The Revenant: The bestselling book that inspired the award-winning movie

The Revenant: The bestselling book that inspired the award-winning movie Michael Punke Winner of 3 OSCARS including BEST DIRECTOR and BEST ACTORWinner of 5 BAFTAS including Best Actor, Best Director and Best FilmWinner of the 2016 Golden Globes for Best Motion Picture – Drama, Best Actor – Drama, and Best DirectorThe novel that inspired the epic new movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hardy.Hugh Glass isn’t afraid to die. He’s done it once already.Rocky Mountains, 1823The trappers of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company live a brutal frontier life. Hugh Glass is one of the most respected men in the company, an experienced frontiersman and an expert tracker.But when a scouting mission puts Glass face-to-face with a grizzly bear, he is viciously mauled and not expected to survive. Two men from the company are ordered to remain with him until his inevitable death. But, fearing an imminent attack, they abandon Glass, stripping him of his prized rifle and hatchet.As Glass watches the men flee, he is driven to survive by one all-consuming desire: revenge. With shocking grit and determination, he sets out on a three-thousand-mile journey across the harsh American frontier, to seek revenge on the men who betrayed him.The Revenant is a remarkable tale of obsession and the lengths that one man will go to for retribution. Copyright (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) The Borough Press An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 Originally published in 2002 by Carroll & Graf Copyright © Michael Punke 2002 Map © Jeffrey L. Ward 2002 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 The Revenant film artwork © 2015 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Michael Punke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780007521326 Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780008117597 Version: 2015-11-24 Dedication (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) For my parents, Marilyn and Butch Punke Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. —Rom. 12:19 Contents Cover (#u20abea5c-81da-5371-8d7c-460646b29197) Title Page (#u7f84b196-ff36-56ba-89b7-dffaf5d6df4b) Copyright Dedication Epigraph (#udbf82e05-f9b5-54c7-9bd2-2e08281e560d) Map (#u63902e18-804c-54ea-807a-213d68f4e8a4) September 1, 1823 Part One Chapter One: August 21, 1823 Chapter Two: August 23, 1823 Chapter Three: August 24, 1823 Chapter Four: August 28, 1823 Chapter Five: August 30, 1823 Chapter Six: August 31, 1823 Chapter Seven: September 2, 1823—Morning Chapter Eight: September 2, 1823—Afternoon Chapter Nine: September 8, 1823 Chapter Ten: September 15, 1823 Chapter Eleven: September 16, 1823 Chapter Twelve: September 17, 1823 Chapter Thirteen: October 5, 1823 Chapter Fourteen: October 6, 1823 Chapter Fifteen: October 9, 1823 Part Two Chapter Sixteen: November 29, 1823 Chapter Seventeen: December 5, 1823 Chapter Eighteen: December 6, 1823 Chapter Nineteen: December 8, 1823 Chapter Twenty: December 15, 1823 Chapter Twenty-One: December 31, 1823 Chapter Twenty-Two: February 27, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Three: March 6, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Four: March 7, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Five: March 28, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Six: April 14, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Seven: April 28, 1824 Chapter Twenty-Eight: May 7, 1824 Historical Note Acknowledgments Key Sources About the Author Also by Michael Punke About the Publisher September 1, 1823 (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) They were abandoning him. The wounded man knew it when he looked at the boy, who looked down, then away, unwilling to hold his gaze. For days, the boy had argued with the man in the wolf-skin hat. Has it really been days? The wounded man had battled his fever and pain, never certain whether conversations he heard were real, or merely by-products of the delirious wanderings in his mind. He looked up at the soaring rock formation above the clearing. A lone, twisted pine had managed somehow to grow from the sheer face of the stone. He had stared at it many times, yet it had never appeared to him as it did at that moment, when its perpendicular lines seemed clearly to form a cross. He accepted for the first time that he would die there in that clearing by the spring. The wounded man felt an odd detachment from the scene in which he played the central role. He wondered briefly what he would do in their position. If they stayed and the war party came up the creek, all of them would die. Would I die for them … if they were certain to die anyway? “You sure they’re coming up the creek?” The boy’s voice cracked as he said it. He could effect a tenor most of the time, but his tone still broke at moments he could not control. The man in the wolf skin stooped hurriedly by the small meat rack near the fire, stuffing strips of partially dried venison into his parfleche. “You want to stay and find out?” The wounded man tried to speak. He felt again the piercing pain in his throat. Sound came forth, but he could not shape it into the one word he sought to articulate. The man in the wolf skin ignored the sound as he continued to gather his few belongings, but the boy turned. “He’s trying to say something.” The boy dropped on one knee next to the wounded man. Unable to speak, the man raised his working arm and pointed. “He wants his rifle,” said the boy. “He wants us to set him up with his rifle.” The man in the wolf skin covered the ground between them in quick, measured steps. He kicked the boy hard, square in the back. “Move, goddamn you!” He strode quickly from the boy to the wounded man, who lay next to the meager pile of his possessions: a possibles bag, a knife in a beaded scabbard, a hatchet, a rifle, and a powder horn. As the wounded man watched helplessly, the man in the wolf skin stooped to pick up the possibles bag. He dug inside for the flint and steel, dropping them into the pocket on the front of his leather tunic. He grabbed the powder horn and slung it over his shoulder. The hatchet he tucked under his broad leather belt. “What’re you doing?” asked the boy. The man stooped again, picked up the knife, and tossed it to the boy. “Take that.” The boy caught it, staring in horror at the scabbard in his hand. Only the rifle remained. The man in the wolf skin picked it up, checking quickly to ensure it was charged. “Sorry, old Glass. You ain’t got much more use for any of this.” The boy appeared stunned. “We can’t leave him without his kit.” The man in the wolf skin looked up briefly, then disappeared into the woods. The wounded man stared up at the boy, who stood there for a long moment with the knife—his knife. Finally, the boy raised his eyes. At first it appeared that he might say something. Instead, he spun around and fled into the pines. The wounded man stared at the gap in the trees where they had disappeared. His rage was complete, consuming him as fire envelops the needles of a pine. He wanted nothing in the world except to place his hands around their necks and choke the life from them. Instinctively he started to yell out, forgetting again that his throat produced no words, only pain. He raised himself on his left elbow. He could bend his right arm slightly, but it would support no weight. The movement sent agonizing bolts through his neck and back. He felt the strain of his skin against the crude sutures. He looked down at his leg, where the bloody remnants of an old shirt were tightly wrapped. He could not flex his thigh to make the leg work. Marshaling his strength, he rolled heavily to his stomach. He felt the snap of a suture breaking and the warm wetness of new blood on his back. The pain diluted to nothing against the tide of his rage. Hugh Glass began to crawl. PART ONE (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) ONE (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) August 21, 1823 (#ucf88d01f-9da5-532f-a66b-84de15e87328) “My keelboat from St. Louis is due here any day, Monsieur Ashley.” The portly Frenchman explained it again in his patient but insistent tone. “I’ll gladly sell the Rocky Mountain Fur Company the entire contents of the boat—but I can’t sell you what I don’t have.” William H. Ashley slammed his tin cup on the crude slats of the table. The carefully groomed gray of his beard did not conceal the tight clench of his jaw. For its part, the clenched jaw seemed unlikely to contain another outburst, as Ashley found himself confronting again the one thing he despised above all else—waiting. The Frenchman, with the unlikely name of Kiowa Brazeau, watched Ashley with growing trepidation. Ashley’s presence at Kiowa’s remote trading post presented a rare opportunity, and Kiowa knew that the successful management of this relationship could lay a permanent foundation for his venture. Ashley was a prominent man in St. Louis business and politics, a man with both the vision to bring commerce to the West and the money to make it happen. “Other people’s money,” as Ashley had called it. Skittish money. Nervous money. Money that would flee easily from one speculative venture to the next. Kiowa squinted behind his thick spectacles, and though his vision was not sharp, he had a keen eye for reading people. “If you will indulge me, Monsieur Ashley, perhaps I can offer one consolation while we await my boat.” Ashley offered no affirmative acknowledgment, but neither did he renew his tirade. “I need to requisition more provisions from St. Louis,” said Kiowa. “I’ll send a courier downstream tomorrow by canoe. He can carry a dispatch from you to your syndicate. You can reassure them before rumors about Colonel Leavenworth’s debacle take root.” Ashley sighed deeply and took a long sip of the sour ale, resigned, through lack of alternative, to endure this latest delay. Like it or not, the Frenchman’s advice was sound. He needed to reassure his investors before news of the battle ran unchecked through the streets of St. Louis. Kiowa sensed his opening and moved quickly to keep Ashley on a productive course. The Frenchman produced a quill, ink, and parchment, arranging them in front of Ashley and refilling the tin cup with ale. “I’ll leave you to your work, monsieur,” he said, happy for the opportunity to retreat. By the dim light of a tallow candle, Ashley wrote deep into the night: Fort Brazeau, On the Missouri August 21, 1823 James D. Pickens, Esquire Pickens and Sons St. Louis Dear Mr. Pickens, It is my unfortunate responsibility to inform you of the events of the past two weeks. By their nature these events must alter—though not deter—our venture on the Upper Missouri. As you probably know by now, the men of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company were attacked by the Arikara after trading in good faith for sixty horses. The Arikara attacked without provocation, killing 16 of our men, wounding a dozen, & stealing back the horses they had feigned to sell to us the day before. In face of this attack, I was forced to retreat downstream, while at the same time requesting the aid of Colonel Leavenworth & the US Army in responding to this clear affront to the sovereign right of US citizens to traverse the Missouri unimpeded. I also requested the support of our own men, who joined me (led by Capt. Andrew Henry) at great peril, from their position at Fort Union. By August 9th, we confronted the Arikara with a combined force of 700 men, including 200 of Leavenworth’s regulars (with two howitzers) and forty men of the RMF Co. We also found allies (albeit temporary) in 400 Sioux warriors, whose enmity for the Arikara stems from historical grudge, the origin of which I do not know. Suffice it to say that our assembled forces were more than ample to carry the field, punish the Arikara for their treachery, & reopen the Missouri for our venture. That such results did not occur we owe to the unsteady timber of Colonel Leavenworth. The details of the inglorious encounter can await my return to St. Louis, but suffice it to say that the Colonel’s repeated reluctance to engage in an inferior foe allowed the entire Arikara tribe to slip our grasp, the result being the effective closure of the Missouri between Fort Brazeau & the Mandan villages. Somewhere between here and there are 900 Arikara warriors, newly entrenched, no doubt, & with new motive to foil all attempts up the Missouri. Colonel Leavenworth has returned to garrison at Fort Atkinson, where he no doubt will pass the winter in front of a warm hearth, carefully mulling his options. I do not intend to wait for him. Our venture, as you know, can ill-afford the loss of eight months. Ashley stopped to read his text, unhappy with its dour tone. The letter reflected his anger, but did not convey his predominant emotion—a bedrock optimism, an unwavering faith in his own ability to succeed. God had placed him in a garden of infinite bounty, a Land of Goshen in which any man could prosper if only he had the courage and the fortitude to try. Ashley’s weaknesses, which he confessed forthrightly, were simply barriers to be overcome by some creative combination of his strengths. Ashley expected setbacks, but he would not tolerate failure. We must turn this misfortune to our benefit, press on while our competitors take pause. With the Missouri effectively closed, I have decided to send two groups West by alternate route. Captain Henry I have already dispatched up the Grand River. He will ascend the Grand as far as possible and make his way back to Fort Union. Jedidiah Smith will lead a second troop up the Platte, his target the waters of the Great Basin. You no doubt share my intense frustration at our delay. We must now move boldly to recapture lost time. I have instructed Henry and Smith that they shall not return to St. Louis with their harvest in the Spring. Rather, we shall go to them—rendezvous in the field to exchange their furs for fresh supplies. We can save four months this way, & repay at least some portion of our debt to the clock. Meanwhile, I propose a new fur troop be raised in St. Louis & dispatched in the Spring, led by me personally. The remnants of the candle sputtered and spit foul black smoke. Ashley looked up, suddenly aware of the hour, of his deep fatigue. He dipped the quill and returned to his correspondence, writing firmly and quickly now as he drew his report to its conclusion: I urge you to communicate to our syndicate—in strongest possible terms—my complete confidence in the inevitable success of our endeavor. A great bounty has been laid by Providence before us, & we must not fail to summon the courage to claim our rightful share. Your Very Humble Servant, William H. Ashley Two days later, August 16, 1823, Kiowa Brazeau’s keelboat arrived from St. Louis. William Ashley provisioned his men and sent them west on the same day. The first rendezvous was set for the summer of 1824, the location to be communicated through couriers. Without understanding fully the significance of his decisions, William H. Ashley had invented the system that would define the era. TWO (#ulink_caa1ab5a-ff9c-5127-b374-8d38c698e5fe) August 23, 1823 (#ulink_caa1ab5a-ff9c-5127-b374-8d38c698e5fe) Eleven men hunkered in the camp with no fire. The camp took advantage of a slight embankment on the Grand River, but the plain afforded little contour to conceal their position. A fire would have signaled their presence for miles, and stealth was the trappers’ best ally against another attack. Most of the men used the last hour of daylight to clean rifles, repair moccasins, or eat. The boy had been asleep from the moment they stopped, a crumpled tangle of long limbs and ill-shod clothing. The men fell into clusters of three or four, huddled against the bank or pressed against a rock or clump of sage, as if these minor protusions might offer protection. The usual banter of camp had been dampened by the calamity on the Missouri, and then extinguished altogether by the second attack only three nights before. When they spoke at all they spoke in hushed and pensive tones, respectful of the comrades who lay dead in their trail, heedful of the dangers still before them. “Do you think he suffered, Hugh? I can’t get it out of my head that he was suffering away, all that time.” Hugh Glass looked up at the man, William Anderson, who had posed the question. Glass thought for a while before he answered, “I don’t think your brother suffered.” “He was the oldest. When we left Kentucky, our folks told him to look after me. Didn’t say a word to me. Wouldn’t have occurred to them.” “You did your best for your brother, Will. It’s a hard truth, but he was dead when that ball hit him three days ago.” A new voice spoke from the shadows near the bank. “Wish we’d have buried him then, instead of dragging him for two days.” The speaker perched on his haunches, and in the growing darkness his face showed little feature except a dark beard and a white scar. The scar started near the corner of his mouth and curved down and around like a fishhook. Its prominence was magnified by the fact that no hair grew on the tissue, cutting a permanent sneer through his beard. His right hand worked the stout blade of a skinning knife over a whetstone as he spoke, mixing his words with a slow, rasping scrape. “Keep your mouth shut, Fitzgerald, or I swear on my brother’s grave I’ll rip out your bloody tongue.” “Your brother’s grave? Not much of a grave now, was it?” The men within earshot paid sudden attention, surprised at this conduct, even from Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald felt the attention, and it encouraged him. “More just a pile of rocks. You think he’s still in there, moldering away?” Fitzgerald paused for a moment, so that the only sound was the scraping of the blade on the stone. “I doubt it—speaking for myself.” Again he waited, calibrating the effect of his words as he spoke them. “Course, could be the rocks kept the varmints off. But I think the coyotes are dragging little bits of him across …” Anderson lunged at Fitzgerald with both hands extended. Fitzgerald brought his leg up sharply as he rose to meet the attack, his shin catching Anderson full-force in the groin. The kick folded Anderson in two, as if some hidden cord drew his neck to his knees. Fitzgerald drove his knee into the helpless man’s face and Anderson flipped backward. Fitzgerald moved spryly for someone his size, pouncing to pin his knee against the chest of the gasping, bleeding man. He put the skinning knife to Anderson’s throat. “You want to go join your brother?” Fitzgerald pressed the knife so that the blade drew a thin line of blood. “Fitzgerald,” Glass said in an even but authoritative tone. “That’s enough.” Fitzgerald looked up. He contemplated an answer to Glass’s challenge, while noting with satisfaction the ring of men that now surrounded him, witnesses to Anderson’s pathetic position. Better to claim victory, he decided. He’d see to Glass another day. Fitzgerald removed the blade from Anderson’s throat and rammed the knife into the beaded sheath on his belt. “Don’t start things you can’t finish, Anderson. Next time I’ll finish it for you.” Captain Andrew Henry pushed his way through the circle of spectators. He grabbed Fitzgerald from behind and ripped him backward, pushing him hard into the embankment. “One more fight and you’re out, Fitzgerald.” Henry pointed beyond the perimeter of the camp to the distant horizon. “If you’ve got an extra store of piss you can go try making it on your own.” The captain looked around him at the rest of the men. “We’ll cover forty miles tomorrow. You’re wasting time if you’re not asleep already. Now, who’s taking first watch?” No one stepped forward. Henry’s eyes came to rest on the boy, oblivious to the commotion. Henry took a handful of determined steps to the crumpled form. “Get up, Bridger.” The boy sprang up, wide-eyed as he grasped, bewildered, for his gun. The rusted trading musket had been an advance on his salary, along with a yellowed powder horn and a handful of flints. “I want you a hundred yards downstream. Find a high spot along the bank. Pig, the same thing upstream. Fitzgerald, Anderson—you’ll take the second watch.” Fitzgerald had stood watch the night before. For a moment it appeared he would protest the distribution of labor. He thought better of it, sulking instead to the edge of the camp. The boy, still disoriented, half stumbled across the rocks that spilled along the river’s edge, disappearing into the cobalt blackness that encroached on the brigade. The man they called “Pig” was born Phineous Gilmore on a dirt-poor farm in Kentucky. No mystery surrounded his nickname: he was enormous and he was filthy. Pig smelled so bad it confused people. When they encountered his reek, they looked around him for the source, so implausible did it seem that the odor could emanate from a human. Even the trappers, who placed no particular premium on cleanliness, did their best to keep Pig downwind. After hoisting himself slowly to his feet, Pig slung his rifle over his shoulder and ambled upstream. Less than an hour passed before the daylight receded completely. Glass watched as Captain Henry returned from a nervous check of the sentries. He picked his way by moonlight among the sleeping men, and Glass realized that he and Henry were the only men awake. The captain chose the ground next to Glass, leaning against his rifle as he eased his large frame to the ground. Repose took the weight off his tired feet, but failed to relieve the pressure he felt most heavily. “I want you and Black Harris to scout tomorrow,” said Captain Henry. Glass looked up, disappointed that he could not respond to the beckoning call of sleep. “Find something to shoot in late afternoon. We’ll risk a fire.” Henry lowered his voice, as if making a confession. “We’re way behind, Hugh.” Henry gave every indication that he intended to talk for a while. Glass reached for his rifle. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well tend his weapon. He had doused it in a river crossing that afternoon and wanted to apply fresh grease to the trigger works. “Cold’ll set in hard by early December,” continued the captain. “We’ll need two weeks to lay in a supply of meat. If we’re not on the Yellowstone before October we’ll have no fall hunt.” If Captain Henry was racked by internal doubt, his commanding physical presence betrayed no infirmity. The band of leather fringe on his deerskin tunic cut a swath across his broad shoulders and chest, remnants of his former profession as a lead miner in the Saint Genevieve district of Missouri. He was narrow at the waist, where a thick leather belt held a brace of pistols and a large knife. His breeches were doeskin to the knee, and from there down red wool. The captain’s pants had been specially tailored in St. Louis and were a badge of his wilderness experience. Leather provided excellent protection, but wading made it heavy and cold. Wool, by contrast, dried quickly and retained heat even when wet. If the brigade he led was motley, Henry at least drew satisfaction from the fact they called him “captain.” In truth, of course, Henry knew the title was an artifice. His band of trappers had nothing to do with the military, and scant respect for any institution. Still, Henry was the only man among them to have trod and trapped the Three Forks. If title meant little, experience was the coin of the realm. The captain paused, waiting for acknowledgment from Glass. Glass looked up from his rifle. It was a brief look, because he had unscrewed the elegantly scrolled guard that covered the rifle’s twin triggers. He cupped the two screws carefully in his hand, afraid of dropping them in the dark. The glance sufficed, enough to encourage Henry to continue. “Did I ever tell you about Drouillard?” “No, Captain.” “You know who he was?” “George Drouillard—Corps of Discovery?” Henry nodded his head. “Lewis and Clark man, one of their best—a scout and a hunter. In 1809 he signed up with a group I led—he led, really—to the Three Forks. We had a hundred men, but Drouillard and Colter was the only ones who’d ever been there. “We found beaver thick as mosquitoes. Barely had to trap ’em—could go out with a club. But we ran into trouble with the Blackfeet from the start. Five men killed before two weeks was up. We had to fort up, couldn’t send out trapping parties. “Drouillard holed up there with the rest of us for about a week before he said he was tired of sitting still. He went out the next day and came back a week later with twenty plews.” Glass paid the captain his full attention. Every citizen of St. Louis knew some version of Drouillard’s story, but Glass had never heard a first-person account. “He did that twice, went out and came back with a pack of plews. Last thing he said before he left the third time was, ‘Third time’s charmed.’ He rode off and we heard two gunshots about half an hour later—one from his rifle and one from his pistol. Second shot must have been him shooting his horse, trying to make a barrier. That’s where we found him, behind his horse. There must have been twenty arrows between him and the horse. Blackfeet left the arrows in, wanted to send us a message. They hacked him up, too—cut off his head.” The captain paused again, scraping at the dirt in front of him with a pointed stick. “I keep thinking about him.” Glass searched for words of reassurance. Before he could say anything the captain asked, “How long do you figure this river’s gonna keep running west?” Glass stared intently, now, searching for the captain’s eyes. “We’ll start making better time, Captain. We can follow the Grand for the time being. We know the Yellowstone’s north and west.” In truth, Glass had developed significant doubts about the captain. Misfortune seemed to hang on him like day-before smoke. “You’re right.” The captain said it and then he said it again, as if to convince himself. “Of course you’re right.” Though his knowledge was born of calamity, Captain Henry knew as much about the geography of the Rockies as almost any man alive. Glass, though an experienced plainsman, had never set foot on the Upper Missouri. Yet Henry found something steady and reassuring in Glass’s voice. Someone had told him that Glass had been a mariner in his youth. There was even a rumor that he’d been a prisoner of the pirate Jean Lafitte. Perhaps it was those years on the empty expanse of the high seas that left him comfortable on the featureless plain between St. Louis and the Rocky Mountains. “We’ll be lucky if the Blackfeet haven’t wiped out the whole lot at Fort Union. The men I left there aren’t exactly the cream of the crop.” The captain continued now with his usual catalog of concerns. On and on into the night. Glass knew that it was enough just to listen. He looked up or grunted from time to time, but focused in the main on his rifle. Glass’s rifle was the one extravagance of his life, and when he rubbed grease into the spring mechanism of the hair trigger, he did so with the tender affection that other men might reserve for a wife or child. It was an Anstadt, a so-called Kentucky flintlock, made, like most of the great arms of the day, by German craftsmen in Pennsylvania. The octagonal barrel was inscribed at the base with the name of its maker, “Jacob Anstadt,” and the place of its manufacture, “Kutztown, Penn.” The barrel was short, only thirty-six inches. The classic Kentucky rifles were longer, some with barrels stretching fifty inches. Glass liked a shorter gun because shorter meant lighter, and lighter meant easier to carry. For those rare moments when he might be mounted, a shorter gun was easier to maneuver from the back of a horse. Besides, the expertly crafted rifling of the Anstadt made it deadly accurate, even without the longer barrel. A hair trigger enhanced its accuracy, allowing discharge with the lightest touch. With a full charge of 200 grains of black powder, the Anstadt could throw a .53 caliber ball nearly 200 yards. His experiences on the western plains had taught Glass that the performance of his rifle could mean the difference between life and death. Of course, most men in the troop had reliable weapons. It was the Anstadt’s elegant beauty that set his gun apart. It was a beauty that other men noticed, asking, as they often did, if they might hold the rifle. The iron-hard walnut of the stock took an elegant curve at the wrist, but was thick enough to absorb the recoil of a heavy powder charge. The butt featured a patchbox on one side and a carved cheek piece on the other. The stock turned gracefully at the butt, so that it fit against the shoulder like an appendage of the shooter’s own body. The stock was stained the deepest of browns, the last tone before black. From even a short distance, the grain of the wood was imperceptible, but on close examination, irregular lines seemed to swirl, animated beneath the hand-rubbed coats of varnish. In a final indulgence, the metal fittings of the rifle were silver instead of the usual brass, adorning the gun at the butt-plate, the patchbox, the trigger guard, the triggers themselves, and the cupped fittings on the ends of the ramstaff. Many trappers pounded brass studs into their rifle stocks for decoration. Glass could not imagine such a gaudy disfigurement of his Anstadt. Satisfied that his rifle’s works were clear, Glass returned the trigger guard to its routed groove and replaced the two screws that held it. He poured fresh powder in the pan beneath the flint, ensuring that the gun was primed to fire. He noticed suddenly that the camp had fallen still, and wondered vaguely when the captain had stopped talking. Glass looked toward the center of the camp. The captain lay sleeping, his body twitching fitfully. On the other side of Glass, closest to the camp’s perimeter, Anderson lay against a chunk of driftwood. No sound rose above the reassuring flow of the river. The sharp crack of a flintlock pierced the quiet. It came from downstream—from Jim Bridger, the boy. The sleeping men lurched in unison, fearful and confused as they scrambled for weapons and cover. A dark form hurtled toward the camp from downstream. Next to Glass, Anderson cocked and raised his rifle in a single motion. Glass raised the Anstadt. The hurtling form took shape, only forty yards from the camp. Anderson sighted down the barrel, hesitating an instant before pulling the trigger. At the same instant, Glass swung the Anstadt beneath Anderson’s arms. The force knocked Anderson’s barrel skyward as his powder ignited. The hurtling form stopped cold at the explosion of the shot, the distance now close enough to perceive the wide eyes and heaving chest. It was Bridger. “I … I … I …” A panicked stammer paralyzed him. “What happened, Bridger?” demanded the captain, peering beyond the boy into the darkness downstream. The trappers had fallen into a defensive semicircle with the embankment behind them. Most had assumed a firing position, perched on one knee, rifles at full cock. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to fire. I heard a sound, a crash in the brush. I stood up and I guess the hammer slipped. It just went off.” “More likely you fell asleep.” Fitzgerald uncocked his rifle and rose from his knee. “Every buck for five miles is headed our way now.” Bridger started to speak, but searched in vain for the words to express the depth of his shame and regret. He stood there, open-mouthed, staring in horror at the men arrayed before him. Glass stepped forward, pulling Bridger’s smoothbore from his hands. He cocked the musket and pulled the trigger, catching the hammer with his thumb before the flint struck the frisson. He repeated the action. “This is a poor excuse for a weapon, Captain. Give him a decent rifle and we’ll have fewer problems on watch.” A few of the men nodded their heads. The captain looked first at Glass, then at Bridger, and he said, “Anderson, Fitzgerald—it’s your watch.” The two men took their positions, one upstream and one down. The sentries were redundant. No one slept in the few hours remaining before dawn. THREE (#ulink_337b3a8f-f2e5-5833-9cf4-9c78a25552e6) August 24, 1823 (#ulink_337b3a8f-f2e5-5833-9cf4-9c78a25552e6) Hugh Glass stared down at the cloven tracks, the deep indentions clear as newsprint in the soft mud. Two distinct sets began at the river’s edge, where the deer must have drunk, and then trailed into the heavy cover of the willows. The persistent work of a beaver had carved a trail, now trod by a variety of game. Dung lay piled next to the tracks, and Glass stooped to touch the pea-sized pellets—still warm. Glass looked west, where the sun still perched high above the plateau that formed the distant horizon. He guessed there were three hours before sunset. Still early, but it would take the captain and the rest of the men an hour to catch up. Besides, it was an ideal campsite. The river folded gently against a long bar and gravel bank. Beyond the willows, a stand of cottonwoods offered cover for their campfires and a supply of firewood. The willows were ideal for smoke racks. Glass noticed plum trees scattered among the willows, a lucky break. They could grind pemmican from the combined fruit and meat. He looked downriver. Where’s Black Harris? In the hierarchy of challenges the trappers faced each day, obtaining food was the most immediate. Like other challenges, it involved a complicated balancing of benefits and risks. They carried virtually no food with them, especially since abandoning the flatboats on the Missouri and proceeding on foot up the Grand. A few men still had tea or sugar, but most were down to a bag of salt for preserving meat. Game was plentiful on this stretch of the Grand, and they could have dined on fresh meat each night. But harvesting game meant shooting, and the sound of a rifle carried for miles, revealing their position to any foe within earshot. Since leaving the Missouri, the men had held closely to a pattern. Each day, two scouted ahead of the others. For the time being their path was fixed—they simply followed the Grand. The scouts’ primary responsibilities were to avoid Indians, select a campsite, and find food. They shot fresh game every few days. After shooting a deer or buffalo calf, the scouts prepared the camp for the evening. They bled the game, gathered wood, and set two or three small fires in narrow, rectangular pits. Smaller fires produced less smoke than a single conflagration, while also offering more surface for smoking meat and more sources of heat. If enemies did spot them at night, more fires gave the illusion of more men. Once flames were burning, the scouts butchered their game, pulling choice cuts for immediate consumption and cutting thin strips with the rest. They constructed crude racks with green willow branches, rubbed the meat strips with a little salt and hung them just above the flames. It wasn’t the type of jerky they would make in a permanent camp, which would keep for months. But the meat would keep for several days, enough to last until the next fresh game. Glass stepped from the willows into a clearing, scanning for the deer he knew must be just ahead. He saw the cubs before he saw the sow. There was a pair, and they tumbled toward him, bawling like playful dogs. The cubs had been dropped in the spring, and at five months weighed a hundred pounds each. They nipped at each other as they bore down on Glass, and for the briefest of instants the scene had a near comic quality. Transfixed by the whirling motion of the cubs, Glass had not raised his glance to the far end of the clearing, fifty yards away. Nor had he yet to calculate the certain implication of their presence. Suddenly he knew. A hollowness seized his stomach half an instant before the first rumbling growl crossed the clearing. The cubs skidded to an immediate stop, not ten feet in front of Glass. Ignoring the cubs now, Glass peered toward the brush line across the clearing. He heard her size before he saw it. Not just the crack of the thick underbrush that the sow moved aside like short grass, but the growl itself, a sound deep like thunder or a falling tree, a bass that could emanate only through connection with some great mass. The growl crescendoed as she stepped into the clearing, black eyes staring at Glass, head low to the ground as she processed the foreign scent, a scent now mingling with that of her cubs. She faced him head-on, her body coiled and taut like the heavy spring on a buckboard. Glass marveled at the animal’s utter muscularity, the thick stumps of her forelegs folding into massive shoulders, and above all the silvery hump that identified her as a grizzly. Glass struggled to control his reaction as he processed his options. His reflex, of course, screamed at him to flee. Back through the willows. Into the river. Perhaps he could dive low and escape downstream. But the bear was already too close for that, barely a hundred feet in front of him. His eyes searched desperately for a cottonwood to climb; perhaps he could scramble out of reach, then shoot from above. No, the trees were behind the bear. Nor did the willows provide sufficient cover. His options dwindled to one: Stand and shoot. One chance to stop the grizzly with a .53 caliber ball from the Anstadt. The grizzly charged, roaring with the focused hate of protective maternal rage. Reflex again nearly compelled Glass to turn and run. Yet the futility of flight was instantly apparent as the grizzly closed the ground between them with remarkable speed. Glass pulled the hammer to full-cock and raised the Anstadt, staring through the pronghorn sight in stunned horror that the animal could be, at the same time, enormous and lithe. He fought another instinct—to shoot immediately. Glass had seen grizzlies absorb half a dozen rifle balls without dying. He had one shot. Glass struggled to sight on the bouncing target of the sow’s head, unable to align a shot. At ten paces, the grizzly lifted herself to a standing position. She towered three feet over Glass as she pivoted for the raking swipe of her lethal claws. Point-blank, he aimed at the great bear’s heart and pulled the trigger. The flint sparked the Anstadt’s pan, setting off the rifle and filling the air with the smoke and smell of exploding black powder. The grizzly roared as the ball entered her chest, but her attack did not slow. Glass dropped his rifle, useless now, and reached for the knife in the scabbard on his belt. The bear brought down her paw, and Glass felt the sickening sensation of the animal’s six-inch claws dredging deep into the flesh of his upper arm, shoulder, and throat. The blow threw him to his back. The knife dropped, and he pushed furiously against the earth with his feet, futilely seeking the cover of the willows. The grizzly dropped to all fours and was on him. Glass rolled into a ball, desperate to protect his face and chest. She bit into the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground, shaking him so hard that Glass wondered if his spine might snap. He felt the crunch of her teeth striking the bone of his shoulder blade. Claws raked repeatedly through the flesh of his back and scalp. He screamed in agony. She dropped him, then sank her teeth deep into his thigh and shook him again, lifting him and throwing him to the ground with such force that he lay stunned—conscious, but unable to resist any further. He lay on his back staring up. The grizzly stood before him on her hind legs. Terror and pain receded, replaced by a horrified fascination at the towering animal. She let out a final roar, which registered in Glass’s mind like an echo across a great distance. He was aware of enormous weight on top of him. The dank smell of her coat overwhelmed his other senses. What was it? His mind searched, then locked on the image of a yellow dog, licking a boy’s face on the plank porch of a cabin. The sunlit sky above him faded to black. Black Harris heard the shot, just ahead around a bend in the river, and hoped that Glass had shot a deer. He moved forward quickly but quietly, aware that a rifle shot could mean many things. Harris began to trot when he heard the roar of the bear. Then he heard Glass scream. At the willows, Harris found the tracks of both the deer and Glass. He peered into the path cut by a beaver, listening intently. No sound rose above the hushed trickle of the river. Harris pointed the rifle from his hip, his thumb on the hammer and his forefinger near the trigger. He glanced briefly at the pistol on his belt, assuring himself it was primed. He stepped into the willows, carefully placing each moccasin as he peered ahead. The bawling of the cubs broke the silence. At the edge of the clearing Black Harris stopped to absorb the scene before him. An enormous grizzly lay sprawled on her belly, eyes open but dead. One cub stood on hind legs, pressing against the sow with its nose, futilely seeking to evoke some sign of life. The other cub rooted at something, tugging with its teeth. Harris realized suddenly it was a man’s arm. Glass. He raised his rifle and shot the nearer of the two cubs. It fell limp. The sibling scampered for the cottonwoods and disappeared. Harris reloaded before walking forward. Captain Henry and the men of the brigade heard the two shots and hurried upstream. The first shot didn’t worry the captain, but the second one did. The first shot was expected—Glass or Harris bringing down game as they had planned the night before. Two shots closely spaced also would be normal. Two men hunting together might come upon more than one target, or the first shooter might miss. But several minutes separated the two shots. The captain hoped that the hunters were working apart. Perhaps the first shooter had flushed game to the second. Or perhaps they had been lucky enough to come across buffalo. Buffalo would sometimes stand, unfazed by the clap of a rifle, allowing a hunter to reload and casually pick a second target. “Keep tight, men. And check your arms.” For the third time in a hundred paces, Bridger checked the new rifle that Will Anderson had given to him. “My brother don’t need this no more,” was all he had said. In the clearing, Black Harris looked down at the body of the bear. Only Glass’s arm protruded from underneath. Harris glanced around before setting his rifle on the ground, tugging at the bear’s foreleg in an attempt to move the carcass. Heaving, he pulled the animal far enough to see Glass’s head, a bloody tangle of hair and flesh. Jesus Christ! He worked urgently, fighting against the fear of what he would find. Harris moved to the opposite side of the bear, climbing across the animal to grab its foreleg, then tugging, his knees pressed against the grizzly’s body for leverage. After several attempts, he managed to roll the front half of the bear so that the giant animal lay twisted at the midsection. Then he pulled several times at the rear leg. He gave a final heave, and the bear tumbled heavily onto her back. Glass’s body was free. On the sow’s chest, Black Harris noticed the matted blood where Glass’s shot had found its mark. Black Harris knelt next to Glass, unsure of what to do. It was not through lack of experience with the wounded. He had removed arrows and bullets from three men, and twice had been shot himself. But he had never seen human carnage like this, fresh in the wake of attack. Glass was shredded from head to foot. His scalp lay dangling to one side, and it took Harris an instant to recognize the components that made up his face. Worst was his throat. The grizzly’s claws had cut three deep and distinct tracks, beginning at the shoulder and passing straight across his neck. Another inch and the claws would have severed Glass’s jugular. As it was, they had laid open his throat, slicing through muscle and exposing his gullet. The claws had also cut the trachea, and Harris watched, horrified, as a large bubble formed in the blood that seeped from the wound. It was the first clear sign that Glass was alive. Harris rolled Glass gently on his side to inspect his back. Nothing remained of his cotton shirt. Blood oozed from deep puncture wounds at his neck and shoulder. His right arm flopped unnaturally. From the middle of his back to his waist, the bear’s raking claws left deep, parallel cuts. It reminded Harris of tree trunks he had seen where bears mark their territory, only these marks were etched in flesh instead of wood. On the back of Glass’s thigh, blood seeped through his buckskin breeches. Harris had no idea where to begin, and was almost relieved that the throat wound appeared so obviously mortal. He pulled Glass a few yards to a grassy, shaded spot and eased him to his back. Ignoring the bubbling throat, Harris focused on the head. Glass at least deserved the dignity of wearing his scalp. Harris poured water from his canteen, attempting to wash away as much of the dirt as possible. The skin was so loose that it was almost like replacing a fallen hat on a bald man. Harris pulled the scalp across Glass’s skull, pressing the loose skin against his forehead and tucking it behind his ear. They could stitch it later if Glass lasted that long. Harris heard a sound in the brush and drew his pistol. Captain Henry stepped into the clearing. The men filed grimly behind, eyes moving from Glass to the sow, from Harris to the dead cub. The captain surveyed the clearing, oddly numb as his mind filtered the scene through the context of his own past. He shook his head and for a moment his eyes, normally sharp, seemed not to focus. “Is he dead?” “Not yet. But he’s tore to pieces. His windpipe’s cut.” “Did he kill the sow?” Harris nodded. “I found her dead on top of him. There’s a ball in her heart.” “Not soon enough, eh.” It was Fitzgerald. The captain knelt next to Glass. With grimy fingers he poked at the throat wound, where bubbles continued to form with each breath. The breathing had grown more labored, and a tepid wheeze now rose and fell with Glass’s chest. “Somebody get me a clean strip of cloth and some water—and whiskey in case he wakes up.” Bridger stepped forward, rummaging through a small satchel from his back. He pulled a wool shirt from the bag, and handed it to Henry. “Here, Captain.” The captain paused, hesitant to take the boy’s shirt. Then he grabbed it, tearing strips from the coarse cloth. He poured the contents of his canteen on Glass’s throat. Blood washed away, quickly replaced by the wound’s heavy seep. Glass began to sputter and cough. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide, panicky. Glass’s first sensation was that he was drowning. He coughed again as his body attempted to clear the blood from his throat and lungs. He focused briefly on Henry as the captain rolled him to his side. From his side, Glass was able to swallow two breaths before nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited, igniting excruciating pain in his throat. Instinctively, Glass reached to touch his neck. His right arm wouldn’t function, but his left hand found the gaping wound. He was overcome with horror and panic at what his fingers discovered. His eyes became wild, searching for reassurance in the faces surrounding him. Instead he saw the opposite—awful affirmation of his fears. Glass tried to speak, but his throat could muster no sound beyond an eerie wail. He struggled to rise on his elbows. Henry pinned him to the ground, pouring whiskey on his throat. A searing burn replaced all other pain. Glass convulsed a final time before again losing consciousness. “We need to bind his wounds while he’s down. Cut more strips, Bridger.” The boy began ripping long lengths from the shirt. The other men watched solemnly, standing like casket bearers at a funeral. The captain looked up. “Rest of you get moving. Harris, scout a wide circle around us. Make sure those shots didn’t draw attention our way. Someone get the fires going—make sure the wood’s dry—we don’t need a damn smoke signal. And get that sow butchered.” The men moved off and the captain turned again to Glass. He took a strip of cloth from Bridger and threaded it behind Glass’s neck, tying it as tightly as he dared. He repeated the action with two more strips. Blood soaked the cloth instantly. He wound another strip around Glass’s head in a crude effort to hold his scalp in place. The head wounds also bled heavily, and the captain used water and the shirt to mop the blood pooling around Glass’s eyes. He sent Bridger to refill the canteen from the river. When Bridger returned, they again rolled Glass onto his side. Bridger held him, keeping his face from the ground, while Captain Henry inspected his back. Henry poured water on the puncture wounds from the bear’s fangs. Though deep, they bled very little. The five parallel wounds from the bear’s claws were a different story. Two in particular cut deep into Glass’s back, exposing the muscle and bleeding heavily. Dirt mixed freely with the blood, and the captain again dumped water from the canteen. Without the dirt, the wounds seemed to bleed even more, so the captain left them alone. He cut two long strips from the shirt, worked them around Glass’s body and tied them tightly. It didn’t work. The strips did little to stop his back from bleeding. The captain paused to think. “These deep wounds need to be stitched or he’ll bleed to death.” “What about his throat?” “I ought to sew that up too, but it’s such a damn mess I don’t know where to start.” Henry dug into his possibles bag and pulled out coarse black thread and a heavy needle. The captain’s thick fingers were surprisingly nimble as he threaded the needle and tied an end knot. Bridger held the edges of the deepest wound together and watched, wide-eyed, as Henry pressed the needle into Glass’s skin. He worked the needle from side to side, four stitches pulling the skin together in the center of the cut. He tied off the ends of the thick thread. Of the five claw wounds on Glass’s back, two were deep enough to need stitches. For each wound, the captain made no effort to sew the entire length. Instead, he simply bound the middle together, but the bleeding slowed. “Now let’s look at his neck.” They rolled Glass onto his back. Despite the crude bandages, the throat continued to bubble and wheeze. Beneath the open skin Henry could see the bright white cartilage of the gullet and windpipe. He knew from the bubbles that the windpipe was cut or nicked, but he had no idea how to repair it. He held his hand over Glass’s mouth, feeling for breath. “What are you gonna do, Captain?” The captain tied a new end knot in the thread on the needle. “He’s still getting some air through his mouth. Best we can do is close up the skin, hope for the rest he can heal himself.” At inchwide intervals, Henry sewed stitches to close Glass’s throat. Bridger cleared a piece of ground in the shade of the willows and arranged Glass’s bedroll. They laid him there as gently as they could. The captain took his rifle and walked away from the clearing, back through the willows toward the river. When he reached the water he set his rifle on the bank and removed his leather tunic. His hands were coated in sticky blood, and he reached into the stream to wash them. When some spots would not come clean, he scooped sand from the bank and scrubbed it against the stains. Finally he gave up, cupping his hands and pressing the icy stream water to his bearded face. Familiar doubt crept back. It’s happening again. It was no surprise when the green succumbed to the wilderness, but it came as a shock when the veterans fell victim. Like Drouillard, Glass had spent years on the frontier. He was a keel, steadying others through his quiet presence. And Henry knew that by morning he would be dead. The captain thought back to his conversation with Glass the night before. Was it only last night? In 1809, Drouillard’s death had been the beginning of the end. Henry’s party abandoned the stockade in the Valley of the Three Forks and fled south. The move put them out of range of the Blackfeet, but did not protect them from the harshness of the Rockies themselves. The party endured savage cold, near starvation, and then robbery at the hands of the Crow. When they finally limped from the mountains in 1811, the viability of the fur trade remained an unsettled question. More than a decade later, Henry again found himself leading trappers in pursuit of the Rockies’ elusive wealth. In his mind Henry flipped through the pages of his own recent past: A week out of St. Louis, he lost a keelboat with $10,000 in trading goods. The Blackfeet killed two of his men near the Great Falls of the Missouri. He had rushed to Ashley’s aid at the Arikara villages, participated in the debacle with Colonel Leavenworth, and then watched the Arikara close the Missouri. In a week of overland travel up the Grand, three of his men had been killed by Mandans, normally peaceful Indians who attacked by mistake in the night. Now Glass, his best man, lay mortally wounded after stumbling upon a bear. What sin has plagued me with this curse? Back in the clearing, Bridger arranged a blanket over Glass and turned to look at the bear. Four men worked at butchering the animal. The choicest cuts—the liver, heart, tongue, loin, and ribs—were set aside for immediate consumption. The rest they cut into thin strips and rubbed with salt. Bridger walked up to the great bear’s paw and removed his knife from its scabbard. As Fitzgerald looked up from his butchering, Bridger began to cut the largest of the claws from the paw. He was shocked at its size—nearly six inches long and twice as thick as his thumb. It was razor sharp at the point and still bloody from the attack on Glass. “Who says you get a claw, boy?” “It ain’t for me, Fitzgerald.” Bridger took the claw and walked to Glass. Glass’s possibles bag lay next to him. Bridger opened it and dropped in the claw. The men gorged for hours that night, their bodies craving the rich nutrients of the greasy meat. They knew it would be days before they ate fresh meat again, and they took advantage of the feast. Captain Henry posted two sentries. Despite the relative seclusion of the clearing, he worried about the fires. Most of the men sat within reach of the flames, tending skewers of willow branches laden with meat. The captain and Bridger took turns checking on Glass. Twice his eyes were open, unfocused and glazed. They reflected the firelight, but seemed not to spark from within. Once he managed to swallow water in a painful convulsion. They fed the fire in the long pits often enough to keep heat and smoke on the racks of drying meat. In the hour before dawn, Captain Henry checked on Glass and found him unconscious. His breathing had become labored, and he rasped as if each breath required the sum total of his strength. Henry returned to the fire and found Black Harris there, gnawing on a rib. “Coulda been anyone, Captain—stepping on Old Ephraim like that. There’s no accounting for bad luck.” Henry just shook his head. He knew about luck. For a while they sat in silence, as the first hint of another day was born in a barely perceptible glow on the eastern horizon. The captain gathered his rifle and powder horn. “I’ll be back before the sun’s up. When the men wake up, pick two to dig a grave.” An hour later the captain returned. The shallow beginnings of a grave had been dug, but apparently abandoned. He looked at Harris. “What’s the hitch?” “Well, Captain—for starters he ain’t dead. Didn’t seem right to keep digging with him laying there.” They waited all morning for Hugh Glass to die. He never gained consciousness. His skin was pallid from the loss of blood and his breathing remained labored. Still, his chest rose and fell, each breath stubbornly followed by another. Captain Henry paced between the stream and the clearing, and by midmorning sent Black Harris to scout upstream. The sun stood directly overhead when Harris returned. He had seen no Indians, but a game trail on the opposite bank was covered with the tracks of men and horses. Two miles upstream Harris had found a deserted campsite. The captain could wait no more. He ordered two men to cut saplings. With Glass’s bedroll, they would fashion a litter. “Why don’t we make a travois, Captain? Use the mule to pull it?” “Too rough to pull a travois by the river.” “Then let’s move off the river.” “Just build the damn litter,” said the captain. The river was the sole marker across unknown terrain. Henry had no intention of veering so much as an inch from its banks. FOUR (#ulink_b5e16089-e708-5f8a-8a44-80a639cc8149) August 28, 1823 (#ulink_b5e16089-e708-5f8a-8a44-80a639cc8149) One by one the men reached the obstacle and stopped. The Grand River flowed directly into the steep face of a sandstone cliff, which forced it to turn. The waters swirled and pooled deeply against the wall before spreading widely toward the opposite shore. Bridger and Pig arrived last, bearing Glass between them. They eased the litter to the ground. Pig plopped heavily to his rump, panting, his shirt stained dark with sweat. Each man looked up as he arrived, quickly appreciating the two choices for moving forward. One was to climb along the steep face of the cliff. It was possible, but only by using hands as well as feet. This was the path taken by Black Harris when he had passed two hours before them. They could see his tracks and the broken branch on the sagebrush that he had grabbed to pull himself up. It was obvious that neither the litter bearers nor the mule could make the climb. The other option was to cross the river. The opposite bank was level and inviting, but the problem was getting there. The pool created by the embankment appeared at least five feet deep, and the current ran swift. Seam water toward the middle of the river marked the place where the stream shallowed. From there it was an easy wade to the other side. A surefooted man might keep his feet in the deep water, holding his rifle and powder above his head; the less agile might fall, but could certainly swim the few yards to the shallower water. Getting the mule in the river was no problem. So famous was the animal’s love of water that the men called her “Duck.” At the end of the day she would stand for hours in water up to her sagging belly. In fact, it was this odd predilection that kept the Mandans from stealing her along with the rest of their stock. While the other animals were grazing or sleeping along the shore, Duck was standing in shallow water on a sandbar. When the bandits tried to take her, she was firmly stuck in the mud. It ultimately took half the brigade to pull her out. So the problem wasn’t the mule. The problem, of course, was Glass. It would be impossible to hold the litter above the water while crossing. Captain Henry mulled his choices, cursing Harris for not leaving a sign to cross earlier. They had passed an easy ford a mile downstream. He hated to divide the men, even for a few hours, but it seemed silly to march them all back. “Fitzgerald, Anderson—it’s your turn on the litter. Bernot—you and me will go back with ’em to the crossing we passed. Rest of you cross here and wait.” Fitzgerald glared at the captain, muttering under his breath. “You got something to say, Fitzgerald?” “I signed on to be a trapper, Captain—not a goddamned mule.” “You’ll take your turn like everybody else.” “And I’ll tell you what everybody else is afraid to say to your face. We’re all wondering if you intend to drag this corpse all the way to the Yellowstone.” “I intend to do the same with him that I’d do for you or any other man in this brigade.” “What you’ll be doing for all of us is digging graves. How long do you figure we can parade through this valley before we stumble on some hunting party? Glass ain’t the only man in this brigade.” “You ain’t the only man either,” said Anderson. “Fitzgerald don’t speak for me, Captain—and I bet he don’t speak for many others.” Anderson walked to the litter, placing his rifle next to Glass. “You gonna make me drag him?” For three days they had carried Glass. The banks of the Grand alternated between sandbar and jumbled rock. Occasional stands of cottonwood gave way at the high water line to the graceful branches of willows, some reaching ten feet in height. Cut banks forced them to climb, giant scoops where erosion sliced away the earth as neatly as a cleaver. They maneuvered around the tangled debris left piled behind the spring flood—mounded stones, tangled branches, and even entire trees, their sun-bleached trunks as smooth as glass from the beating of water and stone. When the terrain became too rugged, they crossed the river to continue upstream, wet buckskins compounding the weight of their load. The river was a highway on the plains, and Henry’s men were not the only travelers on its banks. Tracks and abandoned campsites were numerous. Black Harris had twice seen small hunting parties. The distance had been too great to determine if they were Sioux or Arikara, though both tribes presented danger. The Arikara were certain enemies since the battle on the Missouri. The Sioux had been allies in that fight, but their current disposition was unknown. With only ten able men, the small party of trappers offered little deterrent to attack. At the same time, their weapons, traps, and even the mule were attractive targets. Ambush was a constant danger, with only the scouting skills of Black Harris and Captain Henry to steer them clear. Territory to cross quickly, thought the captain. Instead, they plodded forward at the leaden pace of a funeral procession. Glass slipped in and out of consciousness, though one state differed little from the other. He could occasionally take water, but the throat wounds made it impossible to swallow solid food. Twice the litter spilled, dumping Glass on the ground. The second spill broke two of the stitches in his throat. They stopped long enough for the captain to resuture the neck, red now with infection. No one bothered to inspect the other wounds. There was little they could do for them, anyway. Nor could Glass protest. His wounded throat rendered him mute, his only sound the pathetic wheeze of his breathing. At the end of the third day they arrived at the confluence of a small creek with the Grand. A quarter mile up the creek, Black Harris found a spring, surrounded by a thick stand of pines. It was an ideal campsite. Henry dispatched Anderson and Harris to find game. The spring itself was more seep than font, but its icy water filtered over mossy stones and collected in a clear pool. Captain Henry stooped to drink while he thought about the decision he had made. In three days of carrying Glass, the captain estimated they had covered only forty miles. They should have covered twice that distance or more. While Henry believed they might be beyond Arikara territory, Black Harris found more signs each day of the Sioux. Beyond his concerns about where they were, Henry fretted about where they needed to be. More than anything, he worried that they would arrive too late on the Yellowstone. Without a couple of weeks to lay in a supply of meat, the whole brigade would be at jeopardy. Late fall weather was as capricious as a deck of cards. They might find Indian summer, or the howling winds of an early blizzard. Aside from their physical safety, Henry felt enormous pressure for commercial success. With luck, a few weeks of fall hunting, and some trading with the Indians, they might net enough fur to justify sending one or two men downriver. The captain loved to imagine the effect of a fur-laden pirogue arriving in St. Louis on some bright February day. Stories of their successful establishment on the Yellowstone would headline the Missouri Republican. The press would bring new investors. Ashley could parley fresh capital into a new fur brigade by early spring. By late summer, Henry envisioned himself commanding a network of trappers up and down the Yellowstone. With enough men and trading goods, maybe he could even buy peace with the Blackfeet, and once again trap in the beaver-rich valleys of the Three Forks. By next winter it would take flatboats to carry the plews they would harvest. But it all depended upon time. Being there first and in force. Henry felt the press of competition from every point on the compass. From the north, the British North West Company had established forts as far south as the Mandan villages. The British also dominated the western coast, from which they now pushed inland along the Columbia and its tributaries. Rumors circulated that British trappers had penetrated as far as the Snake and the Green. From the south, several groups spread northward from Taos and Santa Fe: the Columbia Fur Company, the French Fur Company, StoneBostwick and Company. Most visible of all was the competition from the east, from St. Louis itself. In 1819, the U.S. Army began its “Yellowstone Expedition” with the express goal of enlarging the fur trade. Though extremely limited, the army’s presence emboldened entrepreneurs already eager to pursue the fur trade. Manuel Lisa’s Missouri Fur Company opened trade on the Platte. John Jacob Astor revived the remnants of his American Fur Company, driven from the Columbia by the British in the War of 1812, by establishing a new headquarters in St. Louis. All competed for limited sources of capital and men. Henry glanced at Glass, lying on the litter in the shade of the pines. He had never returned to the task of properly stitching Glass’s scalp. It still lay haphazardly atop his head, purple-black around the edges where dried blood now held it in place, a grotesque crown on a shattered body. The captain felt anew the polarizing mix of sympathy and anger, resentment and guilt. He could not blame Glass for the grizzly attack. The bear was simply a hazard in their path, one of many. When the troop left St. Louis, Henry knew that men would die. Glass’s wounded body merely underscored the precipice that each of them walked every day. Henry considered Glass his best man, the best mix of seasoning, skills, and disposition. The others, with the possible exception of Black Harris, he viewed as subordinates. They were younger, dumber, weaker, less experienced. But Captain Henry saw Glass as a peer. If it could happen to Glass, it could happen to anyone; it could happen to him. The captain turned from the dying man. He knew that leadership required him to make tough decisions for the good of the brigade. He knew that the frontier respected—required—independence and self-sufficiency above all else. There were no entitlements west of St. Louis. Yet the fierce individuals who comprised his frontier community were bound together by the tight weave of collective responsibility. Though no law was written, there was a crude rule of law, adherence to a covenant that transcended their selfish interests. It was biblical in its depth, and its importance grew with each step into wilderness. When the need arose, a man extended a helping hand to his friends, to his partners, to strangers. In so doing, each knew that his own survival might one day depend upon the reaching grasp of another. The utility of his code seemed diminished as the captain struggled to apply it to Glass. Haven’t I done my best for him? Tending his wounds, portaging him, waiting respectfully so that he might at least have a civilized burial. Through Henry’s decisions, they had subordinated their collective needs to the needs of one man. It was the right thing to do, but it could not be sustained. Not here. The captain had thought of abandoning Glass outright. In fact, so great was Glass’s suffering that Henry wondered briefly whether they should put a bullet in his head, bring his misery to an end. He quickly dismissed any notion of killing Glass, but he wondered if he could somehow communicate with the wounded man, make him understand that he could no longer risk the entire brigade. They could find him shelter, leave him with a fire, weapons, and provisions. If his condition improved, he could join them on the Missouri. Knowing Glass, he suspected this was what the man would ask for if he could speak for himself. Surely he wouldn’t jeopardize the lives of the other men. Yet Captain Henry couldn’t bring himself to leave the wounded man behind. There had been no coherent conversation with Glass since the bear attack, so ascertaining his wishes was impossible. Absent such clear guidance, he would make no assumptions. He was the leader, and Glass was his responsibility. But so are the other men. So was Ashley’s investment. So was his family back in St. Louis, a family that had waited more than a decade for the commercial success that seemed always as distant as the mountains themselves. That night the men of the brigade gathered around the three small fire pits. They had fresh meat to smoke, a buffalo calf, and the shelter of the pines gave them added confidence in building fires. The late August evening cooled quickly after sunset: not cold, but a reminder that a change of season lurked just over the horizon. The captain stood to address the men, a formality that foreshadowed the seriousness of what he would say. “We need to make better time. I need two volunteers to stay with Glass. Stay with him here until he dies, give him a proper burial, then catch up. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company will pay $70 for the risk of staying back.” A pine knot burst from one of the fires, catapulting sparks into the clear night sky. Otherwise the camp fell silent as the men pondered the situation and the offer. It was eerie to contemplate Glass’s death, however certain. A Frenchman named Jean Bernot crossed himself. Most of the others simply stared at the fire. No one said anything for a long time. They all thought about the money. Seventy dollars was more than a third of their wage for the entire year. Viewed through the cold prism of economics, Glass would surely die soon. Seventy dollars to sit in a clearing for a few days, then a week of tough marching to catch up with the brigade. Of course they all knew there was a real risk in staying back. Ten men were little deterrent from attack. Two men were none. If a war party happened upon them … Seventy dollars bought you nothing if you were dead. “I’ll stay with him, Captain.” The other men turned, surprised that the volunteer was Fitzgerald. Captain Henry was unsure how to react, so suspicious was he of Fitzgerald’s motive. Fitzgerald read the hesitation. “I ain’t doing it for love, Captain. I’m doing it for money, pure and simple. Pick somebody else if you want somebody to mother him.” Captain Henry looked around the loose circle of men. “Who else’ll stay?” Black Harris threw a small stick on the fire. “I will, Captain.” Glass had been a friend to Harris, and the idea of leaving him with Fitzgerald didn’t sit right. None of the men liked Fitzgerald. Glass deserved better. The captain shook his head. “You can’t stay, Harris.” “What do you mean I can’t stay?” “You can’t stay. I know you were his friend, so I’m sorry. But I need you to scout.” Another long silence followed. Most of the men stared blankly into the fire. One by one they arrived at the same uncomfortable conclusion: It wasn’t worth it. The money wasn’t worth it. Ultimately, Glass wasn’t worth it. Not that they didn’t respect him, like him even. Some, like Anderson, felt an additional debt, a sense of obligation for gratuitous acts of past kindness. It would be different, thought Anderson, if the captain were asking them to defend Glass’s life—but that was not the task at hand. The task at hand was waiting for Glass to die, then burying him. It wasn’t worth it. Henry began to wonder if he would have to entrust the job to Fitzgerald alone, when suddenly Jim Bridger rose clumsily to his feet. “I’ll stay.” Fitzgerald snorted sarcastically. “Jesus, Captain, you can’t leave me to do this with some pork-eating boy! If it’s Bridger that stays you better pay me double for tending to two.” The words jabbed at Bridger like punches. He felt his blood rise in embarrassment and anger. “I promise you, Captain—I’ll pull my weight.” This was not the outcome the captain had expected. A part of him felt that leaving Glass with Bridger and Fitzgerald differed little from abandonment. Bridger was barely more than a boy. In his year with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, he had proved himself to be honest and capable, but he was no counterweight to Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald was a mercenary. But then, thought the captain, wasn’t that the essence of the course he had chosen? Wasn’t he simply buying proxies, purchasing a substitute for their collective responsibility? For his own responsibility? What else could he do? There was no better choice. “All right, then,” said the captain. “Rest of us leave at dawn.” FIVE (#ulink_773c5dde-5d81-5b5e-875f-eec4bbbdfa58) August 30, 1823 (#ulink_773c5dde-5d81-5b5e-875f-eec4bbbdfa58) It was the evening of the second day since the departure of Captain Henry and the brigade. Fitzgerald had dispatched the boy to gather wood, leaving himself and Glass alone in the camp. Glass lay near one of the small fires. Fitzgerald ignored him. A rock formation crowned the steep slope above the clearing. Massive boulders stood in a rocky stack, as if titanic hands had piled them one on top of the other and then pressed. From a crack between two of the great stones grew a lone, twisted pine. The tree was a sibling to the lodgepole pines that the local tribes used to frame their teepees, but the seed of its origin had been lifted high above the fertile soil of the forest below. A sparrow had pried it from a pine cone decades before, carrying it to a lofty height above the clearing. The sparrow lost the seed to a crevice between the rocks. There was soil in the crevice, and a timely rain for germination. The rocks drew heat in the daytime, compensating in part for the exposure of the outcropping. There was no straight path to sunlight, so the pine grew sideways before it grew upward, worming its way from the crevice before turning toward the sky. A few gnarled branches extended from the warped trunk, each capped with a scruffy tuft of needles. The lodgepoles below grew straight as arrows, some towering sixty feet above the floor of the forest. But none grew higher than the twisted pine on top of the rock. Since the captain and the brigade left, Fitzgerald’s strategy was simple: lay in a supply of jerked meat so they were ready to move fast when Glass died; in the meantime, stay away from their camp as much as possible. Though they were off the main river, Fitzgerald had little confidence in their position on the creek. The little stream led straight to the clearing. The charred remains of campfires made it clear that others had availed themselves of the sheltered spring. In fact, Fitzgerald feared that the clearing was a well-known campsite. Even if it were not, the tracks of the brigade and the mule led clearly from the river. A hunting or war party couldn’t help but find them if they came up the near bank of the Grand. Fitzgerald looked bitterly at Glass. Out of morbid curiosity, he had examined Glass’s wounds on the day the rest of the troop left. The sutures in the wounded man’s throat had held since the litter spilled, but the entire area was red with infection. The puncture wounds on his leg and arm seemed to be healing, but the deep slashes on his back were inflamed. Luckily for him, Glass spent most of his time unconscious. When will the bastard die? It was a twisted path that brought John Fitzgerald to the frontier, a path that began with his flight from New Orleans in 1815, the day after he stabbed a prostitute to death in a drunken rage. Fitzgerald grew up in New Orleans, the son of a Scottish sailor and a Cajun merchant’s daughter. His father put in port once a year during the ten years of marriage before his ship went down in the Caribbean. On each call to New Orleans he left his fertile wife with the seed of a new addition to the family. Three months after learning of her husband’s death, Fitzgerald’s mother married the elderly owner of a sundry shop, an action she viewed as essential to support her family. Her pragmatic decision served most of her children well. Eight survived to adulthood. The two eldest sons took over the sundry shop when the old man died. Most of the other boys found honest work and the girls married respectably. John got lost somewhere in the middle. From an early age, Fitzgerald demonstrated both a reflex toward and a skill for engaging in violence. He was quick to resolve disputes with a punch or a kick, and was thrown out of school at the age of ten for stabbing a classmate in the leg with a pencil. Fitzgerald had no interest in the hard labor of following his father to sea, but he mixed eagerly in the seedy chaos of a port town. His fighting skills were tested and honed on the docks where he spent his teenage days. At seventeen, a boatman slashed his face in a barroom brawl. The incident left him with a fishhook scar and a new respect for cutlery. He became fascinated with knives, acquiring a collection of daggers and scalpers in a wide range of sizes and shapes. At the age of twenty, Fitzgerald fell in love with a young whore at a dockside saloon, a French girl named Dominique Perreau. Despite the financial underpinnings of their relationship, the full implications of Dominique’s m?tier apparently did not register with Fitzgerald. When he walked in on Dominique plying her trade with the fat captain of a keelboat, the young man fell into a rage. He stabbed them both before fleeing into the streets. He stole eighty-four dollars from his brothers’ store and hired passage on a boat headed north up the Mississippi. For five years he made his living in and around the taverns of Memphis. He tended bar in exchange for room, board, and a small salary at an establishment known, with pretensions that exceeded its grasp, as the Golden Lion. His official capacity as barkeep gave him something he had not possessed in New Orleans—a license to engage in violence. He removed disorderly patrons with a relish that startled even the rough-cut clientele of the saloon. Twice he nearly beat men to death. Fitzgerald possessed some of the mathematical skills that made his brothers successful storekeepers, and he applied his native intelligence toward gambling. For a while he was content to squander his paltry stipend from the bar. Over time he was drawn to higher stakes. These new games required more money to play, and Fitzgerald found no shortage of lenders. Not long after borrowing two hundred dollars from the owner of a rival tavern, Fitzgerald hit it big. He won a thousand dollars on a single hand of queens over tens, and spent the next week in a celebratory debauch. The payoff infused him with a false confidence in his gambling skills and a ravenous hunger for more. He quit his work at the Golden Lion and sought to make his living at cards. His luck veered sharply south, and a month later he owed two thousand dollars to a loan shark named Geoffrey Robinson. He dodged Robinson for several weeks before two henchmen caught him and broke his arm. They gave him a week to pay the balance due. In desperation, Fitzgerald found a second lender, a German named Hans Bangemann, to pay off the first. With the two thousand dollars in his hands, however, Fitzgerald had an epiphany: He would flee Memphis and start someplace new. The next morning he took passage on another boat north. He landed in St. Louis late in the month of February 1822. After a month in the new city, Fitzgerald learned that two men had been asking at pubs about the whereabouts of a “gambler with a scar on his face.” In the small world of Memphis moneylenders, it had not taken long for Geoffrey Robinson and Hans Bangemann to discover the full measure of Fitzgerald’s treachery. For one hundred dollars each, they hired a pair of henchmen to find Fitzgerald, kill him, and recover as much of their loans as possible. They harbored little hope of getting their money back, but they did want Fitzgerald dead. They had reputations to uphold, and word was spread of their plan through the network of Memphis taverns. Fitzgerald was trapped. St. Louis was the northernmost outpost of civilization on the Mississippi. He was afraid to go south, where trouble awaited him in New Orleans and Memphis. That day Fitzgerald overheard a group of pub patrons talking excitedly about a newspaper ad in the Missouri Republican. He picked up the paper to read for himself: To enterprising young men. The subscriber wishes to engage one hundred young men to ascend the Missouri river to its source, there to be employed for one, two, or three years. For particulars enquire of Captain Henry, near the lead mines in the country of Washington, who will ascend with, and command, the party. Fitzgerald made a rash decision. With the paltry remnants of the money he had stolen from Hans Bangemann, he bought a weathered leather tunic, moccasins, and a rifle. The next day he presented himself to Captain Henry and requested a spot with the fur brigade. Henry was suspicious of Fitzgerald from the beginning, but pickings were slim. The captain needed a hundred men and Fitzgerald looked fit. If he’d been in a few knife fights, so much the better. A month later Fitzgerald was on a keelboat headed north up the Missouri River. Although he fully intended to desert the Rocky Mountain Fur Company when the opportunity presented itself, Fitzgerald took to life on the frontier. He found that his skill with knives extended to other weapons. Fitzgerald had none of the tracking skills of the real woodsmen in the brigade, but he was an excellent shot. With a sniper’s patience, he had killed two Arikara during the recent siege on the Missouri. Many of Henry’s men had been terrified in their fights with various Indians. Fitzgerald found them exhilarating, even titillating. Fitzgerald glanced at Glass, his eyes falling on the Anstadt lying next to the wounded man. He looked around to make sure that Bridger wasn’t returning, then picked up the rifle. He pulled it to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. He loved how the gun fit snug against his body, how the wide pronghorn sites found targets quickly, how the lightness of the weapon let him hold a steady bead. He swung from target to target, up and down, until the sights came to rest on Glass. Once again Fitzgerald thought about how the Anstadt soon would be his. They hadn’t talked about it with the captain, but who deserved the rifle more than the man who stayed behind? Certainly his claim was better than Bridger’s. All the trappers admired Glass’s gun. Seventy dollars was paltry pay for the risk they were taking—Fitzgerald was there for the Anstadt. Such a weapon should not be wasted on a boy. Besides, Bridger was happy enough to get William Anderson’s rifle. Throw him some other crumb—Glass’s knife, perhaps. Fitzgerald mulled the plan he had formed since he volunteered to stay with Glass, a plan that seemed more compelling with each passing hour. What difference does a day make to Glass? On the other hand, Fitzgerald knew exactly the difference a day meant to his own prospects for survival. Fitzgerald set the Anstadt down. A bloody shirt lay next to Glass’s head. Push it against his face for a few minutes—we could be on our way in the morning. He looked again at the rifle, its dark brown striking against the orange hue of fallen pine needles. He reached for the shirt. “Did he wake up?” Bridger stood behind him, his arms full of firewood. Fitzgerald startled, fumbling for an instant. “Christ, boy! Sneak up on me again like that and I swear to God I’ll cut you down!” Bridger dropped the wood and walked over to Glass. “I was thinking maybe we ought to try giving him some broth.” “Why, that’s mighty kind of you, Bridger. Pour a little broth down that throat and maybe he’ll last a week instead of dying tomorrow! Will that make you sleep better? What do you think, that if you give him a little soup he’s going to get up and walk away from here?” Bridger was quiet for a minute, then said, “You act like you want him to die.” “Of course I want him to die! Look at him. He wants to die!” Fitzgerald paused for effect. “You ever go to school, Bridger?” Fitzgerald knew the answer to his question. The boy shook his head. “Well, let me give you a little lesson in arithmetic. Captain Henry and the rest are probably making around thirty miles a day now that they’re not dragging Glass. Let’s figure we’ll be faster—say we make forty. Do you know what’s forty minus thirty, Bridger?” The boy stared blankly. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s ten.” Fitzgerald held up the fingers of both hands in a mocking gesture. “This many, boy. Whatever their head start is—we only make up ten miles a day once we take after them. They’re already a hundred miles ahead of us. That’s ten days on our own, Bridger. And that assumes he dies today and we find them straight away. Ten days for a Sioux hunting party to stumble on us. Don’t you get it? Every day we sit here is another three days we’re on our own. You’ll look worse than Glass when the Sioux are finished with you, boy. You ever see a man who got scalped?” Bridger said nothing, though he had seen a man scalped. He was there near the Great Falls when Captain Henry brought the two dead trappers back to camp, butchered by Blackfeet. Bridger vividly remembered the bodies. The captain had tied them belly down to a single pack mule. When he cut them loose, they fell stiffly to the ground. The trappers had gathered round them, mesmerized as they contemplated the mutilated corpses of the men they had seen that morning at the campfire. And it wasn’t just their scalps that were missing. Their noses and ears had been hacked away, and their eyes gouged out. Bridger remembered how, without noses, the heads looked more like skulls than faces. The men were naked, and their privates were gone, too. There was a stark tan line at their necks and wrists. Above the line their skin was as tough and brown as saddle leather, but the rest of their bodies was as white as lace. It looked funny, almost. It was the type of thing that one of the men would have joked about, if it hadn’t been so horrible. Of course nobody laughed. Bridger always thought about it when he washed himself—how underneath, they all had this lacy white skin, weak as a baby. Bridger struggled, desperately wanting to challenge Fitzgerald, but wholly incapable of articulating a rebuttal. Not for lack of words, this time, but rather for lack of reasons. It was easy to condemn Fitzgerald’s motivation—he said himself it was money. But what, he wondered, was his own motivation? It wasn’t money. The numbers all jumbled together, and his regular salary was already more wealth than he had ever seen. Bridger liked to believe that his motive was loyalty, fidelity to a fellow member of the brigade. He certainly respected Glass. Glass had been kind, watching out for him in small ways, schooling him, defending him against embarrassments. Bridger acknowledged a debt to Glass, but how far did it extend? The boy remembered the surprise and admiration in the eyes of the men when he had volunteered to stay with Glass. What a contrast to the anger and contempt of that terrible night on sentry duty. He remembered how the captain had patted him on the shoulder when the brigade departed, and how the simple gesture had filled him with a sense of affiliation, as if for the first time he deserved his place among the men. Wasn’t that why he was there in the clearing—to salve his wounded pride? Not to take care of another man, but to take care of himself? Wasn’t he just like Fitzgerald, profiting from another man’s misfortune? Say what you would about Fitzgerald, at least he was honest about why he stayed. SIX (#ulink_4fcb314c-651e-5281-a355-d17ab1093d68) August 31, 1823 (#ulink_4fcb314c-651e-5281-a355-d17ab1093d68) Alone in the camp on the morning of the third day, Bridger spent several hours repairing his moccasins, both of which had developed holes in the course of their travels. As a consequence, his feet were scraped and bruised, and the boy appreciated the opportunity for the repair work. He cut leather from a rawhide left when the brigade departed, used an awl to punch holes around the edge, and replaced the soles with the new hide on the bottom. The stitching was irregular but tight. As he examined his handiwork his eyes fell on Glass. Flies buzzed around his wounds and Bridger noticed that Glass’s lips were cracked and parched. The boy questioned again whether he stood on any higher moral plane than Fitzgerald. Bridger filled his large tin cup with cold water from the spring and put it to Glass’s mouth. The wetness triggered an unconscious reaction, and Glass began to drink. Bridger was disappointed when Glass finished. It was good to feel useful. The boy stared at Glass. Fitzgerald was right, of course. There was no question that Glass would die. But shouldn’t I do my best for him? At least provide comfort in his final hours? Bridger’s mother could tease a healing property from anything that grew. He wished many times that he had paid more attention when she had returned from the woods, her basket filled with flowers, leaves, and bark. He did know a few basics, and on the edge of the clearing he found what he was looking for, a pine tree with its sticky gum oozing like molasses. He used his rusty skinning knife to scrape off the gum, working until his blade was smeared with a good quantity. He walked back to Glass and knelt next to him. The boy focused first on the leg and arm wounds, the deep punctures from the grizzly’s fangs. While the surrounding areas remained black-and-blue, the skin itself appeared to be repairing. Bridger used his finger to apply the gum, filling the wounds and smearing the surrounding skin. Next he rolled Glass to his side in order to examine his back. The crude sutures had snapped when the litter spilled, and there were signs of more recent bleeding. Still, it wasn’t blood that gave Glass’s back its crimson sheen. It was infection. The five parallel cuts extended almost the entire length of his back. There was yellow pus in the center of the cuts, and the edges practically glowed fiery red. The odor reminded Bridger of sour milk. Unsure what to do, he simply smeared the entire area with pine gum, returning twice to the trees to gather more. Bridger turned last to the neck wounds. The captain’s sutures remained in place, though to the boy they seemed merely to conceal the carnage beneath the skin. The wheezing rumble continued from Glass’s unconscious breathing, like the loose rattle of broken parts in a machine. Bridger walked again into the pines, this time looking for a tree with loose bark. He found one and used his knife to pry loose the outer skin. The tender inner bark he gathered in his hat. Bridger filled his cup again with water at the spring and set it in the coals of the fire. When it boiled, he added the pine bark, mashing the mixture with the pommel of his knife. He worked until the consistency was thick and smooth as mud. He waited for the poultice to cool slightly, then applied it to Glass’s throat, packing the mixture against the slashes and spreading it outward toward his shoulder. Next Bridger walked to his small pack, pulling out the remnants of his spare shirt. He used the cloth to cover the poultice, lifting Glass’s head to tie a knot firmly behind the man’s neck. Bridger let the wounded man’s head return gently to the ground, surprised to find himself staring into Glass’s open eyes. They burned with an intensity and lucidity that juxtaposed oddly against his broken body. Bridger stared back, searching to discern the message that Glass clearly intended to convey. What is he saying? Glass stared at the boy for a minute before allowing his eyes to fall closed. In his fleeting moments of consciousness, Glass felt a heightened sensitivity, as if suddenly made aware of the secret workings of his body. The boy’s efforts provided topical relief. The slight stinging of the pine gum had a medicinal quality, and the heat from the poultice created a steeping comfort at his throat. At the same time, Glass sensed that his body was marshaling itself for another, decisive battle. Not at the surface, but deep within. By the time Fitzgerald returned to camp, the shadows of late afternoon had stretched into the fading glow of early evening. He carried a doe over his shoulder. He had field-dressed the animal, slitting her neck and removing the entrails. He let the deer fall next to one of the fires. She landed in an unnatural pile, so different from her grace in life. Fitzgerald stared at the fresh dressings on Glass’s wounds. His face tensed. “You’re wasting your time with him.” He paused. “I wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn, except you’re wasting my time too.” Bridger ignored the comment, though he felt the blood rise in his face. “How old are you, boy?” “Twenty.” “You lying piece of horseshit. You can’t even talk without squeaking. I bet you never seen a tit that wasn’t your ma’s.” The boy looked away, hating Fitzgerald for his bloodhound ability to sense weakness. Fitzgerald absorbed Bridger’s discomfort like the nourishment of raw meat. He laughed. “What! You never been with a woman? I’m right, aren’t I, boy? What’s the matter, Bridger—you didn’t have two bucks for a whore before we left St. Louis?” Fitzgerald eased his large frame to the ground, sitting down to better enjoy himself. “Maybe you don’t like girls? You a bugger, boy? Maybe I need to sleep on my back, keep you from rutting at me in the night.” Still Bridger said nothing. “Or maybe you got no pecker at all.” Without thinking, Bridger jumped to his feet, grabbed his rifle, cocked it, and pointed the long barrel at Fitzgerald’s head. “You son of a bitch, Fitzgerald! Say another word and I’ll blow your damn head off!” Fitzgerald sat stunned, staring at the dark muzzle of the rifle barrel. For a long moment he sat like that, just staring at the muzzle. Then his dark eyes moved slowly up to Bridger’s, a smile creeping to join the scar on his face. “Well, good for you, Bridger. Maybe you don’t squat when you piss, after all.” He snorted at his joke, pulled out his knife, and set to butchering the deer. In the quiet of the camp, Bridger became aware of the heavy sound of his own breathing, and could feel the rapid beat of his heart. He lowered the gun and set the butt on the ground, then lowered himself. He felt suddenly tired, and pulled his blanket around his shoulders. After several minutes, Fitzgerald said, “Hey, boy.” Bridger looked over, but said nothing in acknowledgment. Fitzgerald casually wiped the back of a bloody hand against his nose. “That new gun of yours won’t fire without a flint.” Bridger looked down at his rifle. The flint was missing from the lock. The blood rose again in his face, though this time he hated himself as much as Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald laughed quietly and continued his skillful work with the long knife. In truth, Jim Bridger was nineteen that year, with a slight build that made him look younger still. The year of his birth, 1804, coincided with the launch of the Lewis and Clark expedition, and it was the excitement generated by their return that led Jim’s father to venture west from Virginia in 1812. The Bridger family settled on a small farm at Six-Mile-Prairie near St. Louis. For a boy of eight, the voyage west was a grand adventure of bumpy roads, hunting for supper, and sleeping beneath a canopy of open sky. In the new farm, Jim found a forty-acre playground of meadows, woods, and creeks. Their first week on the new property, Jim discovered a small spring. He remembered vividly his excitement as he led his father to the hidden seep, and his pride when they built the springhouse. Among many trades, Jim’s father dabbled in surveying. Jim often tagged along, further fixing a taste for exploration. Bridger’s childhood ended abruptly at the age of thirteen, when his mother, father, and older brother all died of fever in the space of a single month. The boy found himself suddenly responsible for both himself and a younger sister. An elderly aunt came to tend for his sister, but the financial burden for the family fell upon Jim. He took a job with the owner of a ferry. The Mississippi of Bridger’s boyhood teemed with traffic. From the south, manufactured supplies moved upriver to the booming St. Louis, while downstream flowed the raw resources of the frontier. Bridger heard stories about the great city of New Orleans and the foreign ports beyond. He met the wild boatmen who pushed their craft upstream through sheer strength of body and will. He talked to teamsters who portaged products from Lexington and Terre Haute. He saw the future of the river in the form of belching steamboats, churning against the current. Yet it wasn’t the Mississippi River that captured Jim Bridger’s imagination—it was the Missouri. A mere six miles from his ferry the two great rivers joined as one, the wild waters of the frontier pouring into the bromide current of the everyday. It was the confluence of old and new, known and unknown, civilization and wilderness. Bridger lived for the rare moments when the fur traders and voyageurs tied their sleek Mackinaws at the ferry landing, sometimes even camping for the night. He marveled at their tales of savage Indians, teeming game, forever plains, and soaring mountains. The frontier for Bridger became an aching presence that he could feel, but could not define, a magnetic force pulling him inexorably toward something that he had heard about, but never seen. A preacher on a swaybacked mule rode Bridger’s ferry one day. He asked Bridger if he knew God’s mission for him in life. Without pause Bridger answered, “Go to the Rockies.” The preacher was elated, urging the boy to consider missionary work with the savages. Bridger had no interest in bringing Jesus to the Indians, but the conversation stuck with him. The boy came to believe that going west was more than just a fancy for someplace new. He came to see it as a part of his soul, a missing piece that could only be made whole on some far-off mountain or plain. Against this backdrop of an imagined future, Bridger poled the sluggish ferry. To and fro, back and forth, motion without progression, never venturing so much as a mile beyond the fixed points of the two landings. It was the polar opposite of the life he imagined for himself, a life of wandering and exploration through country unknown, a life in which he never once retraced his steps. After a year on the ferry, Bridger made a desperate and ill-thought effort to make some progress westward, apprenticing himself to a blacksmith in St. Louis. The blacksmith treated him well, and even provided a modest stipend to send to his sister and aunt. But the terms of apprenticeship were clear—five years of servitude. If the new job did not put him in the wilderness, at least St. Louis talked of little else. For half a decade Bridger soaked in frontier lore. When the plainsmen came to shoe their horses or repair their traps, Bridger overcame his reserve to ask about their travels. Where had they been? What had they seen? The boy heard tales of a naked John Colter, outracing a hundred Blackfeet intent on taking his scalp. Like everyone in St. Louis, he came to know details of successful traders like Manuel Lisa and the Chouteau brothers. Most exciting to Bridger were occasional glimpses of his heroes in the flesh. Once a month, Captain Andrew Henry visited the blacksmith to shoe his horse. Bridger made sure to volunteer for the work, if only for the chance that he might exchange a few words with the captain. His brief encounters with Henry were like a reaffirmation of faith, a tangible manifestation of something that otherwise might exist only as fable and tale. The term of Bridger’s apprenticeship ran to his eighteenth birthday, on March 17, 1822. To coincide with the Ides of March, a local actors’ brigade played a rendition of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Bridger paid two bits for a seat. The long play made little sense. The men looked silly in full-length gowns, and for a long time Bridger was unsure whether the actors were speaking English. He enjoyed the spectacle, though, and after a while began to develop a feel for the rhythm of the stilted language. A handsome actor with a bellowing voice spoke a line that would stick with Bridger for the rest of his life: There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune … Three days later, the blacksmith told Bridger about a notice in the Missouri Republican. “To Enterprising Young Men …” Bridger knew his tide had come in. The next morning Bridger awoke to find Fitzgerald bent over Glass, his hand pressed against the forehead of the wounded man. “What’re you doing, Fitzgerald?” “How long’s he had this fever?” Bridger moved quickly to Glass and felt his skin. It was steamy with heat and perspiration. “I checked him last night and he seemed all right.” “Well, he’s not all right now. It’s the death sweats. The son of a bitch is finally going under.” Bridger stood there, unsure whether to feel upset or relieved. Glass began to shiver and shake. There seemed little chance that Fitzgerald was wrong. “Listen, boy—we got to be ready to move. I’m going to scout up the Grand. You take the berries and get that meat pounded into pemmican.” “What about Glass?” “What about him, boy? You become a doctor while we’ve been camping here? There’s nothing we can do now.” “We can do what we’re supposed to be doing—wait with him and bury him when he dies. That was our deal with the captain.” “Scrape out a grave if it’ll make you feel better! Hell, build him a goddamn altar! But if I come back here and that meat’s not ready, I’ll whip on you till you’re worse off than him!” Fitzgerald grabbed his rifle and disappeared down the creek. The day was typical of early September, sunny and crisp in the morning, hot by afternoon. The terrain flattened where the creek met the river, its trickling waters spreading wide across a sandbar before joining the rushing current of the Grand. Fitzgerald’s eyes were drawn downward to the scattered tracks of the fur brigade, still apparent after four days. He glanced upriver, where an eagle perched like a sentry on the bare branch of a dead tree. Something startled the bird. It opened its wings, and with two powerful flaps lifted itself from its perch. Carving a neat pivot on the tip of its wing, the bird turned and flew upriver. The screaming whinny of a horse cut the morning air. Fitzgerald spun around. The morning sun sat directly on the river, its piercing rays merging with water to form a dancing sea of light. Squinting against the glare, Fitzgerald could discern the silhouettes of mounted Indians. He dropped to the ground. Did they see me? He lay on the ground for an instant, his breath arriving in staccato spurts. He snaked toward the only cover available, a scrubby stand of willows. Listening intently, he heard again the whinny of the horse—but not the churning pound of charging horses. He checked to ensure his rifle and pistol were charged, removed his wolf-skin hat, and lifted his head to peer through the willows. There were five Indians at a distance of about two hundred yards on the opposite bank of the Grand. Four of the riders formed a loose semicircle around the fifth, who quirted a balking pinto. Two of the Indians laughed, and all of them seemed transfixed by the struggle with the horse. One of the Indians wore a full headdress of eagle feathers. Fitzgerald was close enough to see clearly a bear-claw necklace around his chest and the otter pelts that wrapped his braids. Three of the Indians carried guns; the other two bows. There was no war paint on the men or the horses, and Fitzgerald guessed they were hunting. He wasn’t sure of the tribe, although his working assumption was that any Indians in the area would view the trappers with hostility. Fitzgerald calculated that they were just beyond rifle range. That would change quickly if they charged. If they came, he would have one shot with the rifle and one with the pistol. He might be able to reload his rifle once if the river slowed them down. Three shots at five targets. He didn’t like the odds. Belly to the ground, Fitzgerald wormed his way toward the cover of the higher willows near the creek. He crawled through the middle of the brigade’s old tracks, cursing the markings that so clearly betrayed their position. He turned again when he reached the thicker willows, relieved that the Indians remained preoccupied with the stubborn pinto. Still, they would arrive at the confluence of the creek with the river in a matter of instants. They would notice the creek, and then they would notice the tracks. The goddamn tracks! Pointing like an arrow up the creek. Fitzgerald worked his way from the willows to the pines. He pivoted to take one final look at the hunting party. The skittish pinto had settled, and all five Indians now continued up the river. We have to leave now. Fitzgerald ran up the creek the short distance to the camp. Bridger was pounding venison against a stone when Fitzgerald burst into the clearing. “There’s five bucks coming up the Grand!” Fitzgerald began wildly stuffing his few possessions into his pack. He looked up suddenly, his eyes focused in intensity and fear, then anger. “Move, boy! They’ll be on our tracks any minute!” Bridger stuffed meat into his parfleche. Next he threw his pack and possibles bag over his shoulders, then turned to grab his rifle, leaning against a tree next to Glass’s Anstadt. Glass. The full implications of flight struck the boy like a sudden, sobering slap. He looked down at the wounded man. For the first time that morning, Glass’s eyes were open. As Bridger stared down, the eyes initially had the glassy, uncomprehending gaze of one awakening from deep sleep. The longer Glass stared, the more his eyes seemed to focus. Once focused, it was clear that the eyes stared back with complete lucidity, clear that Glass, like Bridger, had calculated the full meaning of the Indians on the river. Every pore in Bridger’s body seemed to pound with the intensity of the moment, yet to Bridger it seemed that Glass’s eyes conveyed a serene calmness. Understanding? Forgiveness? Or is that just what I want to believe? As the boy stared at Glass, guilt seized him like clenched fangs. What does Glass think? What will the captain think? “You sure they’re coming up the creek?” Bridger’s voice cracked as he said it. He hated the lack of control, the demonstrable weakness in a moment demanding strength. “Do you want to stay and find out?” Fitzgerald moved to the fire, grabbing the remaining meat from the drying racks. Bridger looked again at Glass. The wounded man worked his parched lips, struggling to form words through a throat rendered mute. “He’s trying to say something.” The boy knelt, struggling to understand. Glass slowly raised his hand and pointed a shaking finger. He wants the Anstadt. “He wants his rifle. He wants us to set him up with his rifle.” The boy felt the blunt pain of a forceful kick against his back and found himself lying facedown on the ground. He struggled to his hands and knees, looking up at Fitzgerald. The rage on Fitzgerald’s face seemed to merge with the distorted features of the wolf-skin hat. “Move, goddamn you!” Bridger scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed and startled. He watched as Fitzgerald walked to Glass, who lay on his back with his few possessions piled next to him: a possibles bag, a knife in a beaded scabbard, a hatchet, the Anstadt, and a powder horn. Fitzgerald stooped to pick up Glass’s possibles bag. He dug inside for the flint and steel, dropping them into the pocket on the front of his leather tunic. He grabbed the powder horn and slung it over his shoulder. The hatchet he tucked under his broad leather belt. Bridger stared, uncomprehending. “What are you doing?” Fitzgerald stooped again, picked up Glass’s knife, and tossed it to Bridger. “Take that.” Bridger caught it, staring in horror at the scabbard in his hand. Only the rifle remained. Fitzgerald picked it up, checking quickly to ensure it was charged. “Sorry, old Glass. You ain’t got much more use for any of this.” Bridger was stunned. “We can’t leave him without his kit.” The man in the wolf skin looked up briefly, then disappeared into the woods. Bridger looked down at the knife in his hand. He looked at Glass, whose eyes glared directly into him, animated suddenly like coals beneath a bellows. Bridger felt paralyzed. Conflicting emotions fought inside of him, struggling to dictate his action, until one emotion came suddenly and overwhelmingly to prevail: He was afraid. The boy turned and ran into the woods. SEVEN (#ulink_22ee7c43-0b04-5e64-b778-7e3f68c1a190) September 2, 1823—Morning (#ulink_22ee7c43-0b04-5e64-b778-7e3f68c1a190) There was daylight. Glass could tell that much without moving, but otherwise he had no idea of the time. He lay where he collapsed the day before. His rage had carried him to the edge of the clearing, but his fever stopped him there. The bear had carved away at Glass from the outside and now the fever carved away from within. It felt to Glass as if he had been hollowed out. He shivered uncontrollably, yearning for the seeping warmth of a fire. Looking around the campsite, he saw that no smoke rose from the charred remains of the fire pits. No fire, no warmth. He wondered if he could at least scoot back to his tattered blanket, and made a tentative effort to move. When he summoned his strength, the reply that issued back from his body was like a faint echo across a wide chasm. The movement irritated something deep in his chest. He felt a cough coming on and tensed his stomach muscles to suppress it. The muscles were sore from numerous earlier battles, and despite his effort, the cough burst forth. Glass grimaced at the pain, like the extraction of a deep-set fishhook. It felt like his innards were being ripped out through his throat. When the pain of coughing receded, he focused again on the blanket. I have to get warm. It took all his strength to lift his head. The blanket lay about twenty feet away. He rolled from his side to his stomach, maneuvering his left arm out in front of his body. Glass bent his left leg, then straightened it to push. Between his one good arm and his one good leg, he push-dragged himself across the clearing. The twenty feet felt like twenty miles, and three times he stopped to rest. Each breath drew like a rasp through his throat, and he felt again the dull throbbing in his cleaved back. He stretched to grab the blanket when it came within reach. He pulled it around his shoulders, embracing the weighty warmth of the Hudson Bay wool. Then he passed out. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/michael-punke/the-reven-39819249/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.