Buffalo Bill's death message or, In the face of doom
vision of Buffalo Bill that he had no trouble in going forward,
directing the Yankee now and then by a word. Soon they were almost
beyond hearing of the occasional pistol shots which sounded in the
ravine.
The scout held steadily on his way over the uneven ground. This was a
sort of plateau, lying on the top of one of the lower hills of the
Superstition Range, and it took hours to cross it. When at last they
gained its farther side, they found that the land dropped away into what
seemed a dark ravine.
Having descended into this, the scout found what he believed to be a
game trail, leading somewhat in the direction he wished now to go; and
this they followed.
Throughout the night they continued their wearing travel, but they went
into camp at the breaking of day, hiding again under cover of bushes.
Here Buffalo Bill killed a rabbit, bowling this one over with a stone,
and he ventured to build a fire with which to cook it. No enemies were
in sight, and it seemed safe to believe that the Mexicans who had so
harassed them had been distanced during the night.
After a rest of two or three hours they pushed or again. It was
midafternoon when they came in sight of the San Paz Hacienda, perched on
the top of its hill, with mountains surrounding it.
“Naow, what aire we goin’ tew do?” asked the Yankee, dropping down to
rest, for he confessed that he was pretty well tired out. “We don’t know
what’s up there, except that I see some men that look tew me tew be
guards.”
“They are guards,” said the scout, “and that indicates something.”
“Indercates that the place is guarded, I reckon.”
“Yes, and if it’s guarded, there is a reason. Those men up there could
fear no foes unless they were holding some one there and expected a
pursuit. There are no Indians in this section, and I think no outlaws,
except the rascals themselves.”
The Yankee stared up from his hiding place at the adobe structure on the
hill. It resembled a Spanish castle in its outward appearance, though
the walls were of adobe, or sun-dried bricks, instead of stone.
“A perfect Gibraltar, in some respects,” said the scout, when he had
studied the house and the hill with his field glasses. “Unless one
climbs those sheer walls on this side, which seem to hang above a sort
of moat, there’s no way to get up there, save by the path which those
sentries are closely watching.”
“Funny little towers on it!” said the Yankee.
Buffalo Bill looked at the towers—there was one on each of the four
corners—and he showed a sudden increase of interest. His field glasses
had revealed a handkerchief fluttering from the barred window of the
tower right over the wall above the moat. He studied it closely. His
strong glasses even brought into view the bars at that window.
“The prisoner is there!” he said. “See! It may be Leon Ruiz, and it may
be some one else.” He gave the glasses to the Yankee. “Turn them on that
tower above the white wall. You will see a handkerchief hanging from the
bars of the window. Another thing you will observe is, that the window
cannot be seen from the other side of the house; nor do I think it would
be visible to any one standing directly below it. Off here it is in
plain view. Does that suggest anything?”
“It might su’gest that whoever is in there may be tryin’ to signal
abaout it.”
“It suggests to me that whoever is in that tower, knowing the signal
cannot be seen readily from any point of the building nor from the
ground below that wall, keeps that handkerchief flying from that window
in the hope that it may be seen by some one in this direction; one would
have to be in this direction to see it.”
“Yes, that’s so.”
“It’s only a guess that the prisoners are held there, but it’s so good a
guess that I’m going to find out to-night.”
“Haow?”
“By climbing that sheer wall to the window.”
“I want tew know! ’Twon’t be easy tew do.”
“I shall try it. I’ve got to know who is in that tower. It may be Leon
Ruiz. But I believe I have found the prison of Prince Mogador.”
“Gosh all Friday! I’m wishin’ we could find the prison of my niece! That
is, ef she’s held anywhere, and ain’t dead. By gum! that might be her
hankcher shakin’ there! Who knows that it ain’t?”
“No one knows. That’s what we must find out.”
“Yit I don’t see what any one would want to capter her fur, and hold her
that way, anyhaow. She ain’t got no money to pay a ransom with, and I
ain’t. I’ve spent more naow in this search than I kin afford tew. It’d
be jes’ my luck tew find her in sech a place and have to come daown with
a lot of hard cash tew git her aout. She’s cost me a mint o’ money
already, by gum! I wonder ef she kin be in there?”
His voice and his hands trembled.
It was plain that no matter what the cost, nor how near the payment
might come to breaking his old heart, he would pay whatever was
demanded, if a demand was made, and the money could be raised by him. He
might grumble, but he would not hesitate.
---------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE PRISONER OF THE TOWER.
Using the immemorial privilege of a teller of tales, I ask the reader to
turn back now and look with me into one of the tower rooms of the San
Paz Hacienda.
It is not the room at whose barred window Buffalo Bill saw the flutter
of that handkerchief, but is like it, except that the bars are broken,
and a space in the window is open large enough to permit the passage of
the body of a man.
Yet this is of no use to the pallid prisoner lying on his cot in a
corner of the little room, for below that window are the jagged tops of
trees, projecting sharply upward, ready to impale him like dagger points
if he should venture to try to escape by leaping down. He believes he
has reason on his side, when he thinks it is the wish of his jailers
that he shall leap down upon those treetops and thus meet death.
Yet his jailers, cruel as they are, have not, so far, tried to take his
life directly, though they have apparently sought to do so indirectly,
for they have subjected him to tortures so inhuman they pass belief. His
body is knotted and bent by reason of these tortures, and the
intolerable torment of continuous pain is his portion. He groans now and
then, covers his eyes with his hands, and wonders if the end his
fiendish captors seem to wish is not near.
Yet he will do nothing to destroy his own life. He desires to live, and
he feels that he has justification for this desire. His death would mean
much to many people, besides his jailers.
Night comes, shadowing the little room by slow degrees, and then
plunging it into darkness. Lying on his cot, his cheeks flushed and
feverish, his brain gradually becoming bewildered, he yet listens to the
sounds of the night—to the cry of birds, to the distant yelping of
wolves in the mountains, the occasional ring of a rifle or musket as its
butt is jarred against the earth by the hand of a sentry.
Feeling that his strength is failing, that his mind is leaving him, he
begins at length to pray for death. He takes from beneath the thin
pillow of his cot a dagger. It has a handle of gold, is ponderous, and
its keen double edge would quickly let out his life. He holds it in his
hand, which shakes under the suggestive temptation; he even lifts it to
drive it into his bosom. But he does not. His hand drops against the
tattered covering of the cot, and he groans aloud.
“I must live!” he moans. “Yet here I die! Die in this poisonous place,
without friends, without help!”
The dagger slips from his fingers and he covers his face with his hands,
while tears of weakness trickle down his cheeks. His sobs choke and
stifle him.
“If I could but get word to them of what I suffer! If they could but
know that I live—that I exist, for I do not live! But they will never
know. I am buried in a place of which I have no knowledge; and how long
I have been here I fail even to remember. For my mind is blank at times,
and days and nights go without leaving any record on my miserable
brain.”
There is a scratching sound at the window. He hears it, the sobbing and
the tears cease, and he is alert.
“Is help at hand?” he whispers. “It cannot be!”
He is so weak that in trying to get out of the bed he almost falls to
the floor, yet with caution he crawls toward the window.
Something is beating against it, on the outside.
The darkness is so great he cannot see what it is, but, creeping up to
the window, he puts a hand through, and it touches a frightened bird,
which flutters its wings and makes strange cries as he draws it into the
room. He is bewildered. This was not what he expected.
He cannot see the bird, but it seems to be some kind of gull, or sea
bird, and he thinks it has wandered from the sea, and, becoming
bewildered, has struck in the darkness against the window ledge and
injured itself.
Crawling over to the other side of the room, he finds a stub of candle
on a box, and, with trembling fingers, he secures a match and gets a
light. Then he sees the bird, to which he has clung. It is a sea bird,
he is sure, and its head is bruised, showing that he judged truly in
thinking it had struck in the darkness against the tower. It seems as
sadly bewildered as he had been himself a little while before.
The bird is too weak to be released, it could not fly if he should toss
it through the window, he fears, yet he knows that it will get strong.
It has wings of broad expanse, and it must have been a powerful flyer in
its normal condition.
He tears from his tattered coat a bit of thread, and ties the legs of
the bird, lest in its weakened state it may flutter to the window and
escape.
Having done that, he begins to pull with feverish eagerness at the coat,
extracting thread after thread. These threads he separates by
untwisting, and at length succeeds in getting a fine strong cord that he
deems of suitable length for the purpose that has come to him.
Having done this, he crawls over to his cot, and brings to view again
the dagger with the handle of gold. He tests its weight by swinging it
up and down.
“Too heavy, I fear, yet I must try it!” he says, and he searches about
the littered floor, which is covered with filthy straw, and from the
straw he at length extracts a cartridge. It had slipped from the belt of
a guard. He had noted its fall, but had thought nothing of it until now.
He has discovered that the interior of the hard mattress of his cot is
composed of bark. He has had much time in the past to inspect thoroughly
the few belongings of his room, and he has again and again looked
curiously at that bark. He had never seen any just like it, and did not
know the name of the tree which had yielded it, yet he had observed that
it resembled thin sheets of paper.
Now he crawls weakly to the cot and gets one of the thinnest and
lightest of these bark sheets. None are of very large size, yet he takes
the largest he can find.
Then, by the light of the dripping candle, he begins to write a message
on the bark, using the lead of the cartridge as a pencil.
The prisoner has not written the half of what he wishes to say, when he
hears a sound which causes him to cease writing. He crushes the
unfinished message into the handle of the dagger, which opens when he
presses a secret spring.
Still hastening feverishly, he ties the dagger to the neck of the bird
with the cord he has twisted, and then, crawling to the window, he hurls
the bird out into the darkness. He hears the apparently futile beat of
its wings, as it seems to be drawn downward by the weight of the dagger
tied to its neck; and then, overcome, he falls, half fainting, by the
window.
“It was useless!” he groans. “The bird cannot carry that weight while it