Buffalo Bill's death message or, In the face of doom
it again; but were content to let the bloody-red priests and people live
there undisturbed, as they had done from time immemorial.
“I think you should be content to go back to the ranch for a while, and
stay with father, Emily,” said her brother, when they all had crossed
the border and were on their way to the town of Bellona. “It seems to me
that you’ve had enough adventures and perils for any foolhardy girl!
Anyway, whatever you think about it, I simply refuse to take you again
with this expedition, if it should be sent out again.”
Lieutenant Butler, for reasons of his own, heartily agreed with this
counsel; but he maintained a dignified and discreet silence. In his own
mind, however, he resolved to try to persuade the girl whom he loved—if
persuasion were needed—not to expose herself to dangers and hardships in
future. He was greatly relieved when Emily made known her own wishes in
the matter.
“Already I have decided to return to the ranch,” she said quietly.
“I’m very glad, dear,” said the major, and then he added in a lighter
tone: “We’re approaching Bellona, a small garrison town. I expect to
find letters from Colonel Garland there, and I may be ordered to proceed
into another section of the district. In that case, Butler and Lawler
will escort you to Klamath.”
---------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN ENIGMATICAL HOST.
On reaching Bellona, the major’s prediction was verified, and his orders
were carried out by the gallant young lieutenant. Meanwhile, after
saying farewell to these friends, Cody—who also received instructions,
as will be seen later—rode forth alone, on the return trail, and thence
across the borders of New Mexico, to a small ranch known as the Porfiero
Hacienda, where he arrived about twilight.
When he hitched his horse to the post beyond the small, flower-filled
garden of the ranch, he walked to the narrow path that ran between the
flowers, and came thus toward the house.
It was a large, rambling adobe, built about a little court, or placita,
in the Mexican style, but had a number of attached rooms which formed
winglike additions, these seeming to have been tacked on as an
afterthought, to accommodate the needs of a growing household.
The style was more common to the New Mexico of a former period than to
that of the present, and that the building was old was shown not only by
its architecture, but by the tumble-down and only partially repaired
condition of certain parts of it, especially the out-thrust wings.
Such of the windows as were visible to the scout as he passed up the
flower-bordered walk were small, nearly square, and seemed little more
than holes through the thick walls. The flowers, too, while they bloomed
with that profusion which results from a hot sun in a warm climate,
seemed neglected, though there were apparently attempts, recently made,
to remedy this. Everything betokened a house once of a certain
magnificence, long abandoned, or nearly so, and now inhabited, and
renovated with hasty and ineffective attempts to restore it to something
of its pristine glory.
Over Buffalo Bill’s head was the bright blue sky of New Mexico,
untouched by a cloud, a sky belonging to a land of drought. There was no
water in that sky, and the only water visible was that which trickled
through some half-choked irrigating ditches and fed the plants growing
in the garden through which the scout walked.
He was almost to the door, when a Mexican servant appeared, stared at
him, and then retreated hastily, without bidding him welcome. The
servant had the air of being surprised and startled.
In another minute, and just as the scout reached the wide door, which
had been closed, the door opened, and a dark-faced man stood there. He
looked curiously at the scout, then smiled and extended his hand.
“Welcome, señor,” he said. “In the Southwest, whoever comes is our
guest, so long as he is willing to bestow on us the pleasure of his
company. Ah, señor, you do not know how the sight of an unfamiliar face
cheers us here in this remote region of dust and sand! Welcome again,
señor.”
Yet the welcome in his face was not as warm as that of his words. In
fact, a shadow of some kind had fallen on it; and, as the scout accepted
the extended hand, the dark-faced man searched his countenance closely,
as if questioning.
“You are Señor Leon Ruiz?” the scout asked.
“I am happy to answer to that name, señor.”
“Permit me, then, to introduce myself as William F. Cody, an American
army scout, sometimes known as Buffalo Bill. You have a handsome place
here, señor.”
The dark face of the man calling himself Leon Ruiz paled slightly.
“You honor me with your presence, Señor Cody,” he replied. “I have heard
of you, and it makes me happy to offer you the poor hospitality of the
Porfiero Hacienda. Whatever I have is yours, and I and my servants are
at your distinguished service.”
He bowed in the courtly, yet self-abasing, Spanish fashion, with his
hand laid on his heart, and his thin lips wreathed in a smile. The
smile, the bow, and the attitude made Buffalo Bill think of
Mephistopheles.
Leon Ruiz led the way through a wide hall into a large square room. Old
dusty curtains of tapestry hung at the small, narrow, deep windows. The
chairs and couches, while elegant, were very old and worn. The white
walls were ornamented with pictures of saints. Over the one door, and
the only thing which was not in harmony with the room, was the head of
an elk, showing great branching antlers.
“I have not been here long,” Ruiz explained. “Soon I hope to have things
more in keeping with what this place should be. It is very old, señor—an
old Spanish hacienda, built three hundred years ago, and long neglected,
so that it is falling down and the furniture is in ruins. But your
generous American mind will pardon defects, I am sure.”
His speech had a hollowness that was not pleasing, and the glance he
bent on the scout, out of the corners of his eyes, would not have been
reassuring, if the scout had seen it. But Buffalo Bill was at that
moment looking around the room.
“You have not been in possession here long?” said the scout.
“Barely two months, señor. Perhaps you would like to hear the history of
the old place? It is interesting.”
“I should be delighted.”
“As I said, it is very old, and was built by one of the old Spanish
conquistadores—one of the early explorers and conquerors. The Spaniards
who subdued the natives were but a handful in comparison with the
numbers they governed. They conquered the territory, took possession of
it in the name of the King of Spain, and proceeded to rule it. But the
conquered Indians were at times rebellious and troublesome, and were
murderously disposed toward their conquerors. That can scarcely be
wondered at, when it is remembered that the Spaniards subjected them to
slavery and hard toil in the mines. Those mines, producing gold, silver,
and turquoise, had been worked by the Indians for centuries before the
Spaniards came, and it must have seemed a hardship when they who had
regarded themselves as the owners were forced to toil in those mines, to
enrich men who were their enemies and had enslaved them.
“There were several rebellions, one a very bloody one. To protect
themselves, the Spaniards built houses such as this, of strong adobe
walls, which the Indians, who had only bows and arrows and lances for
weapons, could do nothing to destroy. The walls, you will observe, are
very thick, and the roof, also of adobe, laid on a framework of wood,
could not be burned.
“In one of the rooms here I can show you a spring of water, or what
seems a spring, bubbling up in the middle of the floor; it is not truly
a spring, but water conducted by hidden underground pipes from the
mountains. Furnished with water and plentiful food supplies, as well as
with ammunition for their fire-arms, the Spaniards were able to defy the
natives, and finally subdued them again, and forever after held them in
subjection.
“There you have the history, in brief, of this most interesting house,
so far as it relates to those early days and to its builders.
“Its later history is not so interesting, I fear. It descended to the
Ruiz family, of Spain, but was abandoned at various times, for many
years, as its owners preferred to live in gay Madrid to dwelling in this
desert land of the New World. A year ago my father died, and the place
came to me by inheritance. I had often heard of our great estate in New
Mexico. Things told of it took on the colors of gay romance, in my
childish fancy.
“Two months ago I arrived here, to find it much as you see it now. I
took possession, and have been here since. I have tried to restore it in
some respects, and the work of restoration still goes on; but, señor, it
was and is far from the place of my childish imaginings. Perchance if
you should come this way in a year from now, I might have something more
worthy to show you and better hospitality to offer you. But what I have,
and such as I have, is at your service.”
While telling this, Leon Ruiz’s air was furtive, as if he studied his
guest; and Buffalo Bill took note not only of the manner in which the
account was given, but also of the personal appearance and dress of his
host.
Leon Ruiz was very dark, with sloe-black eyes, and teeth white as milk.
Those teeth gleamed now and then in one of his flickering smiles.
Ruiz now stepped to the door, and gave an order to a servant.
“We will have supper in a very short time, señor. And I have ordered
your horse stabled and fed.”
“You are very kind,” said the scout. “I have no right to demand
hospitality of you.”
“The room next to this, overlooking the garden, will be your guest
chamber to-night,” said Ruiz. “It is not as good as I would wish it, but
such as it is, señor, it is yours for as long as you are willing to
stay.”
“I think I shall have to go on, after I have enjoyed your kind
hospitality, Señor Ruiz,” said the scout. “I should like to make a
longer stop in this most interesting place, but the limits of my time
forbid it at present.”
The Spaniard lifted his brows inquiringly.
Buffalo Bill had watched the man closely, and now he decided to speak
what was in his mind.
“You are not a Moor?” he said, asking the question so suddenly that Ruiz
was taken by surprise.
“I am of Moorish descent,” he acknowledged. “I feel that you have a
reason for asking that question.”
“I have,” the scout admitted.
“I shall be pleased to hear it, of course, or so much as you wish to
confide to me.” He was looking straight at the scout now, his sloe-black
eyes half veiled by their heavy black lashes. “The Moors were long in
Spain, you know,” he went on, “and there is a good deal of Moorish blood
still in that land. One of my ancestors was a Moorish king.”
“My mission here,” said the scout “concerns a Moor. He is, if he is
still living, a native of a little kingdom lying south of Morocco; in
fact, he is the crown prince of that kingdom. He came to this country a
few months ago, and was last heard of somewhere in this region. There
are several reports, none of which may be correct, concerning his
disappearance. My friend Major Fernald, whom I have just left on his way
to Sagetown, not far from here, has been telling me a great deal about
this young man’s disappearance.
“One report has it that he and his party wandered into the mountains of
Arizona and were killed by Apaches. Another report says that while
crossing from Yuma to some copper mines in New Mexico, he and his party
were set upon by road agents, and he was slain by them. Another report
declares that he was captured by a band of Mexican brigands, and that he