The Scalp Hunters | Page 3

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!
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 II.
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'h?te, 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 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 F�� 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