Chapter 8 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
Seguin the Scalp-Hunter
I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that 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, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One’s life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin.
On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend’s face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience.
“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 handled that knife, for the fellow plainly intended to do for you. It is the cut of a Spanish knife, and a devilish gash it is. Haller, it was a close shave. One inch more, and the spine, my boy! but you’re safe, I say. Here, Gode! that sponge!”
“Sacré!” muttered Gode, with true Gallic aspirate, as he handed the wet rag.
I felt the cold application. Then a bunch of soft raw cotton, the best dressing 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, and placed me in the easiest position. “But what started the row? and how came 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 could say that. Ay, there was another,” continued Saint Vrain, with a peculiar smile; “but what could have brought him there is that which puzzles 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 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 Fé 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 Fé 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.