boots" of still coarser fabric, with the pantaloons tucked under
_brogans_ of unstained calf-skin, and moccasins of varied cut,
betokening the fashion of more than one Indian tribe. You may see limbs
encased in calzoneros, and others in the heavy stamped leather _botas_
of the Mexican horseman, resembling the greaves of warriors of the olden
time.

The heels of all are armed, though their armature is as varied as the
costumes. There are spurs of silver and steel, some plated, and some
with the plating worn off; some strapped, and others screwed into the
heel of the boot; some light, with small rowels and tiny teeth, while
others are seen (the heavy spur of Mexico) of several pounds' weight,
with rowels five inches in diameter, and teeth that might be dashed
through the ribs of a horse!--cruel weapons of the Mexican _cavallero_.

But these spurs in the piazza, these botas and calzoneros, these mangas
and serapes, are not worn by _Mexicans_. Their present wearers are men
of a different race. Most of those tall stalwart bodies are the product
of the maize-plant of Kentucky and Tennessee, or the buckwheat and
"hog-meat" of the fertile flats of Ohio, Indiana, and the Illinois.
They are the squatters and hunters of the backwoods, the farmers of the
great western slopes of the Alleghanies, the boatmen of the Mississippi,
the pioneers of Arkansas and Missouri, the trappers of prairie-land, the
_voyageurs_ of the lake-country, the young planters of the lower states,
the French Creoles of Louisiana, the adventurous settlers of Texas, with
here and there a gay city spark from the larger towns of the "great
west." Yes, and from other sources are individuals of that mixed band.
I recognise the Teutonic type--the fair hair and whitish-yellow
moustache of the German, the florid Englishman, the staid Scot, and his
contrast the noisy Hibernian; both equally brave. I behold the adroit
and nimble Frenchman, full of laugh and chatter, the stanch soldierly
Swiss, and the moustached exile of Poland, dark, sombre, and silent.
What a study for an ethnologist is that band of odd-looking men! Who
are they?

You have thrice asked the question. I answer it. They are a corps of
"Rangers"--_the guerilla of the American army_.

And who am I? I am their captain--their chief.

Yes, I am the leader of that queer crew; and, despite their rough motley
aspect, I dare affirm, that not in Europe, not in America elsewhere, not
upon the great gl