The Revenant

by Michael Punke

  Glass lifted his doeskin blouse in an effort to look at his back, but the dark mirror showed little more than the outline of the long wounds. The mental image of the maggots still haunted him. Glass left the mirror and climbed down from the loft.

  A dozen men gathered in the room below, crowding the long table and spilling beyond. The conversation stopped as Glass descended the ladder from the loft.

  Kiowa greeted him, switching easily to English. The Frenchman’s facility with language was an asset for a trader amid the frontier Babel.

  “Good morning, Monsieur Glass. We were just talking about you.” Glass nodded his head in acknowledgment but said nothing.

  “You’re in luck,” continued Kiowa. “I may have found you a ride upriver.” Glass’s interest was immediate.

  “Meet Antoine Langevin.” A short man with a long mustache stood up formally from the table, reaching to shake Glass’s hand. Glass was surprised by the power of the small man’s grip.

  “Langevin arrived last night from upriver. Like you, Monsieur Glass, he arrived with something of a story to tell. Monsieur Langevin came all the way from the Mandan villages. He tells me that our wandering tribe, the Arikara, has established a new village on land only a mile south of the Mandans.”

  Langevin said something in French that Glass did not understand. “I’m getting to that, Langevin,” said Kiowa, irritated at the interruption.

  “I thought our friend might appreciate a bit of historical context.” Kiowa continued with his explanation. “As you can imagine, our friends the Mandans are nervous that their new neighbors are bringing trouble with them. As a condition of occupying Mandan territory, the Mandans have exacted a promise that the Arikara will cease their attacks on whites.”

  Kiowa removed his spectacles, wiping the lenses with his long shirttail before returning them to the perch on his ruddy nose. “Which brings me to my own circumstances. My little fort depends on river traffic. I need trappers and traders like yourself moving up and down the Missouri. I appreciated the lengthy visit by Monsieur Ashley and his men, but this fighting with the Arikara will drive me out of business.

  “I’ve asked Langevin to lead a deputation up the Missouri. They’ll take gifts and reestablish ties with the Arikara. If they succeed, we’ll send word to St. Louis that the Missouri is open for business.

  “There’s room for six men and supplies on Langevin’s bâtard. This is Toussaint Charbonneau.” Kiowa pointed to another man at the table. Glass knew the name, and stared with interest at the husband of Sacagewea. “Toussaint translated for Lewis and Clark. He speaks Mandan, Arikara, and anything else you might need on the way.”

  “And I speak English,” said Charbonneau, which sounded like, end ah speek eegleesh. Kiowa’s English was almost without accent, but Charbonneau’s carried the thick melody of his native tongue. Glass reached for Charbonneau’s hand.

  Kiowa continued with the introductions. “This is Andrew MacDonald.” He pointed to the one-eyed Scot from the day before. Glass noticed that in addition to the missing eye, the Scot was missing a significant portion from the tip of his nose. “There’s a good chance he’s the dumbest man I ever met,” said Kiowa. “But he can paddle all day without stopping. We call him ‘Professeur.’” Professeur cocked his head to bring Kiowa within range of his good eye, which squinted in dim recognition at the mention of his name, although the irony clearly eluded him.

  “Finally—there is Dominique Cattoire.” Kiowa pointed to a voyageur smoking a thin clay pipe. Dominique rose, shook Glass’s hand and said, “Enchanté.”

  “Dominique’s brother is Louis Cattoire, king of the putains. He’s going too, if we pry him and his andouille out of the whore’s tent. We call Louis ‘La Vierge.’” The men around the table laughed.

  “Which brings me to you. They’re rowing upriver, so they need to travel light. They need a hunter to provide meat for the camp. I suspect you are pretty good at finding food. Probably even better once we get you a rifle.”

  Glass nodded his head in response.

  “There’s another reason our deputation can use an extra rifle,” continued Kiowa. “Dominique heard rumors that an Arikara chief named Elk’s Tongue has broken away from the main tribe. He’s leading a small band of warriors and their families somewhere between Mandan and the Grand. We don’t know where they’re at, but he’s vowed to avenge the attack on the Ree village.”

  Glass thought about the blackened remnants of the Arikara village and nodded in response.

  “Are you in?”

  Part of Glass did not want the encumbrance of fellow travelers. His plan had been to make his way up the Missouri alone, on foot. He intended to leave that day, and hated the idea of waiting. Still, he recognized the opportunity. Numbers meant safety, if the men were any good. The men of Kiowa’s deputation seemed seasoned, and Glass knew there were no finer boatmen than the scrappy voyageurs. He also knew that his body was still healing, and his progress would be slow if he walked. Paddling the bâtard upstream would be slow too. But riding while the others paddled would give him another month to mend.

  Glass put his hand to his throat. “I’m in.”

  Langevin said something to Kiowa in French. Kiowa listened and then turned to Glass. “Langevin says he needs today to make repairs to the bâtard. You’ll leave tomorrow at dawn. Eat some food and then let’s get you provisioned.”

  Kiowa kept his wares along a wall at the far end of the cabin. A plank over two empty barrels served as the counter. Glass focused first on a long arm. There were five weapons to choose from. Three were rusted northwest muskets of ancient vintage, clearly meant for trade with the Indians. Between the two rifles, the choice at first seemed obvious. One was a classic Kentucky long rifle, beautifully crafted with a burnished walnut finish. The other was a weathered Model 1803 U.S. Infantry rifle whose stock had been broken and repaired with rawhide. Glass picked up the two rifles and carried them outside, accompanied by Kiowa. Glass had an important decision to make, and he wanted to examine the weapons in full light.

  Kiowa looked on expectantly as Glass examined the long Kentucky rifle. “That’s a beautiful weapon,” said Kiowa. “The Germans can’t cook for shit but they know how to make a gun.”

  Glass agreed. He had always admired the elegant lines of Kentucky rifles. But there were two problems. First, Glass noticed with disappointment the rifle’s small caliber, which he correctly gauged as .32. Second, the gun’s great length made it heavy to carry and cumbersome to load. This was an ideal gun for a gentleman farmer, squirrel hunting in Virginia. Glass needed something different.

  He handed the Kentucky rifle to Kiowa and picked up the Model 1803, the same gun carried by many of the soldiers in Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery. Glass first examined the repair work on the broken stock. Wet rawhide had been tightly stitched around the break, then allowed to dry. The rawhide had hardened and shrunk as it dried, creating a rock-sturdy cast. The stock was ugly, but it felt solid. Next Glass examined the lock and trigger works. There was fresh grease and no sign of rust. He ran his hand slowly down the half stock, then continued the length of the short barrel. He put his finger into the fat hole of the muzzle, noting approvingly the heft of its .53 caliber.

  “You like the big gun, eh?” Glass nodded in reply.

  “A big gun is good,” said Kiowa. “Give it a try.” Kiowa smiled wryly. “Gun like that, you could kill a bear!”

  Kiowa handed Glass a powder horn and a measure. Glass poured a full charge of 200 grains and dumped it into the muzzle. Kiowa handed him a big .53 ball and a greased patch from his vest pocket. Glass wrapped the ball in the patch and tapped it into the muzzle. He pulled out the ramrod and set the ball firmly in the breech. He poured powder in the pan and pulled the hammer to full cock, searching for a target.

  Fifty yards away a squirrel sat placidly in the crotch of a big cottonwood.

  Glass sighted on the squirrel and pulled the trigger. The briefest of instants separated the ignit
ion in the pan and the primary explosion deep in the barrel. Smoke filled the air, momentarily obscuring the target from sight. Glass winced at the stiff punch of the recoil against his shoulder.

  As the smoke cleared, Kiowa ambled slowly to the foot of the cottonwood. He stooped to pick up the tattered remains of the squirrel, which now consisted of very little beyond a bushy tail. He walked back to Glass and tossed the tail at Glass’s feet. “I think that gun is not so good for squirrels.”

  This time Glass smiled back. “I’ll take it.”

  They returned to the cabin and Glass picked out the rest of his supplies. He chose a .53 pistol to complement the rifle. A ball mold, lead, powder, and flints. A tomahawk and a large skinning knife. A thick leather belt to hold his weapons. Two red cotton shirts to wear beneath the doeskin tunic. A large Hudson’s Bay capote. A wool cap and mittens. Five pounds of salt and three pigtails of tobacco. Needle and thread. Cordage. To carry his newfound bounty, he picked a fringed leather possibles bag with intricate quill beading. He noticed that the voyageurs all wore small sacks at the waist for their pipe and tobacco. He took one of those too, a handy spot for his new flint and steel.

  When Glass finished, he felt rich as a king. After six weeks with nothing but the clothes on his back, Glass felt immensely prepared for whatever battles lay before him. Kiowa calculated the bill, which totaled one hundred twenty-five dollars. Glass wrote a note to William Ashley:

  October 10, 1823

  Dear Mr. Ashley:

  My kit was stolen by two men of our brigade with whom I will settle my own account. Mr. Brazeau has extended me credit against the name of the Rocky Mountain Fur Co. I have taken the liberty of advancing the attached goods against my pay. I intend to recover my property and I pledge to repay my debt to you.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Hugh Glass

  “I’ll send your letter with the invoice,” said Kiowa.

  Glass ate a hearty dinner that evening with Kiowa and four of his five new companions. The fifth, Louis “La Vierge” Cattoire, had yet to emerge from the whore’s tent. His brother Dominique reported that La Vierge had alternated between bouts of inebriation and fornication since the moment of their arrival at Fort Brazeau. Except when it directly involved Glass, the voyageurs did most of their talking in French. Glass recognized scattered words and phrases from his time on Campeche, though not enough to follow the conversation.

  “Make sure your brother’s ready in the morning,” said Langevin. “I need his paddle.”

  “He’ll be ready.”

  “And remember the task at hand,” said Kiowa. “Don’t be laying up with the Mandans all winter. I need confirmation that the Arikara won’t attack traders on the river. If I haven’t heard from you by New Year’s, I can’t get word to St. Louis in time to effect planning for the spring.”

  “I know my job,” said Langevin. “I’ll get you the information you need.”

  “Speaking of information”—Kiowa switched seamlessly from French to English—“we’d all like to know exactly what happened to you, Monsieur Glass.” At this, even the dim eye of Professeur flickered with interest.

  Glass looked around the table. “There’s not much to tell.” Kiowa translated as Glass spoke, and the voyageurs laughed when they heard what Glass had said.

  Kiowa laughed too, then said: “With all due respect, mon ami, your face tells a story by itself—but we’d like to hear the particulars.”

  Settling in for what they expected to be an entertaining tale, the voyageurs packed fresh tobacco into their long pipes. Kiowa removed an ornate silver snuffbox from his vest pocket and put a pinch to his nose.

  Glass put his hand to his throat, still embarrassed by his whining voice.

  “Big grizzly attacked me on the Grand. Captain Henry left John Fitzgerald and Jim Bridger behind to bury me when I died. They robbed me instead. I aim to recover what’s mine and see justice done.”

  Glass finished. Kiowa translated. A long silence followed, pregnant with expectation.

  Finally Professeur asked in his thick brogue, “Ain’t he gonna tell us anymore?”

  “No offense, monsieur,” said Toussaint Charbonneau, “but you’re not much of a raconteur.”

  Glass stared back, but offered no further detail.

  Kiowa spoke up. “It’s your business if you want to keep the details of your fight with the bear, but I won’t let you leave without telling me about the Grand.”

  Kiowa understood early in his career that his trade dealt not only in goods, but also in information. People came to his trading post not just for the things they could buy, but also for the things they could learn. Kiowa’s fort sat at the confluence of the Missouri and the White River, so the White he knew well. So too the Cheyenne River to his north. He had learned what he could about the Grand from a number of Indians, but details remained sparse.

  Kiowa said something in Sioux to his wife, who retrieved for him a well-worn book which they both handled as if it were the family Bible. The book wore a long title on its tattered cover. Kiowa adjusted his spectacles and read the title aloud: “History of the Expedition …”

  Glass finished it: “… Under the Command of Captains Lewis and Clark.” Kiowa looked up excitedly. “Ah bon! Our wounded traveler is a man of letters!”

  Glass too was excited, forgetting for a while the pain of speaking.

  “Edited by Paul Allen. Published in Philadelphia, 1814.”

  “Then you’re also familiar with Captain Clark’s map?”

  Glass nodded. He remembered well the electricity that accompanied the long-awaited publication of the memoirs and map. Like the maps that shaped his boyhood dreams, Glass first saw History of the Expedition in the Philadelphia offices of Rawsthorne & Sons.

  Kiowa set the book on its spine and it fell open to Clark’s map, entitled “A Map of Lewis and Clark’s Track, Across the Western Portion of North America From the Mississippi to the Pacific Ocean.” To prepare for their expedition, Clark had trained intensively in cartography and its tools. His map was the marvel of its day, surpassing in detail and accuracy anything produced before it. The map showed clearly the major tributaries feeding the Missouri from St. Louis to the Three Forks.

  Though the map portrayed accurately the rivers that flowed into the Missouri, detail usually ended near the point of confluence. Little was known about the course and source of these streams. There were a few exceptions: By 1814, the map could incorporate discoveries in the Yellowstone Basin by Drouillard and Colter. It showed the trace of Zebulon Pike through the southern Rockies. Kiowa had sketched in the Platte, including a rough estimate of its north and south forks. And on the Yellowstone, Manuel Lisa’s abandoned fort was marked at the mouth of the Bighorn.

  Glass pored eagerly over the document. What interested him was not Clark’s map itself, which he knew well from his long hours at Rawsthorne & Sons and his more recent studies in St. Louis. What interested Glass were the details added by Kiowa, the penciled etchings of a decade’s accreted knowledge.

  The recurrent theme was water, and the names told the stories of the places. Some memorialized fights—War Creek, Lance Creek, Bear in the Lodge Creek. Others described the local flora and fauna—Antelope Creek, Beaver Creek, Pine Creek, the Rosebud. Some detailed the character of water itself—Deep Creek, Rapid Creek, the Platte, Sulphur Creek, Sweet Water. A few hinted at something more mystical—Medicine Lodge Creek, Castle Creek, Keya Paha.

  Kiowa peppered Glass with questions. How many days had they walked up the Grand before striking the upper fork? Where did creeks flow into the river? What landmarks distinguished the path? What signs of beaver and other game? How much wood? How far to the Twin Buttes? What signs of Indians? Which tribes? Kiowa used a sharp pencil to sketch in the new details.

  Glass took as well as gave. Though the rough map was etched in his memory, the details assumed new urgency as he contemplated traversing the land alone. How many miles from the Mandan villages to Fort Union? W
hat were the principal tributaries above Mandan, and how many miles between them? What was the terrain? When did the Missouri freeze over? Where could he save time by cutting across the bends in the river? Glass copied key portions of Clark’s map for his own future reference. He focused on the expanse between the Mandan villages and Fort Union, tracing both the Yellowstone and the Missouri rivers for several hundred miles above Fort Union.

  The others drifted away from the table as Kiowa and Glass continued into the night, the dim oil lamp casting wild shadows on the log walls. Hungry at the rare opportunity for intelligent conversation, Kiowa would not release Glass from his grasp. Kiowa marveled at Glass’s tale of walking from the Gulf of Mexico to St. Louis. He brought out fresh paper and made Glass draw a crude map of the Texas and Kansas plains.

  “A man like you could do well at my post. Travelers are hungry for the type of information you possess.”

  Glass shook his head.

  “Truly, mon ami. Why don’t you lay up for the winter? I’ll hire you on.”

  Kiowa would gladly have paid, just for the company.

  Glass shook his head again, more firmly this time. “I have my own affairs to attend.”

  “Bit of a silly venture, isn’t it? For a man of your skills? Traipsing across Louisiana in the dead of winter. Chase down your betrayers in the spring, if you’re still inclined.”

  The warmth of the earlier conversation seemed to drain from the room, as if a door had been opened on a frigid winter day. Glass’s eyes flashed and Kiowa regretted immediately his comment.

  “It’s not an issue on which I asked your counsel.”

  “No, monsieur. No, it was not.”

  There remained barely two hours before sunlight when Glass, exhausted, finally climbed up the ladder to the loft. Still, the anticipation of debarkation allowed him little sleep.