Scalp Hunters. Captain Mayne Reid

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!

* * *

      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’hôte, 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 Fé 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