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
is now held in Old Mexico, the brigands intending, perhaps, to demand
ransom for him by and by, when they feel that it is safe to do so. Still
another account says that he and some others were traveling by stage
from Rincon to San Paz, and that the stage was lost in the quicksands
while crossing Perditas River. Which of these, or whether any of them,
can be believed, I do not know. What is really known is, that he has
dropped out of sight in a mysterious manner, and it may be that all
these stories were set afloat merely to cover up his real fate.
“The facts so far as known have been submitted to the United States
department of state, and were communicated to the army officer in
command of the military division of the Southwest. Upon Major Fernald’s
advice, I have to-day been detailed to look into the matter and make a
report; with further instructions to aid this Moorish crown prince, if I
find he is in distress.
“There you have my story, Señor Ruiz, and the explanation of why I am
here.”
The Spaniard had listened with an intensity that made his black eyes
shine.
“It is a surprising account,” he admitted.
“I might not have told it,” said the scout, “but for your declaration of
Moorish descent. Because of that, it occurred to me that the story might
interest you.”
“It interests me very much, señor. It is marvelous, romantic, like one
of the ancient tales of Spanish brigandage.” He smoothed his thin
mustache with his jeweled right hand. “But is it reliable?”
“I think so; my government thinks so. Otherwise, I should not have been
dispatched to look into it.”
“Very true,” said Ruiz, smiling incredulously. “It has the sound of a
fairy story.”
The scout regarded him attentively.
“Of course, you have heard nothing of this, yourself?”
“I? Not until this moment.”
“It struck me as strange and peculiar that while looking for this lost
Moor, I should find, at the first hacienda I came upon, a man who is of
Moorish descent. It seemed really a remarkable coincidence.”
“Very true, señor. It does seem so. What was the name of this lost crown
prince?”
“Raoul Mogador.” Buffalo Bill took a letter from his pocket, as if to
refresh his memory. “Yes, Raoul Mogador. My memory does not always hold
names of that kind as well as I should like. But that is it. His father
is the present king, I understand, and at his death this young Moor will
become king. I suppose the country over which this king rules isn’t much
bigger than a pocket handkerchief; but to be king, even of a small
country, is no doubt considered a very high honor by those who are
fortunate enough to come into the line of succession. And, of course,
the people of this little pocket-handkerchief kingdom are very much
concerned about the strange disappearance of the man they expect will
some day rule over them. Hence, they have asked our government to
discover what has become of him.”
“Very interesting, I admit,” said Ruiz, “but, indeed, I have heard
nothing at all of this, until you told me. Pray, is there any way in
which I might offer my aid?”
“I can think of nothing, so long as you have heard nothing. I must push
on to-night.”
“And your destination?” said Ruiz, his voice showing the interest he
could not conceal.
“I shall cross the desert below here to San Paz, and shall look there
for some clew. It is nearer than this to the point where, those
conflicting reports say, he vanished. Perhaps I can strike some one who
can set me on the right track to get my information.”
“Permit me to wish you success,” said Ruiz, but his tone was not
sincere. “And when you return,” he added, “I trust you will again accept
my poor hospitality here, and tell me of your adventures in search of
the Moorish prince. Strange that a prince should be lost in this
republic! Princes are out of place here. Perhaps that is why he became
lost!
“Permit me to step out and see how our supper is coming on,” he said,
rising. “I have not the most reliable servants in the world, señor, I am
sorry to say. They must be watched, or things go wrong continually. I
will return in a little while.”
From a shelf he took cigarettes and matches, and placed them on the
small table near which the scout sat.
“Your pardon for not thinking of these, señor, but you can enjoy a smoke
and the society of your own pleasant thoughts while I am away.
“Adios!” he said, turning about in the doorway, and bowing. Then he
vanished into the wide hall, and was gone.
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