"Vith permiss of le capitaine, I vill le cheval cache," continued the
Canadian, moving towards the door.
"You need not trouble yourself, old Nor'-west, as far as that gentleman
is concerned. He'll not steal your horse; though that's no reason why
you should not fulfil your intention, and `cache' the animal. There are
thieves enough in Santa Fe to steal the horses of a whole regiment. You
had better fasten him by the door here."
Gode passed to the door and disappeared.
"Who is he?" I asked, "this man about whom there seems to be so much
that is mysterious?"
"Ah! if you knew. I will tell you some queer passages by and by, but
not to-night. You have no need of excitement. That is the famous
Seguin--the Scalp-hunter."
"The Scalp-hunter!"
"Ay! you have heard of him, no doubt; at least you would, had you been
much among the mountains."
"I have. The ruffian! the wholesale butcher of innocent--"
A dark waif danced against the wall: it was the shadow of a man. I
looked up. Seguin was before me!
Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking out
of the window.
I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, and
at the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in his
look influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he had
heard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; but
there was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. I
observed only the same look that had at first attracted me--the same
expression of deep melancholy.
Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, the
author of so many atrocities?
"Sir," said he, seeing that I remained silent, "I deeply regret what has
happened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is your
wound a severe one?"
"It is not," I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat to
disconcert him.
"I am glad of that," he continued, after a pause. "I came to thank you
for your generous interference. I leave Santa Fe in ten minutes. I
must bid you farewell."
He held forth his hand. I muttered the word "farewell," but without
offering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocity
connected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, and
I felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretched
position, while a strange expression began to steal over his
countenance, as he saw that I hesitated.
"I cannot take your hand," I said at length.
"And why?" he asked, in a mild tone.
"Why? It is red, red! Away, sir, away!"
He fixed his eyes upon me with a sorrowful look. There was not a spark
of anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, and
uttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strode
forward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see the
Mexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He had
shrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitude
that betokened the deepest dejection. In a moment he was out of sight,
having passed through the saguan, and into the street.
"There is something truly mysterious about that man. Tell me, Saint
Vrain--"
"Hush-sh! look yonder!" interrupted my friend, pointing through the open
door.
I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving along
the wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, their
peculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convinced
me they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the dark
shadows of the saguan.
"Who are they?" I inquired.
"Worse enemies to poor Seguin than you would be, if you knew him better.
I pity him if these hungry hawks overtake him in the dark. But no;
he's worth warning, and a hand to help him, if need be. He shall have
it. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy."
So saying, Saint Vrain left me; and the moment after I could see his
light form passing hastily out of the gate.
I lay reflecting on the strangeness of the incidents that seemed to be
occurring around me. I was not without some painful reflections. I had
wounded the feelings of one who had not injured me, and for whom my
friend evidently entertained a high respect. A shod hoof sounded upon
the stones outside; it was Gode with my horse; and the next moment I
heard him hammering the picket-pin into the pavement.
Shortly after, Saint Vrain himself returned.
"Well," I inquired, "what happened you?"
"Nothing much. That's a weasel that never sleeps. He had mounted his
horse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of their
reach."
"But may they not follow him on horseback?"
"That is not likely. He has comrades not far from here, I warrant you.
Armijo--and it was he sent those villains on his track--has no force
that dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for him
once he has cleared the houses."
"But, my dear Saint Vrain, tell me what you know of this singular man.
I am wound up to a pitch of curiosity."
"Not to-night, Harry; not to-night. I do not wish to cause you further
excitement; besides, I have reason to leave you now. To-morrow, then.
Good-night! Good-night!"
And so saying, my mercurial friend left me to Gode and a night of
restlessness.