forehead seemed redder
and angrier than ever. His confusion was painfully apparent.
“And now about old Fire Top,” said the scout. “Just what do you
know about him? And why did you think that perhaps he and his
Toltecs were mixed up in this case of child-stealing? You are called
Toltec Tom; I don’t know why. Back at the time of that Niobrara
matter you were simply Tom Conover.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Conover admitted.
“Perhaps we can start the thing,” said the scout, seeing his
reluctance, “by having you tell me how you got the name of Toltec
Tom.”
“I was a prisoner of the Toltecs once,” was the hesitating
admission.
“Of Fire Top’s Toltecs?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you held by them?”
“A number of months,” said Conover, continuing to stare at the
window.
“That was in the Cumbres Mountains?”
“You’re right.”
“Then, perhaps, you can give me an idea whether there is any
truth at all in this story of Quicksilver John, which the marshal here
was telling me about.”
He ran over hastily the points of the marshal’s story of Quicksilver
John.
“I think there was somethin’ in it,” said Conover.
“But it wasn’t all true?”
“Likely Quicksilver John would head the procession of champion
liars, on some points,” Conover averred.
“Tell me, in your judgment, how much of it was truth.”
Conover withdrew his gaze from the window.
“Cody,” he said, with sudden emotion, “there was too much truth
in it. But I can’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
For the first time in many minutes he looked straight at Buffalo
Bill; and the latter noted now that the flush had gone from the puffy
face, giving place to a grayish pallor.
“There aire some things a man don’t want to talk about, Cody, and
that’s one of ’em, for me. But I’ll say this: I done you dirt there on
the Niobrara, because my nerve went back on me; I played the
coward, and it might have caused your death, as I thought it had,
for a time. I ain’t felt easy about that, and maybe I never will. But
there’s such a thing as a man being sorry for a thing like that, and
willin’ to make amends, if he can. That’s me.
“And now my proposition: Git me out of this hole, on this charge
that’s against me of shooting that poor Mexican woman, and then I’ll
lead you and your men into them Cumbres Hills, and straight to the
home of old Fire Top himself. Why I’m willin’ to do it I ain’t going to
say, more than that. It will help me to pay off the debt I owe you.”
“You can go straight there?”
“No man can do that, Cody; them Red Feathers aire always
watching, as I’ve reason to know. We’ll have to come it roundabout,
some way. But I think I can help you, and I’m willin’ to try. I’d like to
feel that I’m your pard again, and that that Niobrara debt is paid off.”
The pallor was going out of his face; his voice began to harden
and show a firmness that indicated a sense of increasing manhood.
“I’d like to stand straight up on my feet again, and have the feelin’
that I’m worthy to be Buffalo Bill’s pard, like in the old times. And I’ll
do the best I can; I can’t do more. I can’t tell you everything,
though, and you’ve got to trust me.”
The scout rose and stretched out his hand.
“I accept your offer, Conover,” he said.
“And forget the past?” said Conover, as if he could not believe it.
“All of it.”
“Particularly that time on the Niobrara?”
“I said all of it.”
“And overlook the fact that I ain’t tellin’ everything I know, for
which I’ve got reasons I don’t want to pass over now?”
“That, too. What I want is a man who knows something about Fire
Top and his Toltecs, and the way to reach them. For I’m convinced
that he, or his men, stole the child. What’s your opinion of that?”
“The stealin’ of the kid?”
“Yes. Why would he want to do it?”
 “I don’t know; sacrifice, likely.”
But his voice was evasive again.
“But git me out of this, Cody,” he added, “and I’ll do what I can;
I’ll try to redeem myself. And say nothing about that old Niobrara
matter to Wild Bill and Nomad. They wouldn’t understand it, as you
do; they’d think I hadn’t changed, and was ready to desert, or lead
you into ambush, and things of that kind. Just keep that from ’em,
will ye?”
Buffalo Bill nodded and stepped toward the door.
“That’s all right, Conover,” he declared. “Unless you make it
necessary, I’ll say nothing to them about it.”
“You’ve never mentioned it to ’em?” came the question, in a
troubled tone. “For, if you have——”
“I’ve never thought of speaking about it,” the scout asserted.
“I suppose you’ve had too many other things to think about, to
keep remembering a thing like that, so long ago?”
“You’re right there, Conover. Shall I call them in now?”
Conover hesitated again.
“Yes,” he said, “might as well, I reckon; but I’m thinkin’ they won’t
be overwell pleased to know I’m to be not only their pard, but their
guide. I could see they didn’t like me.”
Wild Bill, Nomad, and Woods, the marshal, were asked by the
scout to come into the office.
Then he laid out before them so much of the conversation had
with Conover as was needed to let them know that Toltec Tom was
to be a member of the party which was to hit the trail of the
kidnaping Indians and follow it wherever it went.
Nick Nomad, squatting in his chair, still shot distrustful looks at
Tom Conover.
“I don’t like his face,” he said to Wild Bill, after the interview had
ended.
“Why not?” Hickok inquired.
 “You see that red scar on his forrud, re’chin’ up inter his ha’r?”
“Yes; but what of it?”
“It’s bad medicine.”
Hickok laughed with light incredulity.
“Laugh ef yer wanter,” growled the trapper; “but ef thet critter
goes along wi’ us you’ll be laughin’ outer ther t’other side o’ yer
mouth afore we sees this hyar town o’ Skyline ag’in.”
“Rot! Why, you superstitious old gorilla, what’s a scar on a man’s
head got to do with his character?”
“Lissen ter me,” said Nomad impressively: “Ther fust man I ever
see what had a scar jes’ like that war a hoss thief what stole frum
me ther best hoss I ever had—old Nebuchadnezzar; and that man
war hung.”
“You hanged him?”
“I helped to do it; I pulled hard on ther rope.”
“And the second one?” said Wild Bill, laughing.
“Ther second one tolled me inter a game of poker some y’ars back
when I war greener than I am now, and swindled me outer
everything I had, leavin’ me on’y the old clo’es I stood in; and he’d
no doubt took them if they’d been wuth it.”
“And the third one?”
“Is this hyar feller that they calls Toltec Tom. Ef he goes wi’ us
he’ll do us; an’ that’s what he’s goin’ fer; no other reason.”
“You get worse and worse all the time, Nomad!”
“But even you don’t like him, Hickok!” the shrewd old fellow
declared. “Thet’s ther truth, an’ yer knows it; you don’t like ther
looks of him any more’n I do. Admit it.”
“I admit it.”
“Then, shell we let him go with us?”
“It’s not for us to say, Nomad; Cody is boss here, and we’re simply
trailing along with him, to help him as much as we can.”
 “Waugh! Waal, I’m shore goin’ ter speak ter Buffler. He don’t know
what he’s bitin’ off when he pards in wi’ a wart hog like thet feller.”
Old Nick Nomad spoke his mind vigorously, elaborating to Buffalo
Bill the objections he had stated to Hickok.
But the great scout was skeptical, even though, a thing he did not
confess, he had still rankling recollection of that unpleasant incident
of the Niobrara; he said that he had agreed to take Conover along,
and that instead of being a handicap, he believed Conover would be
able to aid them materially.
It was the last word.
Whatever Buffalo Bill said went.
 CHAPTER XX.
SIGNS AND OMENS.

The marshal and citizens of Skyline watched Buffalo Bill’s party out
of town with strange interest.
And it was a suggestive and attractive sight, even setting aside for
the moment the occasion of their going forth.
In the lead, stirrup to stirrup, rode Buffalo Bill and old Nick
Nomad, the scout mounted on his superb horse, Bear Paw, and
Nomad astride of Hide-rack. The contrast between the scout, with
his erect, fine bearing, and the wizened old trapper, was almost
startling. Yet no one knowing old Nomad could ever doubt that, in
his way, he was a wonderful man.
Nomad would not ride with Tom Conover, so Wild Bill fell in at
Conover’s side, and they followed right behind Cody and Nomad.
The contrast here was almost as great, for Conover, with his
baggy corduroy clothing, his puffy face and watery eyes, and the
livid scar high on his forehead, resembled no more that dashing free
lance of the plains, Wild Bill Hickok, than Nick Nomad did Buffalo Bill.
There was always something light and jaunty in Wild Bill’s
appearance, wherever he was seen. He liked flashing bits of silver on
the trappings of his horse, and soft velvet in his attire when it could
be had; even though the attire was only that of a frontiersman and
often rough from hard usage. There was usually a light smile on his
open, fearless, almost reckless countenance; it rested there now, as
he rode out from the town of Skyline toward the forbidding
mountains, even though he could not be sure he was not riding out
to meet death.
 Behind Wild Bill and Conover rode Little Cayuse, the Piute Indian
boy; and at his side one of his Apache scouts.
The other two of his three Apaches brought up the rear of the
warlike procession; the four Indians silent and grave, with impassive,
dark faces; but their blankets were new and gorgeous in color, while
their clothing was paint and feather decked.
The marshal and the people of Skyline gave Buffalo Bill’s little
caravan a prolonged and rousing farewell cheer, which Cody
returned with a wave of his hand; then the little cavalcade broke into
a trot, down the steep incline of the plain below the town, and
clattered away in a cloud of dust.
It was just past midday.
Only that morning had Buffalo Bill and his small band entered
Skyline; and that morning Tom Conover, shooting to tatters the
queen of hearts, had accidentally wounded a Mexican woman and
been thrown into the Skyline jail.
Through the good offices of the great scout he had been released
in record time; and, the preparations for the pursuit of the kidnaping
Indians being hastened, the work for which Buffalo Bill had come to
Skyline was already begun.
Below the knoll back of Morgan’s, Little Cayuse and his Apache
trailers, Chappo, Yuppah, and Pedro, picked up the track of the
supposed kidnaper.
To ordinary eyes the trail would not have been visible, and eyes as
keen and trained as those of the white men of the party would have
made hard work of following it; yet the three Apaches found it
without trouble, and pursued it with the certainty of bloodhounds
tracking familiar game.
Little Cayuse and his Apaches took the lead now, and rode straight
along at a swinging gallop on their wiry, ponies, bending over as
they rode, their eyes searching the hard ground.
Suddenly Chappo drew in, and slipped like a snake from the back
of his saddleless pony.
 When he stood up he held something small and shiny in the palm
of his brown hand.
“Ugh!” he grunted.
The object he exhibited was a tiny red bead, of a glowing scarlet,
so that it resembled a small scarlet berry or seed.
“Sabe?” he said, his black eyes searching the face of the scout, to
whom he exhibited his find. “Injun moccasin, Pa-e-has-ka; Injun kick
um pony make um go fast, and little bead fall off. Wuh!”
Buffalo Bill inspected it critically; and saw that it was a moccasin
bead, for a bead of a different kind is often used for moccasins than
those used for clothing, or for the hair.
“Right, Chappo,” he said. “What tribe—can you tell?”
“No can tell tribe,” said Chappo.
“That’s right, too, and I shouldn’t have asked it; for white men
manufacture the beads, and all Indians are able to get them, by
purchase or barter. But do you see anything else, Chappo?”
There was nothing more at that point; though a mile or so farther
on Little Cayuse, trying not to be outdone by his Apaches, made a
discovery that seemed really astounding; but which probably he
would not have made first if in his desire to excel he had not at the
moment been some yards in advance.
The discovery seemed to indicate that they were following the trail
of a woman!
Little Cayuse announced this with a grunt of surprise.
“Squaw trail!” he declared, something of scorn in his tone, for he
held to the Indian notion that a squaw is an inferior creature. It did
not please him to think he had been following the trail of one; there
was no honor in it. “All same only squaw, Pa-e-has-ka.”
The rider whose pony they had been following had there
dismounted, for some reason, and the prints of small moccasins
were visible in the sand. The tracks had been overlooked by the
marshal’s men when they came that way.
 Tom Conover stared down at the marks pointed out by little
Cayuse, while the grip on his bridle rein tightened and his face
became suddenly an ashen gray, with all the high color driven out of
it.
At the instant no one was looking at him; all were staring, like
him, at the small footprints pointed out by the Piute boy.
Buffalo Bill swung from the back of his horse and carefully
examined the tracks.
“The moccasins of an Indian woman,” he said; “yet the tracks
don’t seem exactly like those of an Indian. We can’t tell though, for
she didn’t walk about, to give us much of a line on that.”
Nomad drove old Hide-rack closer in and peered down, wrinkling
his brows.
“It couldn’t have been an Injun boy, eh, Buffler?” he said.
“It might have been a boy; but he was wearing a woman’s
moccasins, if so.”
“Waugh! Yer right, Buffler. Yer kin see thar whar ther fringe o’
beads an’ quills cut inter ther sand at ther side o’ ther track; an
Injun buck, er even er boy, wouldn’t wear ther likes o’ thet,
particularly when on a difficult trail. All o’ ther female kind loves
ornaments, and sometimes it tell agin’ ’em, as hyar. Et war shore a
woman, Buffler; even an Injun boy wouldn’t wore a thick bead an’
quill fringe like thet on the sides of his moccasins.”
Conover took no part in the conversation, but kept his horse back,
and apparently gave scant attention to the tracks in the sand.
But it was the subject of lively discussion, as the trailers continued
on their way.
Finding the spot where the trail of the woman—they were almost
sure it was a woman—entered the main beaten trail, they kept a
close watch on each side to see when the pony tracks left it.
When they found them they were much nearer the dreaded
Cumbres Mountains, and night was at hand.
 They stopped, on finding a water hole, and went into camp.
Nothing was to be accomplished by hastening on in the darkness. In
doing that, they might miss the trail altogether, though it seemed
now to point straight to the notch before them, which for some time
they had seen, and which appeared to lead directly toward the heart
of the Cumbres. It was the mountain notch which Tom Conover had
stared at so hard and often when he was shooting the queen of
hearts into tatters before the mesquite bush just outside the town of
Skyline.
Tom Conover was so silent that evening round the hidden camp
fire that it was noticeable.
Nomad spoke of it, in an aside, to Wild Bill:
“Thar’s two things, Pard Hickok, that don’t speak until they’re
ready ter strike—rattlesnakes an’ Injuns; an’ now I’m addin’ a third—
this hyar wart hog what w’ars that three-cornered red nick in his
forrud. Ef you’ll take a look at it by the flickin’ o’ that match which
Buffler is recklessly usin’ this minute you’ll see that it’s redder’n
common, like ther wattles of a turkey cock when it’s thinkin’
mischief.”
“You’ve got as healthy an imagination as a kid schoolboy,” said
Wild Bill, with his light laugh. “You’ll soon be finding a suspicious
circumstance in the fact that he eats just like an ordinary man.”
“But he don’t,” Nomad persisted; “he ain’t et a thing this evenin’,
though thar war a lot o’ good chuck in thet war bag which Buffler
opened up fer us. Thar’s somethin’ on his mind.”
Wild Bill laughed again, skeptically.
“What else, you superstitious old mummy?”
“Don’t go ter callin’ me names, Hickok, fer I won’t stand it; but I’m
watchin’ him constant. Ter-night I sleeps like er cat—wi’ one eye
open. An’ I dunno but I’ll tie my scalp lock down, so’s he can’t lift my
ha’r ef I sh’d fall asleep.”
Then he, too, gave a laugh; but it had not the merriment of Wild
Bill’s.
 Buffalo Bill talked much that evening with Little Cayuse and his
three Apache scouts. The great scout trusted the Indians, for they
had been true on many occasions; and though they had the redskin
failings, they were faithful and marvelous trailers.
The principal trouble with them was that they were more
superstitious and more governed by signs than was even Nick
Nomad.
That afternoon, Little Cayuse had seen a circling vulture close his
wings and drop like a hawk shooting downward at prey. It was bad
medicine, for never before had he seen a thing like that; it foretold
disaster—some enemy, he thought, was observing them from the
high cliffs, and would drop on them with the suddenness of that
drop of the vulture.
Worse than this, Yuppah had crossed the trail of a three-legged
sage rabbit. That there might be no mistake about it, Yuppah had
slid from the back of his pony and closely inspected the rabbit’s
tracks. The rabbit, he believed, had four legs, but for some reason
which boded ill for this expedition, it was holding up one leg and
using but three.
Buffalo Bill tried to make Yuppah see that the rabbit had lost a leg;
that a coyote had probably nabbed it at some time, and it had
escaped with the loss of a leg, bitten off by the snap of the coyote.
But Yuppah would not believe it; the rabbit had four legs, he said—
all rabbits have—this was a spirit, or witch rabbit, and bad luck was
sure to follow.
That night Nick Nomad tried to sleep like a cat—with one eye
open; but he failed, because he was too tired to lie awake all the
time, and the night was so quiet it lulled one to sleep.
Every one else slept soundly, except Little Cayuse, who stood
guard the first half of the night, and Chappo, who acted as sentry
the last half. Neither of them, so they declared afterward, heard nor
saw anything, though their superstitious fears, it seemed to the
scout, ought to have been enough to keep them wide-eyed until
morning.
 But in the morning came a startling discovery, which showed, also,
that at some time in the night one of them, at least, had been
asleep.
Tom Conover was gone from the camp! And no one had known
when he went.
The fact of his disappearance was announced by Nomad, who
awoke early, and, looking round for him, did not find him, and had
hardly expected that he would find him.
“Whoop!” he shouted, and sprang to his feet; he had lain down
with all his clothing on. “Waugh! Me no cumtax this. Onless, mebbe,
it’s ther whiskizoos workin’!”
What whiskizoos were was a thing old Nomad had never been
able to say to the satisfaction of Buffalo Bill or any one else. But
whenever the old trapper came company front with what struck him
as much out of the ordinary, or supernatural, or inexplicable, then
the whiskizoos had been at work. He never tried to explain beyond
that.
His whooping exclamations brought Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill out of
their blankets and roused the sleeping Indians, starting also to his
feet Chappo, who was on guard, but at the moment was squatting in
a growth of sagebrush by the camp fire, hugging his rifle between
his brown knees.
“What’s up?” demanded Wild Bill, pulling out his revolver and
staring round.
“Lookee thar!” said Nomad, pointing to the spot where all had
seen Tom Conover lie down for his night’s sleep. “What is it yer sees
thar, anyhow?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s jest what I see, too—nothing; and Scar-face Conover
ought ter be layin’ thar, hadn’t he? Whar is he? Call ther roll, Buffler.”
Buffalo Bill looked about, and off over the surrounding country.
The sun had not yet risen, and a gray haze, of early dawn, hid
much of the rugged landscape from his view.
 “Cayuse?” he called, a strange quaver in his voice.
“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.”
“Yuppah!”
“Huh!”
“Chappo!”
“Wuh!”
“Pedro!”
“All same here, Pa-e-has-ka!”
Little Cayuse and his Apache scouts lined up.
“The white man who was here is gone,” said the scout shortly.
“Find his trail.”
“Ai, Pa-e-has-ka.”
They began to circle the camp, with heads down, black eyes
scanning the earth and rocks.
At once they were puzzled, if not baffled; there was no trail of a
white man’s boots leading out from the camp.
Wider and wider grew the circle in which they swung, closer and
nearer they bent their heads to the ground.
At last, more than a hundred yards out from the camp, Chappo
uttered a low, triumphant whoop.
He stopped, staring at the ground, and the other Indians hastened
to him.
Buffalo Bill and his white companions walked out to where the
Indians were grouped.
“Me find um, Pa-e-has-ka,” said Chappo proudly.
He pointed to the ground.
“Waugh!” said Nomad. “Thar’s his boot heel, shore enough! But
how’d he git hyar without making tracks before this? Whiskizoos
ag’in, I reckon.”
Without a word Chappo began to search the ground in the
direction of the camp, which he soon was aided in by the other
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