The Revenant

by Michael Punke

  Two dozen teepees stood on the south bank of the Platte, less than fifty yards in front of them. A handful of children played near the water. They spotted the bullboats and erupted in screams. Glass watched as two braves by a campfire jumped to their feet. Red had been right, he realized too late. Arikara! The current drove both boats directly toward the camp. Glass heard a shot as he watched the men in the camp grab weapons and rush toward the high bank along the river. Glass gave a final push with his pole and grabbed his gun.

  Red fired a shot and an Indian tumbled down the bank. “What’s happening?” yelled Chapman, struggling to see through his one clear eye.

  Red started to say something when he felt a burning sensation in his belly. He looked down and saw blood oozing from a hole in his shirt. “Oh shit, Chapman, I’m shot!” He rose up in panic, ripping at his shirt to inspect the wound. Two more shots hit simultaneously, pitching him backward. His legs hooked the gunwale as he fell, tipping the rim of the bullboat into the rushing flow of the river. Water spilled across the gunwale and the boat flipped.

  Half blind, Chapman found himself suddenly underwater. He felt the jarring chill of the river. For an instant, the wild rush seemed to slow, and Chapman struggled to process the lethal events surrounding him. Through his good eye he saw Red’s body floating downstream, his blood leaching into the river like black ink. He heard the watery echo of legs crashing toward him from the river’s edge. They’re coming for me! He desperately needed to breathe, yet he knew with terrible certainty what waited on the surface.

  Finally he could stand it no more. His head broke the surface and he gasped to fill his lungs. He would never draw another breath. His eyes had not yet cleared, so Chapman never saw the swinging ax.

  Glass leveled his rifle on the nearest Arikara and fired. He watched in horror as several Arikara waded into the river, hacking at Chapman when his head broke the surface. Red’s body floated forlornly downstream. Glass reached for Pig’s rifle as he heard a wild cry. An enormous Indian hurled a spear from the shoreline. Glass ducked instinctively. The spear cleanly penetrated the side of the boat, burying its tip in the ribbing on the opposite side. Glass raised above the gunwale and fired, killing the big Indian on the shore.

  He saw a flash of motion and looked up on the bank. Three Arikara stood in a deadly gauntlet, barely twenty yards away. They can’t miss. He threw himself backward into the Platte as their trio of shots exploded.

  For an instant he tried to hold on to the rifle. Just as quickly he let go.

  He dismissed the idea of trying to make his escape by swimming downstream. He was already numb from the icy water. Besides, the Arikara would find their mounts in a few minutes—maybe they already had. A racing horse would easily outpace the meandering Platte. His only chance was to stay submerged as long as possible and get to the opposite bank. Put the river between him and them—then hope to find cover. He kicked furiously and used both arms to propel himself.

  The channel ran deep in the middle of the river, deeper than a man’s head. A sudden streak cut the water in front of him and Glass realized it was an arrow. Bullets pierced the water too, like mini torpedoes, searching for him. They can see me! Glass struggled to go deeper below the surface, but already his chest constricted for lack of breath. What’s on the opposite bank? He hadn’t even managed to look before chaos erupted. Must breathe! He pushed himself toward the surface.

  His head cleared the water and he heard the quick staccato of shots.

  He grimaced as he drew a deep breath, expecting the crash of a ball against his skull. Musket balls and arrows splashed around him—but none hit. He scanned the north bank before diving back below the surface. What he saw gave him hope. The river ran for forty yards or so along a sandbar. No cover there; if he climbed out they would shoot him down. At the end of the sandbar, though, the water joined with a low, grassy bank. It was his only chance.

  Glass dug deep and pulled hard against the water, the current aiding his stroke. He thought he could just make out the end of the sandbar through the murky water. Thirty yards. The musket balls and arrows stabbed at the water. Twenty yards. He veered toward the bank as his lungs screamed for air. Ten yards. His feet hit the rocks of the bottom but he stayed submerged, his desperation to breathe still less than his fear of the Arikara guns. When the water became too shallow to remain submerged, he stood up, sucking for air as he dove for the tall grass on the bank. He felt a sharp sting in the back of his leg and ignored it, scrambling into a thick stand of willows.

  From the temporary cover of the willows he looked back. Four riders coaxed their horses down the steep bank across the river. A half dozen Indians stood at the water’s edge, pointing toward the willows. Something caught his eye farther upstream. Two Arikara were dragging Chapman’s body up the bank. Glass turned to flee, sharp pain shooting up his leg. He looked down to find an arrow protruding from his calf. It had not hit a bone. He reached down, wincing as he ripped the arrow backward in a single, swift motion. He threw it aside and crawled deeper into the willows.

  Glass’s first lucky turn came in the form of an independent-minded filly, the first of the four horses to hit the water of the Platte. Aggressive quirting goaded her into the shallows, but the animal balked when the bottom disappeared and she was forced to swim. She whinnied and thrashed her head, ignoring the hard rein as she turned stubbornly back to shore. The other three horses had their own reservations about cold water and were happy to follow the filly’s lead. The balking animals bumped into each other, churning the Platte and dumping two of their riders into the river.

  By the time the riders regained control and whipped their mounts back into the river, precious seconds had passed.

  Glass crashed through the willows, emerging suddenly at a sandy embankment. He scrambled to the top and looked down at a narrow back channel. Shaded from the sun during most of the day, the still water of the channel lay frozen, a thin dusting of snow on its icy surface. Across the channel, another steep embankment led to a thick mass of willows and trees. There.

  Glass slid down the slope and leapt onto the frozen surface of the channel. The thin layer of snow gave way to the ice beneath. His moccasins gained no traction and he flipped backward, landing flat on his back. For an instant he lay stunned, staring up at the fading light of the evening sky. He rolled to his side, shaking his head to clear it. He heard the whinny of a horse and pushed himself to his feet. Gingerly this time, he picked his way across the narrow channel and clambered up the opposite bank. He heard the crash of horses behind him as he scrambled into the brush.

  The four Arikara riders crested the embankment, peering down. Even in the dim light, the tracks on the surface of the channel were clear. The lead rider kicked his pony. The pony hit the ice and fared no better than Glass. Worse, in fact, as the animal’s flat hooves found nothing to grip. Its four legs flailed spastically as it crashed to its side, crushing its rider’s leg in the process. The rider cried out in pain. Heeding the clear lesson, the three other horsemen quickly dismounted, continuing their pursuit on foot.

  Glass’s trail faded quickly in the thick brush across the back channel.

  It would have been obvious in daylight. In his desperate flight, Glass paid no heed to the branches he broke or even the footprints trailing behind him. But now there remained no more than a faint glow of the day. The shadows themselves had disappeared, dissolving into uniform darkness.

  Glass heard the scream of the downed rider behind him and stopped.

  They’re on the ice. He guessed there were fifty yards of brush between them. In the growing darkness, he realized, the peril was not being seen, but being heard. A large cottonwood loomed beside him. He reached for a low branch and pulled himself up.

  The tree’s main branches formed a broad crotch at a height of about eight feet. Glass hunkered low, struggling to quiet his heaving chest. He reached down to his belt, relieved to touch the pommel of his knife, still secure in its scabbard. There, too, was the sac
au feu. Inside were his flint and steel. Though his rifle lay on the bottom of the Platte, his powder horn still hung round his neck. At least starting fires would pose no problems. The thought of fire made him suddenly aware of his sopping clothing and the bone-deep chill from the river. His body began to shiver uncontrollably and he fought to keep still.

  A twig snapped. Glass peered into the clearing beneath him. A lanky warrior stood in the brush. His eyes scanned the clearing, searching the ground for sign of his quarry. He gripped a long trading musket and wore a hatchet on his belt. Glass held his breath as the Arikara stepped into the clearing. The warrior held his gun ready as he walked slowly toward the cottonwood. Even in the darkness, Glass could see clearly the white gleam of an elk-tooth necklace around his neck, the shiny brass of twin bracelets on his wrist. God, don’t let him look up. His heart hammered with such force that it seemed his chest could not contain its beating.

  The Indian reached the base of the cottonwood and stopped. His head was no more than ten feet below Glass. The brave studied the ground again, then the surrounding brush. Glass’s first instinct was to hold perfectly still, hope that the warrior would pass. But as he stared down he began to calculate the odds of another course—killing the Indian and taking his gun. Glass reached slowly for his knife. He felt its reassuring grip and began to slide it slowly from its sheath.

  Glass focused on the Indian’s throat. A swift cut across the jugular would not only kill him, but also prevent him from crying out. With excruciating slowness he raised his body, tensing for the pounce.

  Glass heard an urgent whisper from the edge of the clearing. He looked up to see a second warrior step out of the brush, a stout lance in his hand. Glass froze. He had moved from the relative concealment of the tree’s crotch, poising himself to leap. From where he was now perched, only darkness concealed him from the two warriors hunting him.

  The Indian below him turned, shaking his head and pointing to the ground, then motioning toward the thick brush. He whispered something in response. The Indian with the lance walked up to the cottonwood. Time seemed suspended as Glass struggled to maintain his composure. Hold tight. Finally the Indians settled on a course, and each disappeared into a separate gap in the brush.

  Glass didn’t move from the cottonwood for more than two hours. He listened to the off-and-on sounds of his searchers as he plotted his next move. After an hour one of the Arikara cut back through the clearing, apparently on his way toward the river.

  When Glass finally climbed down his joints felt like they had frozen in place. His foot had fallen asleep, and it took several minutes before he could walk normally.

  He would survive the night, though Glass knew that the Arikara would return at dawn. He also knew that the brush would not conceal him or his tracks in the glaring light of day. He picked his way through the dark tangle, careful to stay parallel with the Platte. Clouds blocked the light of the moon, though they also kept the temperature above freezing. He could not shake the chill of his wet clothing, but at least the constant motion kept his blood pumping hard.

  After three hours he reached a small spring creek. It was perfect. He waded into the water, careful to leave a few telltale tracks pointing up the stream—away from the Platte. He waded more than a hundred yards up the creek until he found the right terrain, a rocky shoreline that would conceal his tracks. He picked a path out of the water and across the rocks, working his way toward a grove of stumpy trees.

  They were hawthorns, whose thorny branches made them favorites of nesting birds. Glass stopped, reaching for his knife. He cut a small, ragged patch from his red cotton shirt and stuck the cloth on one of the thorns. They won’t miss that. He turned then, picking his way back across the rocks to the creek, careful not to leave a trace. He waded to the middle of the creek and began to work his way back down.

  The little creek meandered lazily across the plain before joining with the Platte. Glass tripped repeatedly on the slippery rocks of the dark creek bed. The dousings kept him wet and he tried not to think about the cold. He had no sensation in his feet by the time he reached the Platte. He stood shivering in the knee-deep water, dreading what he had to do next.

  He peered across the river, trying to make out the contour of the opposite bank. There were willows and a few cottonwoods. Don’t make any tracks crawling out. He waded into the water, his breaths coming shorter and shorter as the water rose up to his waist. Darkness concealed a shelf beneath the water. Glass stepped off and found himself suddenly submerged to his neck. Gasping at the shock of the icy water on his chest, he swam hard for the opposite bank. When he could stand again he still stayed in the river, walking along the shoreline until he found a good spot to get out—a rocky jetty leading into willows.

  Glass worked his way carefully through the willows and the cottonwoods behind them, mindful of every step. He hoped that the Arikara would fall for his ruse up the spring creek—they certainly wouldn’t expect him to come back across the Platte. Still, he left nothing to chance. Glass was defenseless if they picked up his trail, so he did everything in his power not to leave one.

  A faint glow lit the eastern sky when he emerged from the cottonwoods. In the predawn light he saw the dark profile of a large plateau, a mile or two away. The plateau ran parallel to the river as far as he could see. He could lose himself there, find a sheltered draw or cave to hide, build a fire—dry out and get warm. When things settled down he could return to the Platte, continue his trek toward Fort Atkinson.

  Glass walked toward the looming plateau in the growing glow of the coming day. He thought about Chapman and Red and felt a sudden stab of guilt. He pushed it from his mind. No time for that now.

  TWENTY-SIX

  April 14, 1824

  Lieutenant Jonathon Jacobs raised his arm and barked out an order. Behind him a column of twenty men and their mounts reined to a dusty halt. The lieutenant patted his horse’s sweaty flank and reached for his canteen. He tried to affect nonchalance as he drew a long swig from the canteen. In truth, he hated any moment away from the relative safety of Fort Atkinson.

  He particularly hated this moment, when the galloping return of his scout could herald a wide variety of misfortunes. The Pawnee and a renegade band of Arikara had been raiding up and down the Platte since the snow began melting. The lieutenant tried to check his imagination as he awaited the scout’s report.

  The scout, a grizzled plainsman named Higgins, waited until he was practically on top of the column before he reined his own mount. The fringe on his leather jacket bounced as the big buckskin slid to a sideways halt.

  “There’s a man walking this way—up over the ridgeline.”

  “You mean an Indian?”

  “’Sume so, Lieutenant. Didn’t get close enough to find out.” Lieutenant Jacobs’s first instinct was to send Higgins back out with the sergeant and two men. Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that he should go himself.

  As they neared the ridgeline they left one man to hold the horses while the rest of them crawled forward on their bellies. The wide valley of the Platte spread before them for a hundred miles. Half a mile away, a solitary figure picked his way down the near bank of the river. Lieutenant Jacobs pulled a small looking glass from the breast pocket of his tunic. He extended the brass instrument to its full length and peered through.

  The magnified view bobbed up and down the riverbank as Jacobs steadied the scope. He found his target, holding on the buckskin-clad man. He couldn’t make out the face—but he could see the bushy smudge of a beard.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Lieutenant Jacobs with surprise. “It’s a white man. What the hell is he doing out here?”

  “He ain’t one of ours,” said Higgins. “All the deserters head straight for St. Louis.”

  Perhaps because the man appeared to be in no immediate danger, the lieutenant felt suddenly gripped by chivalry. “Let’s go get him.”

  Major Robert Constable represented, albeit not by choice, the fourth generat
ion of Constable men to pursue a career in the military. His great-grandfather fought the French and Indians as an officer of His Majesty’s Twelfth Regiment of Foot. His grandfather stayed true to his family’s vocation, if not to its king, fighting against the British as an officer of Washington’s Continental Army.

  Constable’s father had poor luck when it came to military glory—too young for the Revolution and too old for the War of 1812. Given no opportunity to win distinction of his own, he felt the least he could do was to offer up his only son. Young Robert had yearned to pursue a career in the law and dreamed of wearing the robes of a judge. Robert’s father refused to stain the family lineage with a pettifogger, and used a friendship with a senator to secure a spot for his son at West Point. So for twenty unremarkable years, Major Robert Constable inched his way up the military ladder. His wife had stopped trailing after him a decade earlier, and now resided in Boston (in close proximity to her lover, a well-known judge). When General Atkinson and Colonel Leavenworth returned east for the winter, Major Constable inherited temporary command of the fort.

  Over what did he reign supreme? Three hundred infantrymen (equally divided between recent immigrants and recent convicts), a hundred cavalrymen (with, in an unfortunate bit of asymmetry, only fifty horses), and a dozen rusty cannons. Still, reign supreme he would, passing on the bitter brine of his career to the subjects of his tiny kingdom.

  Major Constable was sitting behind a large desk flanked by an aide, when Lieutenant Jacobs presented the weather-beaten plainsman he had rescued. “We found him on the Platte, sir,” reported Jacobs, breathlessly. “He survived an Arikara attack on the north fork.”