Garrard reached St. Louis on his way to the Rocky Mountains in July, 1846, and there became acquainted with the firm of Pierre Chouteau, Jr., & Co., so well known in the fur trade of the West. Here, too, he met Kenneth McKenzie, one of the first traders with the Blackfeet Indians, and Mr. St. Vrain.
To the modern reader it seems odd to see it stated in the first two lines of the book that a part of the necessary preparations for the trip before him was the “laying in a good store of caps, fine glazed powder, etc.,” but in those days the percussion cap was still a new thing, and of the guns used west of the Missouri River the great majority still used the flint to strike fire to the charge.
Besides Garrard, there were others in St. Vrain’s company, who were new to the plains. Of these one was Drinker, a Cincinnati editor; another, a Mr. Chadwick. Besides these there were General Lee of St. Louis, a friend or two of St. Vrain’s, and various employees of the traders.
Bent’s train was encamped not far from Westport, and here Garrard got his first taste of wild life, sleeping on the ground in the open. Here, too, he saw his first Indians, the Wyandottes, who, in 1843, had been moved westward from their homes in Ohio. Here, of course, he met those who for months were to be his travelling companions, and he paints us a fresh picture of them in these pleasing words:
“There were eighteen or twenty Canadian Frenchmen (principally from St. Louis) composing part of our company, as drivers of the teams. As I have ever been a lover of sweet, simple music, their beautiful and piquant songs in the original language fell most harmoniously on the ear, as we lay wrapped in our blankets.
“On the first of September, Mr. St. Vrain’s arrival infused some life into our proceedings, but nothing more worthy of note occurred, except riding and looking at horses, of which Drinker and I were in need; one of which, Frank De Lisle, ‘le maitre de wagon,’ sold me for fifty dollars, whom, from his fanciful color, brown and white spots, and white eyes, was designated by the descriptive though not euphonious name of, ‘Paint.’ He was a noted buffalo chaser, and I anticipated much excitement through his services.
“The way the mules were broken to wagon harness would have astonished the ‘full-blooded’ animals of Kentucky and other horse-raising States exceedingly. It was a treatment none but hardy Mexican or scrub mules could survive. They first had to be lassoed by our expert Mexican, Bias, their heads drawn up to a wagon wheel, with scarce two inches of spare rope to relax the tight noose on their necks, and starved for twenty-four hours to subdue their fiery tempers; then harnessed to a heavy wagon, lashed unmercifully when they did not pull, whipped still harder when they ran into still faster speed, until, after an hour’s bewilderment, and plunging and kicking, they became tractable and broken down—a labor-saving operation, with the unflinching motto of ‘kill or cure.’”
The pulling out of the train from near Westport was an interesting and exciting event. Teamsters were shouting to their newly yoked bulls; the herders were driving along the caballada; mounted men were hurrying back and forth; the leader of the company and his wagon-master were constantly passing to and fro from one end of the train to the other, seeing how things went, and looking for weak spots among the teams and the wagons. A few days later came the first rain-storm—a dismal occasion to the young traveller on the plains. There are few old plainsmen but can still recall something of the discomfort of a long day’s travel in the storm; of the camping at night with clothing thoroughly wet and bodies thoroughly chilled, and the sitting or lying, or perhaps even sleeping in the wet clothing. “The wagons being full of goods, and we without tents, a cheerless, chilling, soaking, wet night was the consequence. As the water penetrated, successively, my blanket, coat, and shirt, and made its way down my back, a cold shudder came over me; in the gray, foggy morning a more pitiable set of hungry, shaking wretches were never seen. Oh! but it was hard on the poor greenhorns!”
At Council Grove, which they reached the last of September, the train remained for two days, and as this was the last place travelling westward where hardwood could be procured, the men felled hickories and oaks for spare axle-trees, and swung the pieces under their wagons. Young Garrard was an eager hunter, and set out from camp in search of wild turkeys, whose cries he could hear, but he got none.
Here is another picture of that early life which may call up in the minds of some readers pleasant memories of early days when they, too, were a part of such things: “So soon as a faint streak of light appears in the east, the cry ‘turn out’ is given by De Lisle; all rise, and, in half an hour, the oxen are yoked, hitched and started. For the purpose of bringing everything within a small compass, the wagons are corralled; that is, arranged in the form of a pen, when camp is made; and as no animals in that country are caught without a lasso, they are much easier noosed if driven in the corral. There, no dependence must be placed in any but one’s self; and the sooner he rises, when the cry is given, the easier can he get his horse.