very odd! What could he want with your horse? Two hundred
miles, and offers a thousand dollars!"

"Capitaine!" (Gode had called me captain ever since the ride upon the
buffalo), "if monsieur come two hunred mile, and vill pay un mille
thousan dollar, he Moro like ver, ver moch. Un grand passion pour le
cheval. 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 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 yo