he bank, on their way to
the common rendezvous at Independence. On a rainy day, near sunset, we
reached the landing of this place, which is situated some miles from
the river, on the extreme frontier of Missouri. The scene was
characteristic, for here were represented at one view the most
remarkable features of this wild and enterprising region. On the muddy
shore stood some thirty or forty dark slavish-looking Spaniards, gazing
stupidly out from beneath their broad hats. They were attached to one of
the Santa Fe companies, whose wagons were crowded together on the banks
above. 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. We
overtook on the way our late fellow-travelers, the Kansas Indians, who,
adorned with all their finery, were proceeding homeward at a round pace;
and whatever they might have seemed on board the boat, they made a very
striking and picturesque feature in the forest landscape.

Westport was full of Indians, whose little shaggy ponies were tied by
dozens along the houses and fences. Sacs and Foxes, with shaved heads
and painted faces, Shawanoes and Delawares, fluttering in calico frocks,
and turbans, Wyandottes dressed like white men, and a few wretched
Kansas wrapped in old blankets, were strolling about the streets, or
lounging