The Scalp Hunters | Page 4

silent and solitary. They are not of his profession.

"Who are these gentlemen?" I inquired from a person who sat by me,
indicating to him the men of whom I have spoken.
"The prairie men."
"The prairie men!"
"Yes; the Santa Fe traders."
"Traders!" I echoed, in some surprise, not being able to connect such
"elegants" with any ideas of trade or the prairies.
"Yes," continued my informant. "That large, fine-looking man in the
middle is Bent--Bill Bent, as he is called. The gentleman on his right is
young Sublette; the other, standing on his left, is one of the Choteaus;
and that is the sober Jerry Folger."
"These, then, are the celebrated prairie merchants?"
"Precisely so."
I sat eyeing them with increased curiosity. I observed that they were
looking at me, and that I was the subject of their conversation.
Presently, one of them, a dashing-like young fellow, parted from the
group, and walked up to me.
"Were you inquiring for Monsieur Saint Vrain?" he asked.
"I was."
"Charles?"
"Yes, that is the name."
"I am--"
I pulled out my note of introduction, and banded it to the gentleman,
who glanced over its contents.

"My dear friend," said he, grasping me cordially, "very sorry I have not
been here. I came down the river this morning. How stupid of Walton
not to superscribe to Bill Bent! How long have you been up?"
"Three days. I arrived on the 10th."
"You are lost. Come, let me make you acquainted. Here, Bent! Bill!
Jerry!"
And the next moment I had shaken hands with one and all of the traders,
of which fraternity I found that my new friend, Saint Vrain, was a
member.
"First gong that?" asked one, as the loud scream of a gong came
through the gallery.
"Yes," replied Bent, consulting his watch. "Just time to `licker.' Come
along!"
Bent moved towards the saloon, and we all followed, nemine
dissentiente.
The spring season was setting in, and the young mint had sprouted--a
botanical fact with which my new acquaintances appeared to be
familiar, as one and all of them ordered a mint julep. This beverage, in
the mixing and drinking, occupied our time until the second scream of
the gong summoned us to dinner.
"Sit with us, Mr Haller," said Bent; "I am sorry we didn't know you
sooner. You have been lonely."
And so saying, he led the way into the dining-room, followed by his
companions and myself.
I need not describe a dinner at the "Planters'," with its venison steaks,
its buffalo tongues, its prairie chickens, and its delicious frog fixings
from the Illinois "bottom." No; I would not describe the dinner, and
what followed I am afraid I could not.

We sat until we had the table to ourselves. Then the cloth was removed,
and we commenced smoking regalias and drinking madeira at twelve
dollars a bottle! This was ordered in by someone, not in single bottles,
but by the half-dozen. I remembered thus far well enough; and that,
whenever I took up a wine-card, or a pencil, these articles were
snatched out of my fingers.
I remember listening to stories of wild adventures among the Pawnees,
and the Comanches, and the Blackfeet, until I was filled with interest,
and became enthusiastic about prairie life. Then someone asked me,
would I not like to join them in "a trip"? Upon this I made a speech,
and proposed to accompany my new acquaintances on their next
expedition: and then Saint Vrain said I was just the man for their life;
and this pleased me highly. Then someone sang a Spanish song, with a
guitar, I think, and someone else danced an Indian war-dance; and then
we all rose to our feet, and chorused the "Star-spangled Banner"; and I
remember nothing else after this, until next morning, when I remember
well that I awoke with a splitting headache.
I had hardly time to reflect on my previous night's folly, when the door
opened, and Saint Vrain, with half a dozen of my table companions,
rushed into the room. They were followed by a waiter, who carried
several large glasses topped with ice, and filled with a pale
amber-coloured liquid.
"A sherry cobbler, Mr Haller," cried one; "best thing in the world for
you: drain it, my boy. It'll cool you in a squirrel's jump."
I drank off the refreshing beverage as desired.
"Now, my dear friend," said Saint Vrain, "you feel a hundred per cent,
better! But, tell me, were you in earnest when you spoke of going with
us across the plains? We start in a week; I shall be sorry to part with
you so soon."
"But I was in earnest. I am going with you, if you will only show me
how I am to set about it."

"Nothing