The Revenant

by Michael Punke

  “No punishment?”

  “He has to forfeit two months’ pay.”

  “Two months’ pay!”

  “Well, he’s also got a hole in his shoulder where there didn’t used to be one—and you get your rifle back.”

  Kiowa stared at Glass, easily reading his face. “In case you’re getting any ideas—I’d avoid using the Anstadt on the premises of this fort. Major Constable fancies his judicial responsibilities and he’s eager to try you for attempted murder. He only relented because I convinced him you’re a protégé of Monsieur Ashley.”

  They walked together across the parade ground. A flagpole stood there, its support ropes straining to hold firm against a stiff spring breeze. The flag itself snapped in the wind, its edges frayed by the constant beating.

  Kiowa turned to Glass: “You’re thinking stupid thoughts, my friend.”

  Glass stopped and looked directly at the Frenchman.

  Kiowa said, “I’m sorry that you never had a proper rendezvous with Fitzgerald. But you should have figured out by now that things aren’t always so tidy.”

  They stood there for a while, with no sound but the flapping of the flag.

  “It’s not that simple, Kiowa.”

  “Of course it’s not simple. Who said it was simple? But you know what? Lots of loose ends don’t ever get tied up. Play the hand you’re dealt. Move on.”

  Kiowa pressed on. “Come with me to Fort Brazeau. If it works out, I’ll bring you in as a partner.”

  Glass slowly shook his head. “That’s a generous offer, Kiowa, but I don’t think I could stay planted in one spot.”

  “So what then? What’s your plan?”

  “I have a message to deliver to Ashley in St. Louis. From there, I don’t know yet.” Glass paused a minute before adding, “And I still have business here.”

  Glass said nothing more. Kiowa too was silent for a long time. Finally he said quietly, “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre. Do you know what that means?”

  Glass shook his head.

  “It means there are none so deaf as those that will not hear. Why did you come to the frontier?” demanded Kiowa. “To track down a common thief? To revel in a moment’s revenge? I thought there was more to you than that.”

  Still Glass said nothing. Finally Kiowa said, “If you want to die in the guardhouse, that’s for you to decide.” The Frenchman turned and walked across the parade ground. Glass hesitated a moment, then followed behind.

  “Let’s go drink whiskey,” yelled Kiowa over his shoulder. “I want to hear about the Powder and the Platte.”

  Kiowa loaned Glass the money for a few supplies and a night’s lodging at Fort Atkinson’s equivalent of an inn—a row of pallets in the sutler’s attic. Whiskey usually made Glass drowsy, but that night it did not. Nor did it clarify the jumble of thoughts in his head. He struggled to think clearly. What was the answer to Kiowa’s question?

  Glass took the Anstadt and walked outside into the crisp air of the parade ground. The night was perfectly clear with no moon, reserving the sky for a billion stars, piercing pinpricks of light. He climbed crude steps to the narrow palisade that circled the wall of the fort. The view from the top was commanding.

  Glass looked behind him into the confines of the fort. Across the parade ground lay the barracks. He’s there. How many hundreds of miles had he traversed to find Fitzgerald? And now his quarry lay sleeping, a handful of steps away. He felt the cold metal of the Anstadt in his hand. How can I walk away now?

  He turned his back, looking across the ramparts of the fort toward the Missouri River.

  Stars danced on the dark water, their reflection like a marker of the heavens against the earth. Glass searched the sky for his beacons. He found the sloping tails of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the steady comfort of the North Star. Where’s Orion? Where’s the hunter with his vengeful sword?

  The brilliant sparkle of the great star Vega seemed suddenly to fight for Glass’s attention. Next to Vega he picked out the Cygnus, the Swan.

  Glass stared at Cygnus, and the more he stared, the more its perpendicular lines seemed clearly to form a cross. The Northern Cross. That was the common name for Cygnus, he remembered. It seemed more fitting.

  He stood there on the high rampart for a long time that night, listening to the Missouri and staring at the stars. He wondered at the source of the waters, of the mighty Big Horns whose tops he had seen but never touched. He wondered at the stars and the heavens, comforted by their vastness against his own small place in the world. Finally he climbed down from the ramparts and went inside, quickly finding the sleep that had eluded him before.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  May 7, 1824

  Jim Bridger started to knock on Captain Henry’s door, then stopped. It had been seven days since anyone had seen the captain outside of his quarters. Seven days ago was when the Crow stole back the horses. Not even Murphy’s successful return from a hunt could entice Henry from his seclusion.

  Bridger took a deep breath and knocked. He heard a rustling sound from inside, then silence. “Captain?” More silence. Bridger paused again, then pushed open the door.

  Henry sat hunched behind a desk made from two barrels and a plank.

  A wool blanket draped his shoulders in a fashion that reminded Bridger of an old man huddled over the stove at a general store. The captain held a quill in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Bridger glanced at the paper. Long columns of numbers crowded the page from left to right, top to bottom. Blotches of ink spotted the text, as if his quill had encountered frequent obstacles and stopped, spilling itself like blood onto the page. Wadded paper lay strewn across the desk and the floor.

  Bridger waited for the captain to say something, or at least to look up.

  For a long time, he didn’t do either. Finally the captain raised his head. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days, his bloodshot eyes peering out above sagging gray bags. Bridger wondered if it was true what some of the men were saying, that Captain Henry had gone over the edge.

  “You know anything about numbers, Bridger?”

  “No sir.”

  “Me neither. Not much, anyway. In fact, I keep hoping that I’ve just been too stupid to make all this add up.” The captain stared back down at the paper. “Trouble is, I keep doing it over and over and it keeps coming out the same way. I think the problem’s not my math—it’s just that it doesn’t come out the way I want.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”

  “What I mean is that we’re belly-up. We’re thirty thousand dollars in the hole. Without horses, we can’t keep enough men in the field to get it back. And we got nothing left to trade for horses.”

  “Murphy just came in with two packs from the Big Horns.”

  The captain absorbed the news through the thick filter of his own past.

  “That’s nothing, Jim. Two packs of fur won’t put us back on our feet. Twenty packs won’t put us back on our feet.”

  The conversation was not moving in the direction Jim had hoped. It had taken two weeks for him to raise the gumption to come see the captain. Now the whole thing was off track. He fought the instinct to retreat. No. Not this time. “Murphy says you’re sending some men over the mountains to look for Jed Smith.”

  The captain offered no confirmation, but Bridger plowed forward anyway. “I want you to send me with them.”

  Henry looked at the boy. The eyes staring back at him gleamed as hopeful as the dawn of a spring day. How long had it been since he felt even an ounce of that youthful optimism? A long time—and good riddance.

  “I can save you some trouble, Jim. I’ve been over those mountains. They’re like the false front on a whorehouse. I know what you’re looking for—and it’s just not there.”

  Jim had no idea how to respond. He could not imagine why the captain was acting so strangely. Maybe he really had gone mad. Bridger didn’t know about that, but what he did know, what he believed with unsh
akeable faith—was that Captain Henry was wrong.

  They fell into another long period of silence. The feeling of discomfort grew, but Jim would not leave. Finally the captain looked at him and said, “It’s your choice, Jim. I’ll send you if you want to go.”

  Bridger walked out into the yard, squinting at the bright morning sunlight. He barely noticed the crisp air that nipped at his face, the vestige of a season about to pass. More snow would fall before winter at last gave way, but spring had fixed its grip on the plains.

  Jim climbed a short ladder to the palisade. He perched his elbows on the top of the wall, gazing toward the Big Horn Mountains. With his eyes he traced again a deep canyon that seemed to penetrate the mountain’s very core. Did it? He smiled at the infinite prospect of what might lay up the canyon, of what might lay on the mountaintops, of what might lay beyond.

  He raised his eyes to a horizon carved from snowy mountain peaks, virgin white against the frigid blue sky. He could climb up there if he wanted. Climb up there and touch the horizon, jump across and find the next.

  Historical Note

  Readers may wonder about the historical accuracy of the events in this novel. The fur trade era contains a murky mixture of history and legend, and some legend no doubt has invaded the history of Hugh Glass. The Revenant is a work of fiction. That said, I endeavored to stay true to history in the main events of the story.

  What is certainly true is that Hugh Glass was attacked by a grizzly bear while scouting for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company in the fall of 1823; that he was horribly mauled; that he was abandoned by his compatriots, including two men left to tend for him; and that he survived to launch an epic quest for revenge. The most comprehensive historical work on Glass was done by John Myers Myers in his entertaining biography The Saga of Hugh Glass. Myers makes a strong case for even some of the most remarkable aspects of Glass’s life, including his imprisonment by the pirate Jean Lafitte and, later, by the Pawnee Indians.

  There is some division among historians as to whether Jim Bridger was one of the two men left to care for Glass, though most historians believe that he was. (The historian Cecil Alter, in a 1925 biography of Bridger, makes a passionate contrary case.) There is considerable evidence that Glass confronted and then forgave Bridger at the fort on the Big Horn.

  I took literary and historical liberties in a couple of places that I wish to note. There is persuasive evidence that Glass did finally catch up with Fitzgerald at Fort Atkinson, finding his betrayer in the uniform of the U.S. Army. However, accounts of the encounter are cursory. There is no evidence of a formal proceeding such as I portrayed. The character of Major Constable is wholly fictional, as is the incident in which Glass shoots Fitzgerald in the shoulder. There is also evidence that Hugh Glass had separated from the party of Antoine Langevin prior to the Arikara attack on the voyageurs. (Toussaint Charbonneau does appear to have been with Langevin, and to have survived the attack, although the circumstances are not clear.) The characters of Professeur, Dominique Cattoire, and La Vierge Cattoire are wholly fictional.

  Fort Talbot and its inhabitants are invented. Otherwise, the geographic reference points are as accurate as I could make them. A spring 1824 attack against Glass and his companions by the Arikara Indians did take place, reportedly at the confluence of the North Platte River and the (later named) Laramie River. Eleven years later, Fort William—the predecessor of Fort Laramie—would be established at that site.

  Readers interested in the fur trade era would enjoy historical treatments including Hiram Chittenden’s classic The American Fur Trade of the Far West and Robert M. Utley’s more recent work A Life Wild and Perilous.

  In the years following the events portrayed in this novel, many of the central characters went on to continued adventure, tragedy, and glory. The following are notable:

  Captain Andrew Henry: In the summer of 1824, Henry and a group of his men rendezvoused with Jed Smith’s troop in what is now Wyoming. Though not enough to cover the company’s debts, Henry had collected a significant number of furs. Smith stayed in the field, with Henry responsible for returning to St. Louis with their harvest. Though modest at best, Ashley believed the quantity of furs justified an immediate return to the field. He secured funding for another expedition, which left St. Louis under Henry’s command on October 21, 1824. For reasons not recorded by history, Henry appears to have retreated from the frontier not long after.

  Had Henry held his stake in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company for another year, he—like the other principals in the syndicate—might have retired a wealthy man. But once again, Henry demonstrated his peculiar propensity for bad luck. He sold his share in the company for a modest sum. Even this could have provided a comfortable life, but Henry took up the surety business. When several of his debtors defaulted, he lost everything. Andrew Henry died penniless in 1832.

  William H. Ashley: It is remarkable that two partners in the same enterprise could ride it to such different conclusions. Though faced with mounting debts, Ashley remained steadfast in the belief that a fortune could be made in furs. After losing a bid for the governorship of Missouri in 1824, Ashley led a party of trappers down the south fork of the Platte. He became the first white man to attempt a navigation of the Green River, an effort that nearly ended in disaster near the mouth of what is today called the Ashley River.

  With few furs to show for his adventure, Ashley and his men met up with a dispirited group of trappers from the Hudson Bay Company. Through a mysterious transaction, Ashley came into possession of a hundred packs of beaver. Some allege the Americans plundered the HBC’s cache. More credible reports say Ashley did nothing more spurious than strike a hard bargain. In any event, Ashley sold the furs in St. Louis in the fall of 1825 for more than $200,000—securing a fortune for life.

  At the rendezvous of 1826, Ashley sold his share of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company to Jedediah Smith, David Jackson, and William Sublette. Having created the rendezvous system, launched the careers of several legends of the fur trade era, and secured his own place in history as a successful fur baron, Ashley retired from the trade.

  In 1831, the people of Missouri elected Ashley to replace Congressman Spencer Pottis (Pottis had died in a duel). Ashley twice won reelection, retiring from politics in 1837. William H. Ashley died in 1838.

  Jim Bridger: In the fall of 1824, Jim Bridger crossed the Rockies and became the first white man to touch the waters of the Great Salt Lake. By 1830, Bridger had become a partner in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, then rode the fur trade era to its crash in the 1840s. As the fur trade ebbed, Bridger caught the next wave of westward expansion. In 1838, he built a fort in what is now Wyoming. “Fort Bridger” became an important trading post on the Oregon Trail, later serving as a military post and Pony Express station. In the 1850s and 1860s, Bridger served often as a guide for settlers, exploration parties, and the U.S. Army.

  Jim Bridger died on July 17, 1878, near Westport, Missouri. For his lifetime of accomplishment as a trapper, explorer, and guide, Bridger is often referred to as the “King of the Mountain Men.” Today mountains, streams, and towns throughout the West bear his name.

  John Fitzgerald: Little is known about John Fitzgerald. He did exist, and is generally regarded as one of the two men who abandoned Hugh Glass. He is also believed to have deserted the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, and then to have enlisted in the U.S. Army at Fort Atkinson. I have fictionalized other parts of his life.

  Hugh Glass: From Fort Atkinson, Glass appears to have traveled downriver to St. Louis, delivering Henry’s message to Ashley. In St. Louis, Glass met a party of traders bound for Santa Fe. He joined them, and spent a year trapping on the Helo River. By around 1825, Glass was in Taos, a center of the southwestern fur trade.

  The arid streams of the Southwest played out quickly, and Glass again turned north. He trapped his way up the Colorado, the Green, and the Snake, eventually finding himself on the headwaters of the Missouri River. In 1828, the so-called free trappers ele
cted Glass to represent their interests in negotiations to break the monopoly of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. After trapping as far west as the Columbia River, Glass turned most of his attention to the eastern face of the Rockies.

  Glass spent the winter of 1833 at an outpost called “Fort Cass,” near Henry’s old fort at the confluence of the Yellowstone and Big Horn rivers. On a February morning, Glass and two companions were crossing the frozen Yellowstone at the outset of a trapping foray. They were ambushed by thirty Arikara warriors and killed.

  Acknowledgments

  Many of my friends and family (and a couple of kind strangers) made the generous gift of their time, reading early drafts of this book and improving it through their critique and encouragement. Thanks to Sean Darragh, Liz and John Feldman, Timothy and Lori Otto Punke, Peter Scher, Kim Tilley, Brent and Cheryl Garrett, Marilyn and Butch Punke, Randy and Julie Miller, Kelly MacManus, Marc Glick, Bill and Mary Strong, Mickey Kantor, Andre Solomita, Ev Ehrlich, Jen Kaplan, Mildred Hoecker, Monte Silk, Carol and Ted Kinney, Ian Davis, David Kurapka, David Marchick, Jay Ziegler, Aubrey Moss, Mike Bridge, Nancy Goodman, Jennifer Egan, Amy and Mike McManamen, Linda Stillman, and Jacqueline Cundiff.

  Thanks to a group of outstanding teachers from Torrington, Wyoming: Ethel James, Betty Sportsman, Edie Smith, Rodger Clark, Craig Sodaro, Randy Adams, and Bob Latta. If you ever wonder whether teachers make a difference, please know that you did for me.

  Particular thanks to the fantastic Tina Bennett at William Morris Endeavor. While I take all responsibility for its shortcomings, Tina helped make this book better and then worked to make it a film. Thanks to Tina’s talented assistant, Svetlana Katz, who (among other things) gave this book a name. I am grateful for early editing advice from Philip Turner. Stephen Morrison at Picador, with assistance from P. J. Horoszko, helped The Revenant return to life.

  In 2002, Keith Redmon saw film potential in The Revenant and has worked steadfastly ever since to make a movie happen, along with his Anonymous Content colleagues Steve Golin and David Kanter.