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Scalp Hunters

<h3>Chapter Nineteen.</h3> <h4>The Scalp-Hunters.</h4> It was still early in the evening when we reached the camp—the camp of the scalp-hunters. Our arrival was scarcely noticed. A single glance at us, as we rode in amongst the men was all the recognition we received. No one rose from his seat or ceased his occupation. We were left to unsaddle our horses and dispose of them as best we might. I was wearied with the ride, having been so long unused to the saddle. I threw my blanket on the ground, and sat down, resting my back against the stump of a tree. I could have slept, but the strangeness of everything around me excited my imagination, and, with feelings of curiosity, I looked and listened. I should call the pencil to my aid to give you an idea of the scene, and that would but faintly illustrate it. A wilder and more picturesque coup-d’oeil never impressed human vision. It reminded me of pictures I had seen representing the bivouacs of brigands under the dark pines of the Abruzzi. I paint from a recollection that looks back over many years of adventurous life. I can give only the more salient points of the picture. The petite détail is forgotten, although at that time the minutest objects were things new and strange to my eye, and each of them for a while fixed my attention. I afterwards grew familiar with them; and hence they are now in my memory, as a multitude of other things, indistinct from their very distinctness. The camp was in a bend of the Del Norte, in a glade surrounded by tall cotton-woods, whose smooth trunks rose vertically out of a thick underwood of palmettoes and Spanish bayonet. A few tattered tents stood in the open ground; and there were skin lodges after the Indian fashion. But most of the hunters had made their shelter with a buffalo-robe stretched upon four upright poles. There were “lairs” among the underwood, constructed of branches, and thatched with the palmated leaves of the yucca, or with reeds brought from the adjacent river. There were paths leading out in different directions, marked by openings in the foliage. Through one of these a green meadow was visible. Mules and mustangs, picketed on long trail-ropes, were clustered over it. Through the camp were seen the saddles, bridles, and packs, resting upon stumps or hanging from the branches. Guns leaned against the trees, and rusted sabres hung suspended over the tents and lodges. Articles of camp furniture, such as pans, kettles, and axes, littered the ground in every direction. Log fires were burning. Around them sat clusters of men. They were not seeking warmth, for it was not cold. They were roasting ribs of venison, or smoking odd-fashioned pipes. Some were scouring their arms and accoutrements. The accents of many languages fell upon my ear. I heard snatches of French, Spanish, English, and Indian. The exclamations were in character with the appearance of those who uttered them. “Hollo, Dick! hang it, old hoss, what are ye ’bout?” “Carambo!” “By the ’tarnal airthquake!” “Vaya! hombre, vaya!” “Carrajo!” “By Gosh!” “Santisima Maria!” “Sacr-r-ré!” It seemed as if the different nations had sent representatives to contest the supremacy of their shibboleths. I was struck with three groups. A particular language prevailed in each; and there was a homogeneousness about the costumes of the men composing each. That nearest me conversed in the Spanish language. They were Mexicans. I will describe the dress of one, as I remember it. Calzoneros of green velvet. These are cut after the fashion of sailor-trousers, short waist, tight round the hips, and wide at the bottoms, where they are strengthened by black leather stamped and stitched ornamentally. The outer seams are split from hip to thigh, slashed with braid, and set with rows of silver “castletops.” These seams are open, for the evening is warm, and underneath appear the calzoncillos of white muslin, hanging in white folds around the ankles. The boot is of calf-skin, tanned, but not blackened. It is reddish, rounded at the toe, and carries a spur at least a pound in weight, with a rowel three inches in diameter! The spur is curiously fashioned and fastened to the boot by straps of stamped leather. Little bells, campanulas, hang from the teeth of the rowels, and tinkle at the slightest motion of the foot! Look upward. The calzoneros are not braced, but fastened at the waist by a silken sash or scarf. It is scarlet. It is passed several times round the body, and made fast behind, where the fringed ends hang gracefully over the left hip. There is no waistcoat. A jacket of dark cloth embroidered and tightly fitting, short behind, à la Grecque, leaving the shirt to puff out over the scarf. The shirt itself, with its broad collar and flowered front, exhibits the triumphant skill of some dark-eyed poblana. Over all this is the broad-brimmed, shadowy sombrero; a heavy hat of black glaze, with its thick band of silver bullion. There are tags of the same metal stuck in the sides, giving it an appearance altogether unique. Over one shoulder is hanging, half-folded, the picturesque serape. A belt and pouch, an escopette upon which the hand is resting, a waist-belt with a pair of small pistols stuck under it, a long Spanish knife suspended obliquely across the left hip, complete the tout ensemble of him whom I have chosen to describe. It may answer as a characteristic of the dress of many of his companions, those of the group that was nearest me. There was variety in their habiliments, yet the national costume of Mexico was traceable in all. Some wore leather calzoneros, with a spencer or jerkin of the same material, close both at front and behind. Some carried, instead of the pictured serape, the blanket of the Navajoes, with its broad black stripes. Suspended from the shoulders of others hung the beautiful and graceful manga. Some were moccasined; while a few of the inferior men wore the simple guarache, the sandal of the Aztecs. The countenances of these men were swarth and savage-looking, their hair long, straight, and black as the wing of a crow; while both beard and moustache grew wildly over their faces. Fierce dark eyes gleamed under the broad brims of their hats. Few of them were men of high stature; yet there was a litheness in their bodies that showed them to be capable of great activity. Their frames were well knit, and inured to fatigues and hardships. They were all, or nearly all, natives of the Mexican border, frontier men, who had often closed in deadly fight with the Indian foe. They were ciboleros, vaqueros, rancheros, monteros; men who in their frequent association with the mountain men, the Gallic and Saxon hunters from the eastern plains, had acquired a degree of daring which by no means belongs to their own race. They were the chivalry of the Mexican frontier. They smoked cigaritas, rolling them between their fingers in husks of maize. They played monte on their spread blankets, staking their tobacco. They cursed, and cried “Carrajo!” when they lost, and thanks to the “Santisima Virgin” when the cards were pulled out in their favour! Their language was a Spanish patois; their voices were sharp and disagreeable. At a short distance from these was the second group that attracted my attention. The individuals composing this were altogether different from the former. They were different in every essential point: in voice, dress, language, and physiognomy. Theirs was the Anglo-American face, at a glance. These were the trappers, the prairie hunters, the mountain men. Let us again choose a type that may answer for a description of all. He stands leaning on his long straight rifle, looking into the fire. He is six feet in his moccasins, and of a build that suggests the idea of strength and Saxon ancestry. His arms are like young oaks, and his hand, grasping the muzzle of his gun, is large, fleshless, and muscular. His cheek is broad and firm. It is partially covered by a bushy whisker that meets over the chin and fringes all around the lips. It is neither fair nor dark, but of a dull-brown colour, lighter around the mouth, where it has been bleached by the sun, “ambeer,” and water. The eye is grey, or bluish grey, small, and slightly crowed at the corner. It is well set, and rarely wanders. It seems to look into you rather than at you. The hair is brown and of a medium length (cut, no doubt, on his last visit to the trading post, or the settlements); and the complexion, although dark as that of a mulatto, is only so from tan. It was once fair: a blonde. The countenance is not unprepossessing. It might be styled handsome. Its whole expression is bold, but good-humoured and generous. The dress of the individual described is of home manufacture; that is, of his home, the prairie and the wild mountain park, where the material has been bought by a bullet from his rifle. It is the work of his own hands, unless indeed he may be one who has shared his cabin with some Indian—Sioux, Crow, or Cheyenne. It consists of a hunting-shirt of dressed deer-skin, smoked to the softness of a glove; leggings, reaching to the waist, and moccasins of the same material; the latter soled with the parfleche of the buffalo. The shirt is belted at the waist, but open at the breast and throat, where it falls back into a graceful cape just covering the shoulders. Underneath is seen the undershirt, of finer material, the dressed skin of the antelope, or the fawn of the fallow-deer. On his head is a raccoon cap, with the face of the animal looking to the front, while the barred tail hangs like a plume drooping down to his left shoulder. His accoutrements are, a bullet-pouch made from the undressed skin of the mountain cat, and a huge crescent-shaped horn, upon which he has carved many a strange souvenir. His arms consist of a long knife, a bowie, and a heavy pistol, carefully secured by a holster to the leathern belt around his waist. Add to this a rifle nearly five feet long, taking ninety to the pound, and so straight that the line of the barrel scarcely deflects from that of the butt. But little attention has been paid to ornament in either his dress, arms, or equipments; and yet there is a gracefulness in the hang of his tunic-like shirt; a stylishness about the fringing of the cape and leggings; and a jauntiness in the set of that coon-skin cap that shows the wearer to be not altogether unmindful of his personal appearance. A small pouch or case, neatly embroidered with stained porcupine quills, hangs upon his breast. At intervals he contemplates this with a pleased and complacent look. It is his pipe-holder: a love-token from some dark-eyed, dark-haired damsel, no doubt, like himself a denizen of the wild wilderness. Such is the tout ensemble of a mountain trapper. There were many around him whom I have described almost similarly attired and equipped. Some wore slouch hats of greyish felt, and some catskin caps. Some had hunting-shirts bleached to a brighter hue, and broidered with gayer colours. Others looked more tattered and patched, and smoky; yet in the costume of all there was enough of character to enable you to class them. There was no possibility of mistaking the regular mountain man. The third group that attracted my attention was at a greater distance from the spot I occupied. I was filled with curiosity, not to say astonishment, on perceiving that they were Indians. “Can they be prisoners?” thought I. “No; they are not bound. There are no signs of captivity either in their looks or gestures, and yet they are Indians. Can they belong to the band, fighting against—?” As I sat conjecturing, a hunter passed near me. “Who are these Indians?” I asked, indicating the group. “Delawares; some Shawnees.” These, then, were the celebrated Delawares, descendants of that great tribe who, on the Atlantic shores, first gave battle to the pale-faced invader. Theirs had been a wonderful history. War their school, war their worship, war their pastime, war their profession. They are now but a remnant. Their story will soon be ended. I rose up, and approached them with a feeling of interest. Some of them were sitting around the fire, smoking out of curiously-carved pipes of the red claystone. Others strode back and forth with that majestic gait for which the forest Indian has been so much celebrated. There was a silence among them that contrasted strangely with the jabbering kept up by their Mexican allies. An occasional question put in a deep-toned, sonorous voice, a short but emphatic reply, a guttural grunt, a dignified nod, a gesture with the hand; and thus they conversed, as they filled their pipe-bowls with the kini-kin-ik, and passed the valued instruments from one to another. I stood gazing upon these stoical sons of the forest with emotions stronger than curiosity, as one contemplates for the first time an object of which he has heard and read strange accounts. The history of their wars and their wanderings were fresh in my memory. Before me were the actors themselves, or types of them, in all their truthful reality, in all their wild picturesqueness. These were the men who, driven from their homes by the Atlantic border, yielded only to fate—to the destiny of their race. Crossing the Appalachian range, they had fought their way from home to home, down the steep sides of the Alleghany, along the wooded banks of the Ohio, into the heart of the “Bloody Ground.” Still the pale-face followed on their track, and drove them onward, onward towards the setting sun. Red wars, Punic faith, broken treaties, year after year, thinned their ranks. Still, disdaining to live near their white conquerors, they pushed on, fighting their way through tribes of their own race and colour thrice their numbers! The forks of the Osage became their latest resting-place. Here the usurper promised to guarantee them a home, to be theirs to all time. The concession came too late. War and wandering had grown to be part of their natures; and with a scornful pride they disdained the peaceful tillage of the soil. The remnant of their tribe was collected on the Osage, but in one season it had disappeared. The braves and young men wandered away, leaving only the old, the women, and the worthless in their allotted home. Where have they gone? Where are they now? He who would find the Delawares must seek them on the broad prairies, in the mountain parks, in the haunts of the bear and the beaver, the big-horn and the buffalo. There he may find them, in scattered bands, leagued with their ancient enemies the whites, or alone, trapping, hunting, fighting the Yuta or Rapaho, the Crow or Cheyenne, the Navajo and the Apache. I stood gazing upon the group with feelings of profound interest, upon their features and their picturesque habiliments. Though no two of them were dressed exactly alike, there was a similarity about the dress of all. Most of them wore hunting-shirts, not made of deer-skin like those of the whites, but of calico, printed in bright patterns. This dress, handsomely fashioned and fringed, under the accoutrements of the Indian warrior, presented a striking appearance. But that which chiefly distinguished the costumes of both the Delaware and Shawano from that of their white allies was the head-dress. This was, in fact, a turban, formed by binding the head with a scarf or kerchief of a brilliant colour, such as may be seen on the dark Creoles of Hayti. In the group before me no two of these turbans were alike, yet they were all of a similar character. The finest were those made by the chequered kerchiefs of Madras. Plumes surmounted them of coloured feathers from the wing of the war-eagle, or the blue plumage of the gruya. For the rest of their costume they wore deer-skin leggings and moccasins, nearly similar to those of the trappers. The leggings of some were ornamented by scalp-locks along the outer seam, exhibiting a dark history of the wearer’s prowess. I noticed that their moccasins were peculiar, differing altogether from those worn by the Indians of the prairies. They were seamed up the fronts, without braiding or ornament, and gathered into a double row of plaits. The arms and equipments of these warrior men were like those of the white hunters. They have long since discarded the bow; and in the management of the rifle most of them can “draw a bead” and hit “plumb centre” with any of their mountain associates. In addition to the firelock and knife, I noticed that they still carried the ancient weapon of their race, the fearful tomahawk. I have described three characteristic groups that struck me on glancing over the camp ground. There were individuals belonging to neither, and others partaking of the character of one or all. There were Frenchmen, Canadian voyageurs, strays of the north-west company, wearing white capotes, and chatting, dancing, and singing their boat-songs with all the ésprit of their race. There were pueblos, Indios manzos, clad in their ungraceful tilmas, and rather serving than associating with those around them. There were mulattoes, too, and negroes of a jetty blackness from the plantations of Louisiana, who had exchanged for this free, roving life the twisted “cow-skin” of the overseer. There were tattered uniforms showing the deserters who had wandered from some frontier post into this remote region. There were Kanakas from the Sandwich Isles, who had crossed the deserts from California. There were men apparently of every hue and clime and tongue here assembled, drawn together by the accidents of life, by the instinct of adventure—all more or less strange individuals of the strangest band it has ever been my lot to witness: the band of the Scalp-Hunters! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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