The Revenant Page 17

  “Swim for it!” yelled Glass. He grabbed Dominique by the collar and pulled him deeper into the river, losing his grip on one of the rifles in the process. The current caught the three men and dragged them downstream. Bullets continued to rain into the water, and Glass looked back to see the Arikara lining the shoreline.

  Glass struggled to keep one hand gripped on La Vierge and one hand gripped on the remaining rifle while kicking furiously to stay afloat. Dominique kicked too, and they managed to clear the jetty. La Vierge’s face kept bobbing beneath the water. Both men battled to keep the wounded man afloat. Dominique started to yell something, which was drowned out when a rapid swamped his own face. The same rapid nearly caused Glass to lose his grip on his rifle. Dominique began to kick toward the shoreline.

  “Not yet!” Glass implored. “Further downstream!” Dominique ignored him. His feet brushed the bottom in chest-deep water, and he flailed toward the shallows. Glass looked behind them. The rocks of the jetty created a significant barrier on land. The shoreline below the jetty consisted of a high-cut bank. Still, it wouldn’t take the Arikara more than a few minutes to maneuver their way around it.

  “We’re too close!” yelled Glass. Again Dominique ignored him. Glass contemplated swimming on alone, but instead helped Dominique drag La Vierge ashore. They lay him on his back, reclined against the steep curve of the bank. His eyes flickered open, but when he coughed, blood spit forth from his mouth. Glass rolled him to his side to inspect the wound.

  The bullet had entered La Vierge’s back below his left shoulder blade.

  Glass saw no way that it could have missed his heart. Dominique came silently to the same conclusion. Glass checked the rifle. For the moment, the wet charge rendered it useless. He looked at his belt. The hatchet still hung in its place, but his pistol was lost. Glass looked at Dominique. What do you want to do?

  They heard a soft sound and turned to see La Vierge, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth. His lips began to move, and Dominique took his brother’s hand and held his ear close to understand. In a faint whisper, La Vierge was singing:

  Tu es mon compagnon de voyage …

  Dominique recognized instantly the familiar song, though never before had it seemed so completely despondent. His eyes welled with tears, and he sang along in a gentle voice:

  Tu es mon compagnon de voyage.

  Je veux mourir dans mon canot.

  Sur le tombeau, près du rivage,

  Vous renverserez mon canot.

  You are my voyageur companion.

  I’ll gladly die in my canoe.

  And on the grave beside the canyon,

  You’ll overturn my canoe.

  Glass looked toward the jetty, seventy-five yards upriver. Two Arikara appeared on the rocks. They pointed guns and began to yell.

  Glass put his hand on Dominique’s shoulder. He started to say, “They’re coming,” but the report of two rifles said it for him. The bullets thudded against the bank.

  “Dominique, we can’t stay here.”

  “I won’t leave him,” he said in his thick accent.

  “Then we’ve all got to try the river again.”

  “No.” Dominique shook his head emphatically. “We can’t swim with him.”

  Glass looked again toward the jetty. The Arikara swarmed over now.

  There’s no time!

  “Dominique.” Glass’s tone was urgent now. “If we stay here, we’ll all die.” More guns cracked.

  For an excruciating moment, Dominique said nothing, gently stroking his brother’s ashen cheek. La Vierge stared peacefully ahead, a dim light glinting in his eyes. Finally Dominique turned to Glass. “I won’t leave him.” More guns.

  Glass fought a collision of instincts. He needed time, time to think through his action, time to justify it—but there was none. Rifle in hand, he dove into the river.

  Dominique heard a whining sound and felt a bullet bury itself in his shoulder. He thought about the horrible stories he had heard of Indian mutilations. He looked down at La Vierge. “I won’t let them cut us up.” He grabbed his brother under the arms and dragged him into the river. Another bullet crashed into his back. “Don’t worry, little brother,” he whispered, leaning back into the current’s welcoming arms. “It’s all downstream from here.”

  EIGHTEEN

  December 6, 1823

  Glass squatted naked next to the small fire, as close to the flame as he could bear. He cupped his hands to capture the heat. He held them close, waiting until the last instant before he was certain his skin would blister, then pressed the hot flesh against his shoulders or thighs. The heat seeped in for a moment, but failed to penetrate the chill instilled in him by the icy waters of the Missouri.

  His clothing hung on crude racks around three sides of the fire. The buckskins remained soggy, though he noted with relief that his cotton shirt was mostly dry.

  He had floated nearly a mile downstream before climbing out into the thickest stand of brush he could find. He burrowed into the center of the bramble on a trail cut by rabbits, hopeful that no larger animal would follow. Within the tangle of willows and driftwood, he found himself once again taking somber inventory of his wounds and his possessions.

  By comparison to the recent past, Glass felt considerable relief. He had a number of bruises and abrasions from the fight on the banks and the flight down the river. He even discovered a wound on his arm where it appeared that a bullet had grazed him. His old wounds ached in the cold, but did not appear otherwise aggravated. Except for the possibility that he would freeze to death, a possibility that seemed very real, he had managed to survive the Arikara attack. For an instant he saw again the image of Dominique and La Vierge, huddled on the cut bank. He pushed the thought from his mind.

  As for his possessions, the most significant loss was his pistol. His rifle was soaked but serviceable. He had his knife and his possibles bag with flint and steel. He had his hatchet, which he used to shave kindling into a shallow pit. He hoped his powder was dry. He uncapped his powder horn and poured a dab on the ground. He set a flame to it from the fire and the powder ignited with a smell like rotten eggs.

  His satchel was gone, with his spare shirt, blanket, and mittens. The satchel also contained his hand-sketched map, carefully marking the tributaries and landmarks of the upper Missouri. It mattered little since he remembered them by heart. Relatively speaking, he felt well equipped.

  Though still damp, he decided to put on his cotton shirt. At least the weight of the cloth helped take the chill off his aching shoulder. Glass tended the fire for the rest of the day. He worried about the smoke it created, but he worried more about catching his death of cold. He tended his rifle to take his mind off the chill, drying it completely and applying grease from a small container in his possibles bag. By nighttime his clothing and rifle were ready.

  He considered moving only at night. Somewhere nearby lurked the same Arikara that attacked the camp. He hated just sitting there, even if his position was well concealed. But there was no moon to light a path along the rough bank of the Missouri. He had no choice but to wait until morning.

  As daylight faded, Glass took the clothes from the willow rack and dressed himself. Next he scooped a shallow, square pit near the fire. He used two sticks to remove scorching-hot stones from a ring around the flames, arranged them in the pit, then covered them with a thin layer of dirt. He added as much wood to the fire as he dared, then lay down on top of the seething stones. Between the mostly dry buckskins, the stones, the fire, and sheer exhaustion, he crossed a minimal threshold for warmth that permitted his body to sleep.

  For two days Glass crept up the Missouri. For a while he wrestled with the question of whether he had inherited responsibility for Langevin’s mission with the Arikara. He finally decided that he had not. Glass’s commitment to Brazeau had been to provide game for the deputation, a task he had dutifully performed. He had no idea whether Elk Tongue’s band represented the intentions of the other Arika
ra. It mattered little. The ambush underscored the vulnerability of slogging upriver by boat. Even if he received assurances from some faction of the Arikara, he had no intention of returning to Fort Brazeau. His own business was more pressing.

  Glass guessed, correctly, that the Mandan village lay nearby. Though the Mandan were known as peaceful, he worried about the effect of their new alliance with the Arikara. Would the Arikara be present in the Mandan village? How might the attack on the voyageurs have been portrayed? Glass saw no reason to find out. He knew that a small trading post called Fort Talbot lay ten miles up the Missouri from the Mandan village. He decided to skirt the Mandans altogether, aiming instead for Fort Talbot. The few supplies he wanted, a blanket and a pair of mittens, he could find at the fort.

  On the evening of the second day after the attack, Glass decided that he could no longer avoid the risk of hunting. He was ravenous, and a hide would also give him something to trade. He found fresh elk tracks near the river and followed them through a grove of cottonwoods into a large clearing, flanking the river for half a mile. A small stream parceled the clearing in two. Grazing near the stream, Glass could see a large bull along with two cows and three fat calves. Glass worked his way slowly through the clearing. He was almost within range when something spooked the elk. All six stood staring in the direction of Glass. Glass started to shoot when he realized that the elk weren’t looking at him—they were looking behind him.

  Glass looked over his shoulder to find three mounted Indians emerging from the cottonwoods, a quarter mile back. Even at that distance, Glass could make out the spiked hairstyle worn by Arikara braves. He could see the Indians pointing as they kicked their horses and galloped toward him.

  He desperately looked around him for any source of cover. The closest trees stood more than two hundred yards in front of him. He would never cover the ground in time. Nor could he make it to the river—he was cut off. He could stand and shoot, but even if he hit his target, he could never reload in time to hit all three riders, probably not even two. In desperation he ran for the distant trees, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg.

  Glass had barely covered thirty yards when he pulled up in dread—another mounted Indian stepped from the cover of the cottonwoods in front of him. He looked back. The charging Arikara had covered half the distance between them. He looked again toward the new rider—now aiming down the barrel of his gun. The new rider fired. Glass winced in anticipation of the shot, but it flew high over his head. He turned back toward the Arikara. One of their horses was down! The Indian in front of him had shot at the other three! Now the shooter galloped toward him, as Glass realized he was Mandan.

  Glass had no idea why, but the Mandan appeared to be coming to his aid. Glass spun to face his attackers. The two remaining Arikara had closed to within a hundred and fifty yards. Glass cocked his rifle and aimed. At first he tried to line his sights on one of the riders, but both Arikara hunched low behind their ponies’ heads. He moved his aim to one of the horses, picking the hollow spot just below the neck.

  He squeezed the trigger and the rifle spit forth his shot. The horse screamed and its legs seemed to fold in front of it. Dust flew as it ploughed to an abrupt stop, its rider flying over the dead animal’s head.

  Glass heard the pounding of hooves and looked up at the Mandan, who motioned him to jump on the horse. He leapt up, looking back to see the remaining Arikara rider rein his mount, firing a shot that missed. The Mandan kicked his horse and they broke for the trees. He turned the horse when they reached the cottonwoods. Both men dismounted to reload their rifles.

  “Rees,” said the Indian, pointing in their direction. “No good.”

  Glass nodded as he rammed a new charge home.

  “Mandan,” said the Indian, pointing to himself. “Good friendly.” Glass aimed at the Arikara, but the sole remaining rider had retreated out of range. The two mountless Indians flanked him on either side. The loss of two horses had stolen their appetite for pursuit.

  The Mandan called himself Mandeh-Pahchu. He had been tracking the elk when he had stumbled across Glass and the Arikara. Mandeh-Pahchu had a good idea where the scarred white man came from. Only the day before, the translator Charbonneau had arrived in the Mandan village. Well known to the Mandans from his time with Lewis and Clark, Charbonneau related the story of the Arikara attack on the voyageurs. Mato-Tope, a Mandan chief, had been furious with Elk Tongue and his renegade band. Like the trader Kiowa Brazeau, Chief Mato-Tope wanted the Missouri open for business. Though he understood Elk Tongue’s anger, clearly the voyageurs meant no harm. In fact, according to Charbonneau, they had come bearing gifts and an offer of peace.

  Mato-Tope had feared exactly this type of incident when the Arikara came seeking a new home. The Mandan relied increasingly on commerce with the white man. There had been no traffic from the south since Leavenworth’s attack on the Arikara. Now word of this newest incident would keep the river closed.

  Word of Chief Mato-Tope’s anger spread quickly through the Mandan village. The young Mandeh-Pahchu saw the rescue of Glass as an opportunity to gain favor with the chief. Mato-Tope had a beautiful daughter for whose affection Mandeh-Pahchu had been competing. He pictured himself parading through the village with his new trophy, delivering the white man to Mato-Tope, the entire village looking on as he recounted his tale. The white man, though, seemed to suspect the detour. He doggedly repeated a single phrase: “Fort Talbot.”

  From his vantage point on the back of his horse, Glass regarded Mandeh-Pahchu with keen interest. Though he had heard many stories, he had never seen a Mandan in the flesh. The young brave wore his hair like a crown—a preening mane to which he obviously devoted considerable attention. A long ponytail wrapped in strips of rabbit skin trailed down his back. On the top of his head his hair hung loose, flowing like water over the sides, plastered down with grease and cut bluntly at the jaw line. In the center of his forehead a forelock had also been greased and combed. There were other gaudy adornments. Large pewter earrings tugged at three gaping holes where his right ear had been pierced. A choker of white beads contrasted sharply against the copper skin of his neck.

  Reluctantly, Mandeh-Pahchu decided to take the white man to Fort Talbot. It was close, barely three hours’ ride. Besides, perhaps he could learn something at the fort. There had been rumors of an incident with the Arikara at Fort Talbot. Perhaps the fort would want to pass a message to Mato-Tope. It was a big responsibility, passing messages. Between the story about the white man and the important message he would no doubt be carrying, Mato-Tope would be pleased. His daughter could not help but be impressed.

  It was almost midnight when the onyx profile of Fort Talbot loomed up suddenly against the featureless night. The fort cast no light onto the plain, and Glass was surprised to find himself only a hundred yards from the log ramparts.

  They saw a flash of fire and at the same instant heard the sharp crack of a rifle from the fort. A musket ball whined inches above their heads.

  The horse jumped and Mandeh-Pahchu struggled to control it. Glass mustered his voice, calling out angrily, “Hold your fire! We’re friendly!”

  A voice answered suspiciously from the blockhouse. “Who are you?”

  Glass saw a glimmer of light off the barrel of a rifle and the dark form of a man’s head and shoulders.

  “I’m Hugh Glass with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.” He wished that he could still project strength with his voice. As it was, he could barely make himself heard across even this short distance.

  “Who’s the savage?”

  “He’s a Mandan—he just saved me from three Arikara warriors.” The man on the tower yelled something and Glass heard fragments of a conversation. Three more men with rifles appeared on the blockhouse. Glass heard noise behind the heavy gate. A small wicket opened and they felt themselves again under scrutiny. From the wicket a gruff new voice demanded, “Ride up where we can see you better.”

  Mandeh-Pahchu nudged the horse fo
rward, reining in front of the gate. Glass dismounted and said, “Any particular reason you’re so trigger-happy?”

  The gruff voice said, “My partner was murdered by Rees in front of this gate last week.”

  “Well, neither one of us is Arikara.”

  “Wouldn’t know that, sneaking around in the dark.”

  In contrast to Fort Brazeau, Fort Talbot felt like a place under siege. Its log walls rose twelve feet around a rectangular perimeter, perhaps a hundred feet on the long sides and no more than seventy on the short ones. Two crude blockhouses stood on diagonally opposite corners, built so that their innermost corner touched the outermost corner of the fort. From this abutted position they commanded all four walls. One of the blockhouses—the one above them—had a crude roof, evidently built to protect a large-bore swivel gun from the elements. The other had the beginnings of a roof that had never been completed. A rough corral backed up to the fort on one side, though no stock grazed within.

  Glass waited while the eyes behind the wicket continued their scrutiny. “What’s your business?” asked the gruff voice.

  “I’m bound for Fort Union. I need a few provisions.”

  “Well we ain’t got much to provide.”

  “I don’t need food or powder. Just a blanket and mittens and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Don’t appear that you’ve got much to trade.”

  “I can sign a draft for a generous price on behalf of William Ashley. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company will be sending a party downriver in the spring. They’ll make good on the draft.” There followed a long pause. Glass added, “And they’ll look favorably on a post that gives aid to one of their men.”

  Another pause, then the wicket closed. They heard the movement of a heavy timber and the gate began to yawn on its hinge. The gruff voice attached itself to a runt of a man who appeared to be in charge. He stood there with a rifle and two pistols at his belt. “Just you. No red niggers in my fort.”