"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!" "Sacre!" 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 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!