Henry glanced at Glass, lying on the litter in the shade of the pines.
He had never returned to the task of properly stitching Glass’s scalp. It still lay haphazardly atop his head, purple-black around the edges where dried blood now held it in place, a grotesque crown on a shattered body. The captain felt anew the polarizing mix of sympathy and anger, resentment and guilt.
He could not blame Glass for the grizzly attack. The bear was simply a hazard in their path, one of many. When the troop left St. Louis, Henry knew that men would die. Glass’s wounded body merely underscored the precipice that each of them walked every day. Henry considered Glass his best man, the best mix of seasoning, skills, and disposition. The others, with the possible exception of Black Harris, he viewed as subordinates. They were younger, dumber, weaker, less experienced. But Captain Henry saw Glass as a peer. If it could happen to Glass, it could happen to anyone; it could happen to him. The captain turned from the dying man.
He knew that leadership required him to make tough decisions for the good of the brigade. He knew that the frontier respected—required—independence and self-sufficiency above all else. There were no entitlements west of St. Louis. Yet the fierce individuals who comprised his frontier community were bound together by the tight weave of collective responsibility. Though no law was written, there was a crude rule of law, adherence to a covenant that transcended their selfish interests. It was biblical in its depth, and its importance grew with each step into wilderness. When the need arose, a man extended a helping hand to his friends, to his partners, to strangers. In so doing, each knew that his own survival might one day depend upon the reaching grasp of another.
The utility of his code seemed diminished as the captain struggled to apply it to Glass. Haven’t I done my best for him? Tending his wounds, portaging him, waiting respectfully so that he might at least have a civilized burial. Through Henry’s decisions, they had subordinated their collective needs to the needs of one man. It was the right thing to do, but it could not be sustained. Not here.
The captain had thought of abandoning Glass outright. In fact, so great was Glass’s suffering that Henry wondered briefly whether they should put a bullet in his head, bring his misery to an end. He quickly dismissed any notion of killing Glass, but he wondered if he could somehow communicate with the wounded man, make him understand that he could no longer risk the entire brigade. They could find him shelter, leave him with a fire, weapons, and provisions. If his condition improved, he could join them on the Missouri. Knowing Glass, he suspected this was what the man would ask for if he could speak for himself. Surely he wouldn’t jeopardize the lives of the other men.
Yet Captain Henry couldn’t bring himself to leave the wounded man behind. There had been no coherent conversation with Glass since the bear attack, so ascertaining his wishes was impossible. Absent such clear guidance, he would make no assumptions. He was the leader, and Glass was his responsibility.
But so are the other men. So was Ashley’s investment. So was his family back in St. Louis, a family that had waited more than a decade for the commercial success that seemed always as distant as the mountains themselves.
That night the men of the brigade gathered around the three small fire pits. They had fresh meat to smoke, a buffalo calf, and the shelter of the pines gave them added confidence in building fires. The late August evening cooled quickly after sunset: not cold, but a reminder that a change of season lurked just over the horizon.
The captain stood to address the men, a formality that foreshadowed the seriousness of what he would say. “We need to make better time. I need two volunteers to stay with Glass. Stay with him here until he dies, give him a proper burial, then catch up. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company will pay $70 for the risk of staying back.”
A pine knot burst from one of the fires, catapulting sparks into the clear night sky. Otherwise the camp fell silent as the men pondered the situation and the offer. It was eerie to contemplate Glass’s death, however certain. A Frenchman named Jean Bernot crossed himself. Most of the others simply stared at the fire.
No one said anything for a long time. They all thought about the money. Seventy dollars was more than a third of their wage for the entire year. Viewed through the cold prism of economics, Glass would surely die soon. Seventy dollars to sit in a clearing for a few days, then a week of tough marching to catch up with the brigade. Of course they all knew there was a real risk in staying back. Ten men were little deterrent from attack. Two men were none. If a war party happened upon them … Seventy dollars bought you nothing if you were dead.
“I’ll stay with him, Captain.” The other men turned, surprised that the volunteer was Fitzgerald.
Captain Henry was unsure how to react, so suspicious was he of Fitzgerald’s motive.
Fitzgerald read the hesitation. “I ain’t doing it for love, Captain. I’m doing it for money, pure and simple. Pick somebody else if you want somebody to mother him.”
Captain Henry looked around the loose circle of men. “Who else’ll stay?” Black Harris threw a small stick on the fire. “I will, Captain.” Glass had been a friend to Harris, and the idea of leaving him with Fitzgerald didn’t sit right.
None of the men liked Fitzgerald. Glass deserved better.
The captain shook his head. “You can’t stay, Harris.”
“What do you mean I can’t stay?”
“You can’t stay. I know you were his friend, so I’m sorry. But I need you to scout.”
Another long silence followed. Most of the men stared blankly into the fire. One by one they arrived at the same uncomfortable conclusion: It wasn’t worth it. The money wasn’t worth it. Ultimately, Glass wasn’t worth it. Not that they didn’t respect him, like him even. Some, like Anderson, felt an additional debt, a sense of obligation for gratuitous acts of past kindness. It would be different, thought Anderson, if the captain were asking them to defend Glass’s life—but that was not the task at hand. The task at hand was waiting for Glass to die, then burying him. It wasn’t worth it.
Henry began to wonder if he would have to entrust the job to Fitzgerald alone, when suddenly Jim Bridger rose clumsily to his feet. “I’ll stay.”
Fitzgerald snorted sarcastically. “Jesus, Captain, you can’t leave me to do this with some pork-eating boy! If it’s Bridger that stays you better pay me double for tending to two.”
The words jabbed at Bridger like punches. He felt his blood rise in embarrassment and anger. “I promise you, Captain—I’ll pull my weight.”