The Scalp Hunters | Page 3

scanty shade, and the coyote
skulks through its silent glades.
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I have climbed mountain after mountain, and still I behold peaks
soaring far above, crowned with the snow that never melts. I stand
upon beetling cliffs, and look into chasms that yawn beneath, sleeping
in the silence of desolation. Great fragments have fallen into them, and
lie piled one upon another. Others hang threatening over, as if waiting
for some concussion of the atmosphere to hurl them from their balance.
Dark precipices frown me into fear, and my head reels with a dizzy
faintness. I hold by the pine-tree shaft, or the angle of the firmer rock.
Above, and below, and around me, are mountains piled on mountains
in chaotic confusion. Some are bald and bleak; others exhibit traces of
vegetation in the dark needles of the pine and cedar, whose stunted
forms half-grow, half-hang from the cliffs. Here, a cone-shaped peak
soars up till it is lost in snow and clouds. There, a ridge elevates its
sharp outline against the sky; while along its side, lie huge boulders of
granite, as though they had been hurled from the hands of Titan giants!
A fearful monster, the grizzly bear, drags his body along the high
ridges; the carcajou squats upon the projecting rock, waiting the elk
that must pass to the water below; and the bighorn bounds from crag to
crag in search of his shy mate. Along the pine branch the bald buzzard
whets his filthy beak; and the war-eagle, soaring over all, cuts sharply
against the blue field of the heavens.

These are the Rocky Mountains, the American Andes, the colossal
vertebras of the continent!
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Such are the aspects of the wild west; such is the scenery of our drama.
Let us raise the curtain, and bring on the characters.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE PRAIRIE MERCHANTS.
"New Orleans, April 3rd, 18--
"Dear Saint Vrain--Our young friend, Monsieur Henry Haller, goes to
Saint Louis in `search of the picturesque.' See that he be put through a
`regular course of sprouts.'
"Yours,--
"Luis Walton.
"Charles Saint Vrain, Esquire, Planters' Hotel, Saint Louis."
With this laconic epistle in my waistcoat pocket, I debarked at Saint
Louis on the 10th of April, and drove to the "Planters'."
After getting my baggage stowed and my horse (a favourite I had
brought with me) stabled, I put on a clean shirt, and, descending to the
office, inquired for Monsieur Saint Vrain.
He was not there. He had gone up the Missouri river several days
before.
This was a disappointment, as I had brought no other introduction to
Saint Louis. But I endeavoured to wait with patience the return of
Monsieur Saint Vrain. He was expected back in less than a week.

Day after day I mounted my horse, I rode up to the "Mounds" and out
upon the prairies. I lounged about the hotel, and smoked my cigar in its
fine piazza. I drank sherry cobblers in the saloon, and read the journals
in the reading-room.
With these and such like occupations, I killed time for three whole
days.
There was a party of gentlemen stopping at the hotel, who seemed to
know each other well. I might call them a clique; but that is not a good
word, and does not express what I mean. They appeared rather a band
of friendly, jovial fellows. They strolled together through the streets,
and sat side by side at the table-d'hote, where they usually remained
long after the regular diners had retired. I noticed that they drank the
most expensive wines, and smoked the finest cigars the house afforded.
My attention was attracted to these men. I was struck with their
peculiar bearing; their erect, Indian-like carriage in the streets,
combined with a boyish gaiety, so characteristic of the western
American.
They dressed nearly alike: in fine black cloth, white linen, satin
waistcoats, and diamond pins. They wore the whisker full, but
smoothly trimmed; and several of them sported moustaches. Their hair
fell curling over their shoulders; and most of them wore their collars
turned down, displaying healthy-looking, sun-tanned throats. I was
struck with a resemblance in their physiognomy. Their faces did not
resemble each other; but there was an unmistakable similarity in the
expression of the eye; no doubt, the mark that had been made by like
occupations and experience.
Were they sportsmen? No: the sportsman's hands are whiter; there is
more jewellery on his fingers; his waistcoat is of a gayer pattern, and
altogether his dress will be more gaudy and super-elegant. Moreover,
the sportsman lacks that air of free-and-easy confidence. He dares not
assume it. He may live in the hotel, but he must be quiet and
unobtrusive. The sportsman is a bird of prey; hence, like all birds of
prey, his habits are