THE GOLDEN DAGGER.
“Cunning as a Spaniard and treacherous as a Moor!” thought Buffalo Bill,
selecting one of the cigarettes and lighting it, after having made sure
by taste and smell that it was not doctored. He looked at the door where
Leon Ruiz had disappeared. “I wonder how much he knows, if anything?
That will be hard to find out. To judge by his looks, he is more Moor
than Spaniard. What a curious room! A good place for a prison. These
walls are wonderfully thick, and if the windows and door were properly
barred, a fellow would have a hard time getting out.”
Sitting there, he recalled the verbal instructions of the colonel, who
had asked him to undertake this difficult and dangerous commission.
Colonel Garland had written to Major Fernald and to Cody, giving full
instructions:
“At the old Porfiero Hacienda you will find a man who has
but lately come there and taken possession, making his
appearance from no one knows where. He is said to be a
Spaniard, and claims the estate as his by inheritance. So
far as I know, his claim may be true. I want you to see him,
and have a talk with him. You will be able to judge
something by what he says and does when you tell him that
you are looking for Prince Mogador. He may know nothing, and
he may know a great deal. As to that, you will have to be
the judge, and you can be trusted to find out as much as any
other man could. I am sending you because I trust so
implicitly in your wisdom and discretion.”
Buffalo Bill smoked his cigarette quietly as he thought over Colonel
Garland’s instructions.
“I have tried to sound the fellow,” was his thought, “yet the result has
put me very much at sea. I shall have to talk with him further and watch
him closely. I know my story surprised him, and it seemed to startle
him. Why should it startle him, if he knows nothing? And how does it
chance that he came to this place at about the time the prince
disappeared?”
Ruiz was gone so long that the scout rose and began to walk around the
room, inspecting the pictures of saints and the curtains and tapestry.
As he did so, he came to a set of hanging shelves in a corner.
At first glance, the shelves seemed to contain only ore specimens,
apparently gathered in the surrounding hills. There were greenish
specimens of copper ore, pyrites, glittering quartz, and one from a
turquoise mine showing the turquoise in its matrix of stone. Buffalo
Bill had seen many similar specimens, and was not interested. But as he
lifted a large slab of green copper ore, there was displayed beneath it
a queer dagger, which at once caught his eye.
The dagger was large and ponderous, with a handle that seemed to be
gold. It was apparently of Moorish make, and the gold handle was covered
with fine and intricate figures and scrollwork.
Buffalo Bill lifted it to the light of the window and looked at it with
marked interest.
“A strange-looking dagger,” was his thought. “I never saw one like it.
It must be rare and valuable.”
He passed his thumb along the keen edges of the double blade, and felt
of the sharp point.
“A nasty weapon in a fight, if handled by a fanatical Moor. I judge it
is Moorish.”
He placed the dagger where he had found it, and, standing by the window,
became lost in thought.
It struck him as strange that in this house he should find that dagger
of Moorish make. Yet, when he recalled that Leon Ruiz had said he was of
Moorish descent, it did not seem so strange, after all. No doubt, Ruiz
had come legitimately into possession of it, the dagger had been handed
down from some Moorish ancestor. Ruiz had declared the family legends
held that one of his ancestors had been a Moorish king.
Turning these things over in his mind, Buffalo Bill began to conclude
that it was very natural, after all, to find that dagger in Ruiz’s
house.
“I suppose he didn’t think to show it to me when he was talking of his
Moorish descent. He may have many Moorish relics. I suppose he has. In
this matter I must not let my imagination run away with sober judgment.”
He was still standing by the window, pondering, when he heard a light
step. He had observed that the sun had gone down and that night was at
hand.
When he turned from the window, expecting to see Ruiz in the doorway, he
beheld another man, whose dress proclaimed him to be a Mexican, although
there was something of the bandit type in his appearance, in the slashed
trousers, the short Mexican jacket, and the crimson waist sash, with
knife sticking in it. The face looked more Spanish than Mexican, and
what was intended to be a smile curling the thin-mustached lip was
rather a sneer of cruelty and cunning.
Even more than Leon Ruiz, the scout distrusted this man at once.
“Señor Ruiz has been called away,” said the man, speaking with a
peculiar accent, that had been noticeable also in the speech of Ruiz.
“One of the herdsmen was thrown by his horse and has suffered a broken
leg. Señor Ruiz has gone to attend him. But he bade me serve you in his
place, and I have the pleasure to announce that supper is awaiting you.
Permit me to introduce myself as Ramon Periguez, the major-domo here. If
you will kindly follow me, señor.”
He turned back into the hall, and the scout followed him, after a moment
of hesitation.
While passing through the hall into the dining room, Buffalo Bill looked
from the doorway and saw only the usual quiet of the place.
The scout and the major-domo were the only two persons at the supper
table. They were waited on by a light-footed servant, dressed in white,
who came and went about as if he were an automaton speaking never a word
except when directly addressed. The scout noticed that he spoke English
very badly. His face was as dark as the face of Leon Ruiz.
“Señor Ruiz was telling me something of the interesting story you
bring,” said the major-domo, while the servant was pouring the wine. “I
trust I may be permitted to hear it from your own lips. It is a
remarkable thing, that a Moroccan prince should even be in this country,
not to speak of his getting lost, or disappearing, in that absurd way.
He ought to have felt quite at home in this sand-and-dust region.”
Buffalo Bill noted that he took the glasses from the hand of the
servant, instead of permitting the servant to place them on the table.
“You will have an interesting search for this remarkable crown prince, I
doubt not!”
His hand shook a little as he pushed toward Buffalo Bill one of the
glasses, and the keen-eyed scout saw a wine-colored powder escape from
his fingers into the glass.
The thing was done so deftly, and the powder dissolved so quickly, that
Buffalo Bill was almost ready to believe his eyes had fooled him.
Yet he knew now that he faced a dangerous foe, and he believed that a
lie had been told him to account for the absence of Leon Ruiz. His wits
were aroused instantly, and strengthened for a conflict.
The story of the young prince he told again, not because he now believed
that this man, Ramon Periguez, cared to hear it, but to occupy the time
and give him a chance to watch Periguez.
Periguez turned his head to speak to the servant, and, with a quickness
that would have done credit to a professional sleight-of-hand performer,
the scout shifted the glasses of wine, drawing Periguez’s to his side
and pushing his own over in place of it.
The servant saw what Periguez did not, and the napkin resting across his
arm dropped to the floor. He stooped to get it, and said something in a
tongue unknown to the scout. It was like an ejaculation, such as might
be made under the circumstances; but the start which Ramon Periguez gave
told the watchful scout that the servant had informed him of the
shifting of the wine glasses.
When the major-domo turned about, after saying a word or two in the same
unknown tongue to the servant, his dark face had changed to a sickly
yellow.
“I observe that you do not speak Spanish to your man here,” said the
scout. “Is he a Moor?”
“It was the language of the Spanish mountaineers,” said Periguez,
evidently disconcerted and confused. “He is from a little hill town
lying far from any of the recognized routes of travel, and the language
there is difficult for even a Spaniard not well acquainted with it.”
“Very interesting,” Buffalo Bill observed dryly, toying with the glass
he had taken.
“There is much Moorish blood in the mountains of Spain,” said the
major-domo, trying to steady his nerves and get control of himself, for
he realized that his manner was betraying him.
“I have never been in Spain,” said the scout quietly.
“You should travel in Spain. You would find it a very interesting
country.”
“You are Spanish, of course?”
Periguez bowed. “I am from Madrid.” He lifted his wine glass as if to
put it to his lips, but caught the table linen between his fingers as he
did it, and by an apparent accident let the glass fall to the floor,
where it was shivered into atoms. He started up nervously at the crash.
“How awkward of me!” he exclaimed, and, summoning the servant, he
ordered the broken glass to be removed. He had another glass brought and
filled.
“Very excellent wine,” said the scout, sipping his.
“The finest to be procured in Spain,” said Periguez. “It is made by the
monks of San Sebastian, and it has a great reputation in my country. You
were telling me of the Moroccan prince,” he said, smiling with
hypocritical lips. “And I believe you were to tell me your plans for
getting at the real facts in this most interesting mystery?”
The pallor was going out of his face; he had got rid of the drugged wine
which the scout had so cleverly passed back to him, and, therefore, he
felt better. Yet he was doubtless wondering how it came about that the
scout had suspected him.
The scout talked of his journey to the Porfiero Hacienda, of the mystery
which had sent him forth, and of his hopes soon to get some tangible
information concerning the missing man. All the while he watched
Periguez closely.
But, having been caught and foiled once, the latter did not try anything
more; perhaps he was not prepared for anything more.
“I have been making some chemical studies lately,” Buffalo Bill
remarked, quite casually. “And they brought me one bit of queer
information. A sleeping potion has been discovered which so resembles
wine in color, and dissolves so readily, that it can be administered by
the physician or nurse to the patient without the latter even dreaming
that it is being administered. It is used when, in cases where it ought
to be given, the patient objects to taking anything of the kind.”
He touched his wine glass, and watched Periguez’s face, and again he saw
that sickly yellow over-spread it.
“I had not heard of it. You are not a chemist?”
“A mere dabbler in chemistry, that is all. No man can be everything,
though he may be properly interested in many lines of information. I try
to be a good scout, and I find that is quite enough.”
“Very true,” said the major-domo. “And from all I hear you have a
distinguished reputation in your line.”
“Thanks!” said the scout dryly, as he glanced at his watch. “Señor Ruiz
tarries long,” he remarked.
“He had to go some distance,” Periguez explained. “You will at least
stay until he returns?”
The scout dropped the watch back into his pocket.
“I have decided to accept his hospitality and remain overnight at
Porfiero Hacienda.”
“Good!” said Periguez, and there was undoubted satisfaction in his tone.
“It distressed him to think that you could not accept his hospitality
for a short time, at least. We have very few callers here, and enjoy so
much the few visits we get that we would fain have our guests remain
with us much longer than they are ever willing.”
They arose from the table.
“Now you will permit me to show you some of the interesting things of
this queer old house,” said Periguez.
As they strolled from room to room, the scout deftly led him to the
hanging shelves containing the ore specimens and the dagger of gold.
“Ah!” he said, standing before the shelves and looking at the specimens,
lifting one as he spoke, and revealing the dagger hidden beneath it.
“This is a strange weapon, Señor Periguez!”
“It is very old Spanish,” said Periguez. “A magnificent weapon, as you
see!”
“Not Moorish?” said the scout.
“The pattern may be Moorish; I don’t know as to that. Much Moorish
ornamentation is still used by the Spanish sword-makers. That scroll
work may very well be Moorish. Why did you ask, señor?”
“I had no reason, other than curiosity. I simply desired to know.”
Then they strolled on, and the dagger was not spoken of again.
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