“It may be an outlaws’ retreat.”
“The place may be haunted.”
Some laughed, some did not, others looked grave, and said nothing. The superstitions of a few had been aroused.
But into the walled-in plaza rode the scouts, followed by the wagon, and there stood Buffalo Bill, but his left sleeve was stained with blood, his face had a bruise upon it, and he had the appearance of one who had been in a terrible struggle.
“Boys,” he said calmly, “make yourselves at home, for I am master here.”
Telling Texas Jack where to halt the cattle and horses, to have a guard of several men over them, and then come on with the others and the wagon and animals.
The chief of scouts had cantered on alone to the hacienda.
As he approached it, he saw that all appeared there as he had left it a month before.
To him it looked as though no one had visited the place, and he saw not even a skulking coyote. This put him on his guard, for he knew that when he had visited the place first many coyotes had run out. Now, having found none about, he at once concluded that some one had been there within the last few minutes. So he was on his guard. Leaving his horse in the grounds, he entered the hacienda.
It was a large structure, one story in height, built of adobe, and in the center was a square towerlike structure, with a top that looked very much as though the whole space within the walls, several acres in area, could be swept by even revolvers in the hands of persons stationed there on the tower roof. In the rear was a lofty cliff. It commanded, too, a wide range with rifles, and that it was intended for a stronghold there was no doubt in the scout’s mind.