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!”