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Updated: June 8, 2025
Poor Clif could not help but think of his own fate then. Ignacio's cruelty and hatred were such that no torture would be terrible enough for him. And he seemed to have his prisoner entirely to his own discretion. The great vault through which they were going echoed dimly to the footsteps of the party.
Ignacio's dark eyes glittered as he slowly went over the pile of bills. "See, sergeant," said he, "here is a hundred-dollar bill. Just think of it! Look at it! Think if I should get that bill changed into good Spanish gold. The British consul would do it." "Yes, he is a friend of the Yankees." "Yes, he would do it for me. And then here is fifty dollars more. Look and count it.
The animals testified indirectly to the character of their master by receiving his advances with effusive demonstrations of joy. At the cottage they found Ignacio's horse a very fine one with a lasso hanging from the saddle. Beside it stood a loose horse with the carcass of a guanaco flung over it, and a Gaucho lad who was the hunter's only attendant.
Through the valley and between verdant banks and blooming orchards meandered a silvery brook, either an affluent or a source of one of the mighty streams which find their homes in the great Atlantic. The mission was a village of tame Indians, whose ancestors had been "Christianized," by Fray Ignacio's Jesuit predecessor.
By the time our preparations were completed, and the frightened and weeping girls shut up in an inner room, the wild Indians were at the upper end of the big, straggling village, and presently entered a wide, open space between the ramshackle old church and Ignacio's house. The party consisted of fifteen or sixteen warriors mounted on small horses.
In addition to Senor Ignacio's sign there was, in one of the balconies of the large house, the bust of a woman, made probably of pasteboard, with lettering beneath: Perfecta Ruiz: Ladies' Hair Dressing; on the side walls of the main entrance there hung several announcements unworthy of occupying the attention of the aforementioned historian, in which were offered low-priced rooms with or without bed, amanuenses and seamstresses.
Senor Ignacio's home was small; it comprised two bedrooms, a parlour, the kitchen and a dark room. The first habitation was the parlour, furnished with a pine bureau, a sofa, several straw chairs and a green mirror stuck with chromos and photographs and covered with red netting.
"Que hay, amigos?" he greeted them. "Do you know what I am going to do for you some fine day? I will build a little roof over you that runs down both ways to shut out the water when it rains. It will make you hoarse, too much wet." That was one of the few dreams of Ignacio's life; one day he was going to make a little roof over each arch.
She peered into Ignacio's face. Its Indian impassivity was gone. His lips were twitching; his eyes were burning points between half-closed lids. "Why?" she asked. "How?" "I know. I watch him. I have seen a mountain lion asleep in a tree. His paw is like velvet. He smiles. There seems no fight in him. I know. There is a devil, a big devil, in Señor Don't Care.
Neither he nor they believed Fray Ignacio's story of the great pale-face chief and his death-dealing powers. The cacique, followed by a few of his men, then rode leisurely toward the house. He was a fine-looking fellow, with cigar-colored skin and features unmistakably more Spanish than Indian. My original idea was to shoot the first two of them, and so strike terror into the rest.
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