The Revenant Read online

  The top of the shrunken man’s head barely rose to Glass’s chin, which put the old Sioux at a perfect angle to examine the bear claw. He poked at the tip with his thumb, as if to verify its authenticity. His palsied hands trembled slightly as they reached to touch the pinkish scars extending from Glass’s right shoulder to his throat.

  Finally he turned Glass around to examine his back. He reached up to the collar of the threadbare shirt and ripped. The cloth offered little resistance. The Indians pushed close to see for themselves what Yellow Horse had described. They broke instantly into excited chatter in the strange language. Glass again felt his stomach turn at the thought of the spectacle that sparked such fervor.

  The medicine man said something and the Indians fell instantly silent.

  He turned and disappeared behind the flap on his teepee. When he emerged a few minutes later, his arms were full of assorted gourds and beaded bags. He returned to Glass and motioned him to lie facedown on the ground. Next to Glass, he spread out a beautiful white pelt. On the pelt he laid out an array of medicines. Glass had no idea what the vessels contained. I don’t care. Only one thing mattered. Get them off me.

  The medicine man said something to one of the young braves, who ran off, returning in a few minutes with a black pot full of water. Meanwhile, the medicine man sniffed at the largest of the gourds, adding ingredients from the assortment of bags. He broke into a low chant as he worked, the only sound to rise above the respectful silence of the villagers.

  The principal ingredient of the big gourd was buffalo urine, taken from the bladder of a large bull in a hunt the past summer. To the urine he added alder root and gunpowder. The resulting astringent was as potent as turpentine.

  The medicine man handed Glass a short stick, six inches in length. It took a moment before Glass understood its purpose. He took a deep breath and placed the stick between his teeth.

  Glass braced himself and the medicine man poured.

  The astringent ignited the most intense pain that Glass had ever felt, like molten iron in a mold of human flesh. At first the pain was specific, as the liquid seeped into each of the five cuts, inch by excruciating inch. Soon though, the pointed fire spread into a broader wave of agony, pulsating with the rapid beat of his heart. Glass sunk his teeth into the soft wood of the stick. He tried to imagine the cathartic effect of the treatment, but he could not transcend the immediacy of the pain.

  The astringent had the desired effect on the maggots. Dozens of the wriggling white forms struggled to the surface. After a few minutes, the medicine man used a large ladle of water to wash the worms and the burning liquid from Glass’s back. Glass panted as the pain slowly receded. He had just begun to catch his breath when the medicine man poured again from the big gourd.

  The medicine man applied four doses of the astringent. When he had washed the final traces away, he packed the wounds in a steaming poultice of pine and larch. Yellow Horse helped Glass into the medicine man’s teepee. A squaw brought freshly cooked venison. He ignored his stinging back long enough to gorge himself, then laid down on a buffalo robe and fell into a deep sleep.

  He passed in and out of sleep for almost two straight days. In his moments of wakefulness, he found next to him a replenished supply of food and water. The medicine man tended his back, twice changing the poultice. After the jolting pain of the astringent, the humid warmth of the poultice was like the soothing touch of a maternal hand.

  The first light of early morning lit the teepee in a faint glow when Glass awoke on the morning of the third day, the silence broken only by the occasional rustling of horses and the cooing of mourning doves. The medicine man lay sleeping, a buffalo robe pulled over his bony chest. Next to Glass lay a pile of neatly folded, buckskin clothing—breeches, beaded moccasins, and a simple doeskin tunic. He raised himself slowly and dressed.

  The Pawnee considered the Sioux their mortal enemies. Glass had even fought against a band of Sioux hunters in a small skirmish during his days on the Kansas plains. He had a new perception now. How could he be anything but appreciative for the Samaritan actions of Yellow Horse and the medicine man? The medicine man stirred, raising himself to a sitting position when he saw Glass. He said something that Glass could not understand.

  Yellow Horse showed up a few minutes later. He seemed pleased that Glass was up and about. The two Indians examined his back and seemed to speak approvingly at what they found. When they finished, Glass pointed to his back, raised his eyebrows questioningly to ask, “Does it look okay?” Yellow Horse pursed his lips and nodded his head.

  They met later that day in Yellow Horse’s teepee. Through a hodgepodge of sign language and drawings in the sand, Glass attempted to communicate where he came from and where he wanted to go. Yellow Horse seemed to understand “Fort Brazeau,” which Glass confirmed when the Indian drew a map showing the precise placement of the fort at the confluence of the Missouri with the White River. Glass nodded his head furiously. Yellow Horse said something to the braves assembled in the teepee. Glass could not understand, and went to sleep that night wondering if he should simply strike out on his own.

  He awoke the next morning to the sound of horses outside the medicine man’s teepee. When he emerged, he found Yellow Horse and the three young braves from the Arikara village. They were mounted, and one of the braves held the bridle of a riderless pinto.

  Yellow Horse said something and pointed to the pinto. The sun had just crested the horizon as they began the ride south toward Fort Brazeau.

  FOURTEEN

  October 6, 1823

  Jim Bridger’s sense of direction did not fail him. He had been right when he urged Fitzgerald to cut overland and away from the eastern turn of the Little Missouri River. The western horizon swallowed the last sliver of sun when the two men fired a rifle shot to signal their approach to Fort Union. Captain Henry sent out a rider to greet them.

  The men of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company treated Fitzgerald’s and Bridger’s entry into the fort with somber respect. Fitzgerald bore Glass’s rifle like the proud ensign of their fallen comrade. Jean Poutrine crossed himself as the Anstadt paraded past, and a few of the men removed their hats. Inevitable or not, the men found it unsettling to confront Glass’s death.

  They gathered in the bunkhouse to hear Fitzgerald’s account. Bridger had to marvel at his skill, at the subtlety and deftness with which he lied. “Not much to tell,” said Fitzgerald. “We all knew where it was going. I won’t pretend to have been his friend, but I respect a man who fights like he fought.

  “We buried him deep … covered him with enough rock to keep him protected. Truth is, Captain, I wanted to get moving right away—but Bridger said we ought to make a cross for the grave.” Bridger looked up, horrified at this last bit of embellishment. Twenty admiring faces stared back at him, a few nodding in solemn approval. God—not respect! What he had craved was now his, and it was more than he could bear. Whatever the consequences, he had to purge the awful burden of their lie—his lie.

  He felt Fitzgerald’s icy stare from the corner of his eye. I don’t care. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could find the right words, Captain Henry said, “I knew you’d pull your weight, Bridger.” More approving nods from the men of the brigade. What have I done? He cast his eyes to the ground.

  FIFTEEN

  October 9, 1823

  Fort Brazeau’s claim to the appellation of “fort” was tenuous at best. Perhaps the motivation for the name had been vanity—a desire to institutionalize a family name. Or perhaps the hope had been to deter attack through sheer force of nomenclature. Either way, the name exceeded its grasp.

  Fort Brazeau consisted of a single log cabin, a crude dock, and a hitching post. The cabin’s narrow slits for shooting represented the only evidence that any consideration had been given to the martial aspects of the building, and they did more to impede light than arrows.

  Scattered teepees spotted the clearing around the fort, a few pitched temporarily by Indi
ans visiting to trade, a few pitched permanently by resident Yankton Sioux drunks. Anyone traveling on the river put in for the night. They usually camped under the stars, although for two bits the prosperous could share space on a straw tick in the cabin.

  Inside, the cabin was part sundry shop and part saloon. Dimly lit, the main sensations were olfactory: day-old smoke, the greasy musk of fresh hides, open barrels of salted codfish. Barring drunken conversation, the primary sounds came from the constant buzz of flies and occasional buzz of snoring from a sleeping loft among the rafters.

  The fort’s namesake, Kiowa Brazeau, peered at the five approaching riders through thick spectacles that made his eyes appear unnaturally large. It was with considerable relief that he made out the face of Yellow Horse. Kiowa had worried about the disposition of the Sioux.

  William Ashley had just spent the better part of a month at Fort Brazeau, planning the future of his Rocky Mountain Fur Company in the wake of the debacle at the Arikara villages. The Sioux had been allies with the whites in the battle against the Arikara. Or, more accurately, the Sioux had been allies until they had grown weary of Colonel Leavenworth’s listless tactics. Halfway through Leavenworth’s siege, the Sioux abruptly departed (though not before stealing horses from both Ashley and the U.S. Army). Ashley viewed the Sioux desertion as treachery. Kiowa harbored quiet sympathy for the attitude of the Sioux, though he saw no need to offend the founder of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. After all, Ashley and his men had been Kiowa’s best customers ever, purchasing virtually his entire inventory of supplies.

  Ultimately, though, Fort Brazeau’s meager economy depended on trade with the local tribes. The Sioux took on added significance since the dramatic change in relations with the Arikara. Kiowa worried that the Sioux’s disdain for Leavenworth might extend to him and his trading post. The arrival of Yellow Horse and three other Sioux braves was a good sign, particularly when it became clear that they were delivering a white man who had apparently been in their care.

  A small crowd of resident Indians and transiting voyageurs gathered to greet the newcomers. They stared in particular at the white man with the horrible scars on his face and scalp. Brazeau spoke to Yellow Horse in fluent Sioux, and Yellow Horse explained what he knew of the white man. Glass became the uncomfortable focus of dozens of gazing eyes. Those who spoke Sioux listened to Yellow Horse’s description of finding Glass, alone with no weapons, grievously wounded by a bear. The rest were left to wonder, though it was obvious that the white man had a story to tell.

  Kiowa listened to Yellow Horse’s story before addressing himself to the white man. “Who are you?” The white man seemed to struggle with his words. Thinking he did not understand, Brazeau switched to French:

  “Qui êtes-vous?”

  Glass swallowed and gently cleared his throat. He remembered Kiowa from the Rocky Mountain Fur Company’s brief layover on its way upriver. Kiowa obviously didn’t remember him. It occurred to Glass that his appearance had changed significantly, although he still had not had a good glimpse of his own face since the attack. “Hugh Glass.” It pained him to speak, and his voice came out as a kind of pitiful, screeching whine. “Ashley man.”

  “You just missed Monsieur Ashley. He sent Jed Stuart west with fifteen men, then headed back to St. Louis to raise another brigade.” Kiowa waited a minute, thinking that if he paused the wounded man might offer more information.

  When the man showed no signs of saying anything further, a one-eyed Scotsman gave voice to the group’s impatience. In a dim-witted brogue he asked, “What happened to you?”

  Glass spoke slowly and with as much economy as possible. “Grizzly attacked me on the Upper Grand.” He hated the pathetic whine of his voice, but he continued. “Captain Henry left me with two men.” He paused again, placing his hand to comfort his wounded throat. “They ran off and stole my kit.”

  “Sioux bring you all the way here?” asked the Scot.

  Seeing the pain in Glass’s face, Kiowa answered for him. “Yellow Horse found him alone at the Arikara villages. Correct me if I’m wrong, Monsieur Glass, but I’ll wager you made it down the Grand on your own.”

  Glass nodded.

  The one-eyed Scotsman started to ask another question, but Kiowa cut him off. “Monsieur Glass can save his tale for later. I’d say he deserves a chance to eat and sleep.” The eyeglasses lent Kiowa’s face an intelligent and avuncular air. He grabbed Glass by the shoulder and led him into the cabin. Inside, he placed Glass at a long table and said something in Sioux to his wife. She produced a heaping plate of stew from a giant, cast iron pot. Glass inhaled the food, then two more large helpings.

  Kiowa sat across the table from him, watching patiently through the dim light and shooing away the gawkers.

  As he finished eating, Glass turned to Kiowa with a sudden thought.

  “I can’t pay.”

  “I didn’t expect that you’d be carrying a lot of cash. An Ashley man can draw credit at my fort.” Glass nodded his head in acknowledgment. Kiowa continued, “I can equip you and get you on the next boat to St. Louis.”

  Glass shook his head violently. “I’m not going to St. Louis.” Kiowa was taken aback. “Well, just where do you plan on going?”

  “Fort Union.”

  “Fort Union! It’s October! Even if you make it past the Rees to the Mandan villages, it’ll be December by the time you get there. And that’s still three hundred miles from Fort Union. You going to walk up the Missouri in the middle of winter?”

  Glass didn’t answer. His throat hurt. Besides, he wasn’t looking for permission. He took a sip of water from a large tin cup, thanked Kiowa for the food, and started to climb the rickety ladder to the sleeping loft. He stopped part way, climbed back down and walked outside.

  Glass found Yellow Horse camped away from the Fort on the banks of the White River. He and the other Sioux had tended their horses, done a little trading, and would leave in the morning. Yellow Horse avoided the fort as much as possible. Kiowa and his Sioux wife had always treated him honestly, but the whole establishment depressed him. He felt disdain and even shame for the filthy Indians who camped around the fort, prostituting their wives and daughters for the next drink of whiskey. There was something to fear in an evil that could make men leave their old lives behind and live in such disgrace.

  Beyond Fort Brazeau’s effect on the resident Indians, other aspects of the post left him profoundly disquieted. He marveled at the intricacy and quality of the goods produced by the whites, from their guns and axes to their fine cloth and needles. Yet he also felt a lurking trepidation about a people who could make such things, harnessing powers that he did not understand. And what about the stories of the whites’ great villages in the East, villages with people as numerous as the buffalo. He doubted these stories could be true, though each year the trickle of traders increased. Now came the fight with the Arikara and the soldiers. True, it was the Arikara that the whites sought to punish, a tribe for which he himself held no goodwill. And true, the white soldiers had been cowards and fools. He struggled to understand his unease. Taken bit by bit, none of his forebodings seemed overwhelming. Yet Yellow Horse sensed that these scattered strands came together somehow, braided in a warning that he could not yet fully perceive.

  Yellow Horse stood when Glass walked into the camp, a low fire illuminating their faces. Glass had thought about trying to pay the Sioux for their care, but something told him that Yellow Horse would take offense. He thought about some small gift—a pigtail of tobacco or a knife. Such trifles seemed inadequate expressions of his gratitude. Instead he walked up to Yellow Horse, removed his bear-claw necklace, and placed it around the Indian’s neck.

  Yellow Horse stared at him for a moment. Glass stared back, nodded his head, then turned and walked back toward the cabin.

  When Glass climbed again to the sleeping loft, he found two voyageurs already asleep on the large straw tick. In a corner under the eaves, a ratty hide had been spread in the crampe
d space. Glass eased himself down and found sleep almost instantly.

  A loud conversation in French woke Glass the next morning, rising to the loft from the open room below. Jolly laughter interspersed the discussion, and Glass noticed he was alone in the loft. He lay there for a while, enjoying the luxury of shelter and warmth. He rolled from his stomach to his back.

  The medicine man’s brutal treatment had worked. If his back was not yet fully healed, the wounds at least had been purged of their vile infection. He stretched his limbs one by one, as if examining the complex components of a newly purchased machine. His leg could bear the full weight of his body, although he still walked with a pronounced limp. And though his strength had not returned, his arm and shoulder could function normally. He assumed that the recoil of a rifle would cause sharp pain, but he was confident in his ability to handle a gun.

  A gun. He appreciated Kiowa’s willingness to equip him. What he wanted, though, was his gun. His gun and a reckoning from the men who stole it. Reaching Fort Brazeau seemed markedly anticlimactic. True, it was a milestone. Yet for Glass the fort did not mark a finish line to cross with elation, but rather a starting line to cross with resolve. With new equipment and his increasingly healthy body, he now had advantages that he had lacked in the past six weeks. Still, his goal lay far away.

  As he lay on his back in the loft, he noticed a bucket of water on a table. The door opened below and a cracked mirror on the wall caught the morning light. Glass rose from the floor and walked slowly to the mirror.

  He wasn’t exactly shocked at the image staring back at him. He expected to look different. Still, it was strange finally to see the wounds that for weeks he could only imagine. Three parallel claw marks cut deep lines through the heavy beard on his cheek. They reminded Glass of war paint. No wonder the Sioux had been respectful. Pinkish scar tissue ringed his scalp line, and several gashes marked the top of his head. Where hair did grow, he noticed that gray now mixed with the brown he knew before—particularly in his beard. He paid particular attention to his throat. Again, parallel swaths marked the path of the claws. Knobby scars marked the points where the sutures had been tied.