In the midst of these,
crouching over a smoldering fire, was a group of Indians, belonging
to a remote Mexican tribe. One or two French hunters from the
mountains with their long hair and buckskin dresses, were looking at
the boat; and seated on a log close at hand were three men, with
rifles lying across their knees. The foremost of these, a tall,
strong figure, with a clear blue eye and an open, intelligent face,
might very well represent that race of restless and intrepid pioneers
whose axes and rifles have opened a path from the Alleghenies to the
western prairies. He was on his way to Oregon, probably a more
congenial field to him than any that now remained on this side the
great plains.
Early on the next morning we reached Kansas, about five hundred miles
from the mouth of the Missouri. Here we landed and leaving our
equipments in charge of my good friend Colonel Chick, whose log-house
was the substitute for a tavern, we set out in a wagon for Westport,
where we hoped to procure mules and horses for the journey.
It was a remarkably fresh and beautiful May morning. The rich and
luxuriant woods through which the miserable road conducted us were
lighted by the bright sunshine and enlivened by a multitude of birds.
