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 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.

---------------------------------------------------------