CHAPTER EIGHT.
SEGUIN THE SCALP-HUNTER.
I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I saypleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. Howdifferent were the feelings I experienced while smarting under woundsthat came by the steel of the assassin!
My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal?This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, afterdiscovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannotalways answer it either. One's life-blood may be spurting from anartery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth thepricking of a pin.
On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split myhunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. Icould not see my friend's face as he stood behind me, and I waited withimpatience.
"Is it deep?" I asked.
"Not deep as a draw-well, nor wide as a waggon-track," was the reply."You're quite safe, old fellow; thank God, and not the man who handledthat knife, for the fellow plainly intended to do for you. It is thecut of a Spanish knife, and a devilish gash it is. Haller, it was aclose shave. One inch more, and the spine, my boy! but you're safe, Isay. Here, Gode! that sponge!"
"Sacre!" muttered Gode, with true Gallic aspirate, as he handed the wetrag.
I felt the cold application. Then a bunch of soft raw cotton, the bestdressing it could have, was laid over the wound, and fastened by strips.The most skilful surgeon could have done no more.
"Close as a clamp," added Saint Vrain, as he fastened the last pin, andplaced me in the easiest position. "But what started the row? and howcame you to cut such a figure in it? I was out, thank God!"
"Did you observe a strange-looking man?"
"What! with the purple manga?"
"Yes."
"He sat beside us?"
"Yes."
"Ha! No wonder you say a strange-looking man; stranger than he looks,too. I saw him, I know him, and perhaps not another in the room couldsay that. Ay, there was another," continued Saint Vrain, with apeculiar smile; "but what could have brought him there is that whichpuzzles me. Armijo could not have seen him: but go on."
I related to Saint Vrain the whole of my conversation with the stranger,and the incidents that led to the breaking up of the fandango.
"It is odd--very odd! What could he want with your horse? Two hundredmiles, and offers a thousand dollars!"
"Capitaine!" (Gode had called me captain ever since the ride upon thebuffalo), "if monsieur come two hunred mile, and vill pay un millethousan dollar, he Moro like ver, ver moch. Un grand passion pour lecheval. Pourquoi: vy he no like him ver sheep? vy he no steal 'im?"
I started at the suggestion, and looked towards Saint Vrain.
"Vith permiss of le capitaine, I vill le cheval cache," continued theCanadian, moving towards the door.
"You need not trouble yourself, old Nor'-west, as far as that gentlemanis concerned. He'll not steal your horse; though that's no reason whyyou should not fulfil your intention, and `cache' the animal. There arethieves enough in Santa Fe to steal the horses of a whole regiment. Youhad 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 muchthat is mysterious?"
"Ah! if you knew. I will tell you some queer passages by and by, butnot to-night. You have no need of excitement. That is the famousSeguin--the Scalp-hunter."
"The Scalp-hunter!"
"Ay! you have heard of him, no doubt; at least you would, had you beenmuch 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. Ilooked up. Seguin was before me!
Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking outof the window.
I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, andat the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in hislook influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he hadheard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; butthere was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. Iobserved only the same look that had at first attracted me--the sameexpression of deep melancholy.
Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, theauthor of so many atrocities?
"Sir," said he, seeing that I remained silent, "I deeply regret what hashappened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is yourwound a severe one?"
"It is not," I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat todisconcert him.
"I am glad of that," he continued, after a pause. "I came to thank youfor your generous interference. I leave Santa Fe in ten minutes. Imust bid you farewell."
He held forth his hand. I muttered the word "farewell," but withoutoffering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocityconnected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, andI felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretchedposition, while a strange expression began to steal over hiscountenance, 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 sparkof anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, anduttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strodeforward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see theMexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He hadshrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitudethat 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, SaintVrain--"
"Hush-sh! look yonder!" interrupted my friend, pointing through the opendoor.
I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving alongthe wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, theirpeculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convincedme they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the darkshadows 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 haveit. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy."
So saying, Saint Vrain left me; and the moment after I could see hislight form passing hastily out of the gate.
I lay reflecting on the strangeness of the incidents that seemed to beoccurring around me. I was not without some painful reflections. I hadwounded the feelings of one who had not injured me, and for whom myfriend evidently entertained a high respect. A shod hoof sounded uponthe stones outside; it was Gode with my horse; and the next moment Iheard 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 hishorse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of theirreach."
"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 forcethat dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for himonce 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 furtherexcitement; 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 ofrestlessness.