His sallow cheeks darkened with a sudden return of his suspicions, and he sought to transfix me with his glance.
"Caramba!" he muttered. "Tell me clearly how you came across all that vast desert. You came from the northward. Did you then cross the mountains?"
I described briefly that terrible march south and west from the Grand Peak. He listened with growing wonderment.
"Poder de Dios! It is impossible!" he cried. "Malgares has told me of that gigantic peak and the sierra you crossed. It is not possible! The Sangre de Cristo, and in midwinter—afoot!"
"Yet it is true, Your Excellency."
Again his eye sought to pierce me with its suspicious stare.
"Your party?" he demanded. "You have spoken of hunters. Who are they?—and where?"
Having now some of the details of Pursley's adventures to copy, I told a connected tale of having accompanied some Osages from St. Louis to the Pawnee country, in search of the recreant Le Lande, when, learning of his flight to New Mexico, I had wandered westward with a small party of hunters to the Grand Peak and then southwest over the mountains, until we came to what was supposed to be the Red River, where my companions had stopped to hunt.
At the end of my recital, he sat for some moments studying me. Then, with a most disconcerting suddenness: "Señor, you will honor me with your presence at table."
He rose at the words, and leaving all the others gaping, conducted me down a corridor to his dining-room. It was now high noon, and we found the table already spread for the midday meal, which is the principal repast of the day among the Spaniards in Mexico.