The Scalp Hunters | Page 5

in for the Santa Fé
market, I will pay his wine bill at dinner, and that's no small
commission, I think."
The prairie men laughed loudly, declaring they would all go a-shopping
with me; and, after breakfast, we started in a body, arm-in-arm.
Before dinner I had invested nearly all my disposable funds in printed
calicoes, long knives, and looking-glasses, leaving just money enough
to purchase mule-waggons and hire teamsters at Independence, our
point of departure for the plains.
A few days after, with my new companions, I was steaming up the
Missouri, on our way to the trackless prairies of the "Far West."
Chapter III.
The Prairie Fever.
After a week spent in Independence buying mules and waggons, we
took the route over the plains. There were a hundred waggons in the
caravan, and nearly twice that number of teamsters and attendants. Two
of the capacious vehicles contained all my "plunder;" and, to manage

them, I had hired a couple of lathy, long-haired Missourians. I had also
engaged a Canadian voyageur named Gode, as a sort of attendant or
compagnon.
Where are the glossy gentlemen of the Planters' Hotel? One would
suppose they had been left behind, as here are none but men in
hunting-shirts and slouch hats. Yes; but under these hats we recognise
their faces, and in these rude shirts we have the same jovial fellows as
ever. The silky black and the diamonds have disappeared, for now the
traders flourish under the prairie costume. I will endeavour to give an
idea of the appearance of my companions by describing my own; for I
am tricked out very much like themselves.
I wear a hunting-shirt of dressed deerskin. It is a garment more after the
style of an ancient tunic than anything I can think of. It is of a light
yellow colour, beautifully stitched and embroidered; and the cape, for it
has a short cape, is fringed by tags cut out of the leather itself. The skirt
is also bordered by a similar fringe, and hangs full and low. A pair of
"savers" of scarlet cloth cover my limbs to the thigh; and under these
are strong jean pantaloons, heavy boots, and big brass spurs. A
coloured cotton shirt, a blue neck-tie, and a broad-brimmed Guayaquil
hat, complete the articles of my everyday dress. Behind me, on the
cantle of my saddle, may be observed a bright red object folded into a
cylindrical form. That is my "Mackinaw," a great favourite, for it
makes my bed by night and my greatcoat on other occasions. There is a
small slit in the middle of it, through which I thrust my head in cold or
rainy weather; and I am thus covered to the ankles.
As I have said, my compagnons de voyage are similarly attired. There
may be a difference of colour in the blanket or the leggings, or the shirt
may be of other materials; but that I have described may be taken as a
character dress.
We are all somewhat similarly armed and equipped. For my part, I may
say that I am "armed to the teeth." In my holsters I carry a pair of Colt's
large-sized revolvers, six shots each. In my belt is another pair of the
small size, with five shots each. In addition, I have a light rifle, making
in all twenty-three shots, which I have learned to deliver in as many

seconds of time. Failing with all these, I carry in my belt a long shining
blade known as a "bowie knife." This last is my hunting knife, my
dining knife, and, in short, my knife of all work. For accoutrements I
have a pouch and a flask, both slung under the right arm. I have also a
large gourd canteen and haversack for my rations. So have all my
companions.
But we are differently mounted. Some ride saddle mules, others
bestride mustangs, while a few have brought their favourite American
horses. I am of this number. I ride a dark-brown stallion, with black
legs, and muzzle like the withered fern. He is half-Arab, and of perfect
proportions. He is called Moro, a Spanish name given him by the
Louisiana planter from whom I bought him, but why I do not know. I
have retained the name, and he answers to it readily. He is strong, fleet,
and beautiful. Many of my friends fancy him on the route, and offer
large prices for him; but these do not tempt me, for my Moro serves me
well. Every day I grow more and more attached to him. My dog Alp, a
Saint Bernard that I bought from a Swiss émigré in Saint Louis, hardly
comes in for a tithe of my affections.
I find on referring to my note-book that for weeks we