Bridger struggled, desperately wanting to challenge Fitzgerald, but wholly incapable of articulating a rebuttal. Not for lack of words, this time, but rather for lack of reasons. It was easy to condemn Fitzgerald’s motivation—he said himself it was money. But what, he wondered, was his own motivation? It wasn’t money. The numbers all jumbled together, and his regular salary was already more wealth than he had ever seen. Bridger liked to believe that his motive was loyalty, fidelity to a fellow member of the brigade. He certainly respected Glass. Glass had been kind, watching out for him in small ways, schooling him, defending him against embarrassments. Bridger acknowledged a debt to Glass, but how far did it extend?
The boy remembered the surprise and admiration in the eyes of the men when he had volunteered to stay with Glass. What a contrast to the anger and contempt of that terrible night on sentry duty. He remembered how the captain had patted him on the shoulder when the brigade departed, and how the simple gesture had filled him with a sense of affiliation, as if for the first time he deserved his place among the men. Wasn’t that why he was there in the clearing—to salve his wounded pride? Not to take care of another man, but to take care of himself? Wasn’t he just like Fitzgerald, profiting from another man’s misfortune? Say what you would about Fitzgerald, at least he was honest about why he stayed.
SIX
AUGUST 31, 1823
ALONE IN THE CAMP on the morning of the third day, Bridger spent several hours repairing his moccasins, both of which had developed holes in the course of their travels. As a consequence, his feet were scraped and bruised, and the boy appreciated the opportunity for the repair work. He cut leather from a rawhide left when the brigade departed, used an awl to punch holes around the edge, and replaced the soles with the new hide on bottom. The stitching was irregular but tight.
As he examined his handiwork his eyes fell on Glass. Flies buzzed around his wounds and Bridger noticed that Glass’s lips were cracked and parched. The boy questioned again whether he stood on any higher moral plane than Fitzgerald. Bridger filled his large tin cup with cold water from the spring and put it to Glass’s mouth. The wetness triggered an unconscious reaction, and Glass began to drink.
Bridger was disappointed when Glass finished. It was good to feel useful. The boy stared at Glass. Fitzgerald was right, of course. There was no question that Glass would die. But shouldn’t I do my best for him? At least provide comfort in his final hours?
Bridger’s mother could tease a healing property from anything that grew. He wished many times that he had paid more attention when she had returned from the woods, her basket filled with flowers, leaves, and bark. He did know a few basics, and on the edge of the clearing he found what he was looking for, a pine tree with its sticky gum oozing like molasses. He used his rusty skinning knife to scrape off the gum, working until his blade was smeared with a good quantity. He walked back to Glass and knelt next to him. The boy focused first on the leg and arm wounds, the deep punctures from the grizzly’s fangs. While the surrounding areas remained black-and-blue, the skin itself appeared to be repairing. Bridger used his finger to apply the gum, filling the wounds and smearing the surrounding skin.
Next he rolled Glass to his side in order to examine his back. The crude sutures had snapped when the litter spilled, and there were signs of more recent bleeding. Still, it wasn’t blood that gave Glass’s back its crimson sheen. It was infection. The five parallel cuts extended almost the entire length of his back. There was yellow pus in the center of the cuts, and the edges practically glowed fiery red. The odor reminded Bridger of sour milk. Unsure what to do, he simply smeared the entire area with pine gum, returning twice to the trees to gather more.
Bridger turned last to the neck wounds. The captain’s sutures remained in place, though to the boy they seemed merely to conceal the carnage beneath the skin. The wheezing rumble continued from Glass’s unconscious breathing, like the loose rattle of broken parts in a machine. Bridger walked again into the pines, this time looking for a tree with loose bark. He found one and used his knife to pry loose the outer skin. The tender inner bark he gathered in his hat.
Bridger filled his cup again with water at the spring and set it in the coals of the fire. When it boiled, he added the pine bark, mashing the mixture with the pommel of his knife. He worked until the consistency was thick and smooth as mud. He waited for the poultice to cool slightly, then applied it to Glass’s throat, packing the mixture against the slashes and spreading it outward toward his shoulder. Next Bridger walked to his small pack, pulling out the remnants of his spare shirt. He used the cloth to cover the poultice, lifting Glass’s head to tie a knot firmly behind the man’s neck.
Bridger let the wounded man’s head return gently to the ground, surprised to find himself staring into Glass’s open eyes. They burned with an intensity and lucidity that juxtaposed oddly against his broken body. Bridger stared back, searching to discern the message that Glass clearly intended to convey. What is he saying?
Glass stared at the boy for a minute before allowing his eyes to fall closed. In his fleeting moments of consciousness, Glass felt a heightened sensitivity, as if suddenly made aware of the secret workings of his body. The boy’s efforts provided topical relief. The slight stinging of the pine gum had a medicinal quality, and the heat from the poultice created a steeping comfort at his throat. At the same time, Glass sensed that his body was marshaling itself for another, decisive battle. Not at the surface, but deep within.
By the time Fitzgerald returned to camp, the shadows of late afternoon had stretched into the fading glow of early evening. He carried a doe over his shoulder. He had field-dressed the animal, slitting her neck and removing the entrails. He let the deer fall next to one of the fires. She landed in an unnatural pile, so different from her grace in life.
Fitzgerald stared at the fresh dressings on Glass’s wounds. His face tensed. “You’re wasting your time with him.” He paused. “I wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn, except you’re wasting my time too.”
Bridger ignored the comment, though he felt the blood rise in his face. “How old are you, boy?”
“Twenty.”
“You lying piece of horseshit. You can’t even talk without squeaking. I bet you never seen a tit that wasn’t your ma’s.”
The boy looked away, hating Fitzgerald for his bloodhound ability to sense weakness.
Fitzgerald absorbed Bridger’s discomfort like the nourishment of raw meat. He laughed. “What! You never been with a woman? I’m right, aren’t I, boy? What’s the matter, Bridger—you didn’t have two bucks for a whore before we left St. Louis?”