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Updated: May 4, 2025
He is not making very fast progress, but he’ll own the valley in time if we don’t stop him.” “But who is doing the work? Who is his agent?” Ramon enquired. “Old Solomon Alfego, for one. He’s boss of the county, you know. He hates a gringo as much as any man alive, but he loves a dollar, too, and MacDougall has bought him, I’m afraid.
It was not long before word of the stranger’s arrival reached Alfego in his little office behind the store, and he came bustling out, beaming and polite. “This is Senor Solomon Alfego?” Ramon enquired in his most formal Spanish. “I am Solomon Alfego,” replied the bulky little man, with a low bow, “and what can I do for the Senor?”
Now that he had won over Alfego and had gotten the influence of the penitentes on his side, Ramon’s one remaining object was to defeat just such deals as this, which MacDougall already had under way. He intended to stir up feeling against the gringos, and to persuade the Mexicans not to sell.
Mutual good feeling having thus been signalized in the traditional Mexican manner by an exchange of gifts, Alfego now showed his guest all over his establishment.
He was simple and direct like an Indian, too, lacking the Mexican talent for lying and artifice. In his own town he was a petty czar, like Alfego, but on a much smaller scale. By reason of being Hermano Mayor of the local penitente chapter, and of having most of the people in his own neighbourhood in debt to him, he had considerable power.
“A thousand thanks,” Alfego replied. “Come; I wish to show you some Navajo blankets I bought the other day.” He led the way into the store, and directed one of his clerks to bring forth a great stack of the heavy Indian weaves, and began turning them over. They were blankets of the best quality, and some of the designs in red, black and grey were of exceptional beauty.
“Verdad!” he pronounced unctuously. “I have come,” Ramon went on more boldly, “because my own lands are in danger, but also because I love the Mexican people, and hate the gringos! Some one must go among these good people and warn them not to sell their lands, not to be cheated out of their birthrights. My friend, I have come here to do that.” “Bueno!” exclaimed Alfego. “Muy bueno!”
And to you—I give you my word as a Delcasar that I will serve you well, that I will be as a brother to you.” There was a silence during which Alfego stared with profound gravity at the ash on the end of his cigar. “Have you heard,” Ramon went on, in the same soft and emotional tone of voice, “that the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad is going to build a line through the San Antonio Valley?”
It would give him just the prestige and standing he needed in that country. He would lose a little blood. He would win … everything! “You are right, amigo,” he told Cortez. “But do you think it can be arranged?” “I have talked to Alfego about it,” Cortez admitted. “I think it can be arranged.” He was all ready to leave for Arriba County when one more black mischance came to bedevil him.
Having thus been duly impressed with the greatness and substance of his host, and also with his friendly attitude, Ramon was led into the little office, offered a seat and a fresh cigar. He knew that at last the proper time had come for him to declare himself. “My friend,” he said, leaning toward Alfego confidentially, “I have come to this country and to you for a great purpose.
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