Glass piled his fuel next to the downed tree, then dug furiously to create a sheltered depression for the fire. He removed his mittens to handle the tinder, but his frozen fingers barely functioned. He cupped his hands against his mouth and blew into them. His breath created a brief tingle of warmth which faded instantly against the onslaught of frigid air. He felt a new blast of bitter wind on his back and neck, penetrating to his skin and then, it seemed, deeper still. Is the wind shifting? He paused for an instant, wondering whether he should move to the other side of the cottonwood. The wind receded, and he decided to stay put.
He spread his tinder in the shallow depression, then dug into his sac au feu for the flint and steel. On his first attempt to strike the steel, his flint nicked the knuckle on his thumb. The sting extended all the way up his arm like the vibration of a tuning fork. He tried to ignore the pain as he struck again at the steel. Finally a spark landed in the tinder and began to burn. He dropped over the tiny flame, sheltering it with his body while blowing, desperate to breathe his own life into the fire. Suddenly he felt a great swirling rush of wind and his face filled with sand and smoke from the depression. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes and when he could open them, the flame was gone. Damn it!
He pounded the flint against the steel. Sparks showered down, but too much of the tinder had already burned. The backs of his hands ached from the exposure. His fingers, meanwhile, had lost all sensation. Use the powder.
He arranged the remaining tinder as best he could, this time adding larger pieces of wood. From his horn he poured gunpowder, cursing as it gushed into the depression. He situated his body again to block as much wind as possible, then struck at the steel with his flint.
A flash arose from the depression, burning his hands and singeing his face. He barely noticed the pain, so desperate was he to nurture the flames that now jumped up and down with the swirling wind. He crouched over the fire, spreading his capote to create a greater windbreak. Most of the tinder already had disappeared, but he saw with relief that some of the larger chunks were burning. He added more fuel, and in a few minutes was confident that the fire would continue to burn on its own.
He had just settled back against the downed tree when another great blast of wind nearly extinguished his fire. Again he threw himself over the flames, spreading his capote to block the wind while he blew against the glowing embers. Sheltered again, the flames sprang back to life.
Glass stayed in that position, hunched over the fire with his arms spread wide to hold the capote, for almost half an hour. Snow piled around him, several more inches in the short time he guarded the flames. He could feel the weight of the drifting snow where the capote dragged the ground. He felt something else, and his stomach sank at the realization. It’s shifted. The wind beat against his back, no longer swirling, but with constant, relentless pressure. The cottonwood provided no shelter. Worse still, it caught the wind and turned it—back against him and into the fire.
He fought against a growing sense of panic, a vicious circle of conflicting fears. The starting point was clear—without a fire he would freeze to death. At the same time, he could not continue to hold his current position, stooped over the flames, arms spread wide, the blizzard beating at his back. He was exhausted, and the storm could easily rage for hours or even days. He needed shelter, however crude. The wind’s direction now seemed consistent enough to bet on the other side of the tree. It couldn’t be worse, but Glass doubted he could move without losing the fire. Could he start another fire from scratch? In the dark? With no tinder? He saw no choice but to try.
He set upon a plan. He would rush to the other side of the downed cottonwood, scoop a new depression for the fire, then seek to transfer the flames.
No sense waiting. He grabbed his rifle and as much of his fuel as he could carry. The wind seemed to sense the presence of a new target, blasting him with renewed fury. He ducked his head and waded around the giant roots, cursing as he felt more snow pour into his moccasins.
The opposite side did seem better sheltered from the wind, though the snow was piled just as deep. He dropped his rifle and wood and began to scoop. It took five minutes to scrape an area large enough for a fire. He rushed back to the other side, retracing his footprints in the snow. The clouds made it almost completely dark, and he hoped for the glow of his fire as he came around the base of the tree. No light—no fire.
The only sign of his fire was a faint depression in a mound of drifted snow. Glass dug down, foolishly hoping that somehow an ember might have survived. He found nothing, though the heat from the fire had turned the snow into a slushy mix. It soaked his woolen mittens. He felt the frigid chill of moisture on his hands, then an odd mixture of pains that seemed to burn and freeze, all at the same time.
He retreated quickly to the more sheltered side of the tree. The wind seemed to have settled on a course, but also intensified. His face ached and his hands again lost all dexterity. He ignored his feet, which was easy since he felt no sensation below his ankles. With the more consistent direction of the wind, the cottonwood at least created a windbreak. The temperature continued to drop, though, and without a fire, Glass again thought he would die.
There was no time to hunt for tinder, even if there had been enough light to see. He decided to cut kindling with his hatchet, then hope that another shot of gunpowder would be enough to start the blaze. For an instant he worried about conserving his powder. Least of my problems. He drove the hatchet into the end of a short log to seat the blade, then pounded up and down to split the wood.
The sound of his own work almost obscured another sound—a dull clap like distant thunder. He froze, his neck craning in search of the source. A rifle shot? No—too big. Glass had heard thunder before during snowstorms, but never in temperatures this cold.
He waited several minutes, listening intently. No sound competed with the screaming winds, and Glass became aware again of the excruciating pain in his hands. To wander in the storm on some quest for a strange sound seemed like folly. Start the damn fire. He planted the hatchet’s blade in the top of another log.
When he had cut a sufficient amount, Glass arranged the kindling in a pile and reached for his powder horn. It scared him how little powder remained. As he poured he wondered if he should conserve some powder for a second attempt. He fumbled, barely able to calibrate the actions of his frozen hands. No—this is it. He emptied the powder horn, then reached again for his flint and steel.
He raised his flint to strike the steel, but before he could do so, an enormous roar rolled down the valley of the Yellowstone. This time he knew. The unmistakable blast of a cannon. Henry!
Glass stood, reaching for his rifle. The winds again found a target and pounded with a vigor that nearly staggered him. He began to wade through the deep snow toward the Yellowstone. Hope I’m on the right side of the river.
* * *
Captain Henry was outraged at the loss of the cannon. Though the weapon had little utility in actual combat, its deterrent value was significant. Besides, a real fort had a cannon, and Henry wanted one for his.
With the notable exception of the captain, the loss of the cannon had not dampened spirits at the fort’s New Year’s celebration. To the contrary, the great explosion seemed to boost the level of revelry. The blizzard drove the men back inside, but the cramped bunkhouse pulsed with a relentless cacophony of unbridled chaos.
Then the cabin door blasted suddenly open—completely open—as if some great external force had built up outside before blowing the portal inward. The elements came in with the open door, frigid fingers grabbing at the men inside, ripping them from the snug comfort of the shelter and fire.
“Close the door, you bloody idiot!” yelled Stubby Bill without looking at the door. Then they all did look. The wind shrieked outside. Snow swirled around the looming presence in the doorway, making it appear to be part of the storm, disgorged in their midst like some rogue element of the wilderness itself.
Jim Bridge
r stared in horror at the specter. Driven snow was plastered against every surface of its body, encasing it in frozen white. On its face, ice clung to a haggard beard and hung down like crystal daggers from the folded brow of a wool cap. The apparition might have been carved wholly of winter—had not the crimson streaks of raking scars dominated its face, had not its eyes burned as fiery as molten lead. Bridger watched as the eyes scanned the interior of the cabin, deliberate and searching.
Stunned silence filled the room as the men struggled to comprehend the vision before them. Unlike the others, Bridger understood instantly. In his mind he had seen this vision before. His guilt swelled up, churning like a paddle wheel in his stomach. He wanted desperately to flee. How do you escape something that comes from inside? The revenant, he knew, searched for him.
Several instants passed before Black Harris finally said, “Jesus Christ. It’s Hugh Glass.”
Glass scanned the stunned faces before him. Disappointment flashed briefly as he failed to locate Fitzgerald among the men—but he did find Bridger. Their eyes would have met, except Bridger turned away. Just like before. He noticed the familiar knife that Bridger now wore at his waist. Glass lifted his rifle and cocked it.
The desire to shoot Bridger down nearly overwhelmed him. Having crawled toward this moment for a hundred days, the prospect of vengeance was now immediate, the power to consummate requiring no more than the gentle squeeze of a trigger. Yet a mere bullet seemed too intangible to express his rage, an abstraction at a moment craving the satisfaction of flesh against flesh. Like a starving man set before a feast, he could pause briefly to enjoy the last moment of an aching hunger about to be sated. Glass lowered the rifle and leaned it against the wall.
He walked slowly toward Bridger, the other men clearing a path as he approached. “Where’s my knife, Bridger?” Glass stood directly before him. Bridger turned his head to look up at Glass. He felt the familiar disconnect between his desire to explain and his inability to do so.
“Stand up,” said Glass. Bridger stood.
Glass’s first punch struck him full force in the face. Bridger offered no resistance. He saw the punch coming but did not turn his head or even wince. Glass could feel the cartilage snap in Bridger’s nose, saw the torrent of blood set loose. He had imagined the satisfaction of this moment a thousand times, and now it had arrived. He was glad he hadn’t shot him—glad that he hadn’t robbed himself of the full carnal pleasure of revenge.
Glass’s second blow caught Bridger under the chin, knocking him backward against the log wall of the cabin. Again Glass wallowed in the raw satisfaction of the contact. The wall kept Bridger from falling, holding him upright.
Glass closed in tight now, erupting in a spasm of punches against Bridger’s face. When the blood became so thick that his punches began to slide off ineffectively, he shifted his blows to Bridger’s stomach. Bridger crumpled as he lost his wind, finally falling to the floor. Glass began to kick him, and Bridger could not, or would not fight back. Bridger too had seen the approach of this day. It was his reckoning, and he felt no entitlement to resist.
Finally Pig stepped forward. Even through the haze of alcohol, Pig had pieced together the full implications of the violent event unfolding before him. Clearly, Bridger and Fitzgerald had lied about their time with Glass. Still, it seemed wrong to let Glass walk in and kill their friend and comrade. Pig reached to grab Glass from behind.
But someone grabbed him. Pig turned to find Captain Henry. Pig appealed to the captain: “You gonna let him kill Bridger?”
“I’m not gonna do anything,” said the Captain. Pig started to protest further, but Henry cut him off. “This is for Glass to decide.”
Glass delivered another brutal kick. Though he tried to contain it, Bridger groaned at the impact of the blow. Glass stood above the crumpled form at his feet, panting at the sheer exertion of the beating he had inflicted. He felt his heart pound in his temple as his eyes came to rest again on the knife in Bridger’s belt. In his mind he saw Bridger standing at the edge of the clearing on that day—catching the knife that Fitzgerald had thrown to him. My knife. He reached down and pulled the long blade from its sheath. The grip of the molded pommel was like the embrace of a familiar hand. He thought of the times he had needed that knife and his hate spiked again. The moment’s arrived.
How long had he nourished himself with the prospect of this moment?
And now it had arrived, a vengeance more perfect than even his imagination had conjured. He turned the blade in his hand, felt its weight, prepared to drive it home.
He looked down at Bridger, and something unexpected began to happen. The perfection of the moment began to evaporate. Bridger looked back at Glass, and in his eyes, Glass saw not malice, but fear; not resistance, but resignation. Fight back, damn you! One twitch of opposition to justify the final strike.
It never came. Glass continued to grip the knife, staring at the boy. A boy! As Glass looked down at him, new images suddenly competed with his memory of the stolen knife. He remembered the boy tending his wounds, arguing with Fitzgerald. He saw other images too, like the ashen face of La Vierge on the cut bank of the Missouri.
Glass’s breathing began to slow. His temple ceased to pulsate in sync with his heart. He looked around the room, as if suddenly aware of the ring of men surrounding him. He stared for a long time at the knife in his hand, then slipped it in his belt. Turning from the boy, Glass realized he was cold and walked toward the fire, extending his bloodied hands to the warmth of the crackling flames.
TWENTY-TWO
FEBRUARY 27, 1824
A STEAMSHIP NAMED DOLLEY MADISON had arrived in St. Louis the week before. It carried a cargo of goods from Cuba, including sugar, rum, and cigars. William H. Ashley loved cigars, and he wondered briefly why the fat Cuban perched on his lip was failing to impart its usual pleasure. Of course he knew the reason. When he walked each day to the riverfront, he didn’t go in search of steamships bearing trifles from the Caribbean. No, he went in ravenous anticipation of a fur-laden pirogue from the far west. Where are they? There had been no word from Andrew Henry or Jedediah Smith in five months. Five months!
Ashley paced the length of his cavernous office at the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. He hadn’t been able to sit still all day. He stopped again in front of the enormous map on the wall. The map was ornate, or at least it had been. Ashley had punctured it with more pins than a tailor’s dummy, and used a fat pencil to scratch the location of rivers, streams, trading posts, and other assorted landmarks.
His eyes traced the path up the Missouri and he tried again to fight off the sensation of impending ruin. He paused, staring at a spot on the river just west of St. Louis, where one of his flatboats had sunk with ten thousand dollars’ worth of supplies. He paused at the pin marking the Arikara villages, where sixteen of his men had been murdered and robbed, and where even the power of the U.S. Army had been unable to clear a path for his venture. He paused at a bend in the Missouri above the Mandan villages, where two years before Henry had lost a herd of seventy horses to the Assiniboine. He followed the Missouri past Fort Union to the Great Falls, where an attack by the Blackfeet had later sent Henry retreating down the river.
He looked down at a letter in his hand, the latest inquiry from one of his investors. The letter demanded an update on the “status of the venture on the Missouri.” I have no idea. And, of course, every penny of Ashley’s own fortune rode with Andrew Henry and Jedediah Smith.
Ashley felt an overwhelming desire to act, to strike out, to do something, to do anything—yet there was nothing more he could do. He already had managed to secure a loan for a new keelboat and provisions. The keelboat floated at a dock on the river and his provisions sat stacked in a warehouse. His recruitment for a new fur brigade was oversubscribed. He’d spent weeks culling forty men from a hundred who applied. In April he would personally lead his men up the Missouri. More than a month away!
And where would he go? When Ashley dispatc
hed Henry and Smith last August, their loose understanding was to rendezvous in the field—location to be determined through messengers. Messengers!
His eyes returned to the map. He used his finger to trace the scrawled line that represented the Grand River. He remembered drawing that line, and how he had guessed at the course of the river. Was I right? Did the Grand provide a direct line toward Fort Union? Or did it veer in some other direction? How long had it taken Henry and his men to reach the fort? Long enough, it appeared, that they had not been able to conduct a fall hunt. Are they even alive?
* * *
Captain Andrew Henry, Hugh Glass, and Black Harris sat next to the dying coals of the fire in the bunkhouse of the fort on the Big Horn. Henry stood and walked outside the cabin, returning with an armful of wood. He set a log on the coals and the three men watched as flames reached eagerly for the fresh fuel.
“I need a messenger to go back to St. Louis,” said Henry. “I should have sent one before, but I wanted to wait till we were set up on the Big Horn.”
Glass seized immediately at the opportunity. “I’ll go, Captain.” Fitzgerald and the Anstadt were somewhere down the Missouri. Besides, a month in Henry’s company had been more than sufficient to remind Glass of the cloudy weather that the captain could not shake.
“Good. I’ll give you three men and horses. I assume you agree that we ought to stay off the Missouri?”
Glass nodded. “I think we ought to try the Powder down to the Platte. Then it’s a straight shot to Fort Atkinson.”
“Why not the Grand?”
“More chance of Rees on the Grand. Besides, if we’re lucky we might bump into Jed Smith on the Powder.”
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