"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 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."