There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune …
Three days later, the blacksmith told Bridger about a notice in the Missouri Republican. “To Enterprising Young Men…” Bridger knew his tide had come in.
The next morning Bridger awoke to find Fitzgerald bent over Glass, his hand pressed against the forehead of the wounded man.
“What’re you doing, Fitzgerald?”
“How long’s he had this fever?”
Bridger moved quickly to Glass and felt his skin. It was steamy with heat and perspiration. “I checked him last night and he seemed all right.”
“Well, he’s not all right now. It’s the death sweats. The son of a bitch is finally going under.”
Bridger stood there, unsure whether to feel upset or relieved. Glass began to shiver and shake. There seemed little chance that Fitzgerald was wrong.
“Listen, boy—we got to be ready to move. I’m going to scout up the Grand. You take the berries and get that meat pounded into pemmican.”
“What about Glass?”
“What about him, boy? You become a doctor while we’ve been camping here? There’s nothing we can do now.”
“We can do what we’re supposed to be doing—wait with him and bury him when he dies. That was our deal with the captain.”
“Scrape out a grave if it’ll make you feel better! Hell, build him a goddamn altar! But if I come back here and that meat’s not ready, I’ll whip on you till you’re worse off than him!” Fitzgerald grabbed his rifle and disappeared down the creek.
The day was typical of early September, sunny and crisp in the morning, hot by afternoon. The terrain flattened where the creek met the river, its trickling waters spreading wide across a sandbar before joining the rushing current of the Grand. Fitzgerald’s eyes were drawn downward to the scattered tracks of the fur brigade, still apparent after four days. He glanced upriver, where an eagle perched like a sentry on the bare branch of a dead tree. Something startled the bird. It opened its wings, and with two powerful flaps lifted itself from its perch. Carving a neat pivot on the tip of its wing, the bird turned and flew upriver.
The screaming whinny of a horse cut the morning air. Fitzgerald spun around. The morning sun sat directly on the river, its piercing rays merging with water to form a dancing sea of light. Squinting against the glare, Fitzgerald could discern the silhouettes of mounted Indians. He dropped to the ground. Did they see me? He lay on the ground for an instant, his breath arriving in staccato spurts. He snaked toward the only cover available, a scrubby stand of willows. Listening intently, he heard again the whinny of the horse—but not the churning pound of charging horses. He checked to ensure his rifle and pistol were charged, removed his wolf-skin hat, and lifted his head to peer through the willows.
There were five Indians at a distance of about two hundred yards on the opposite bank of the Grand. Four of the riders formed a loose semicircle around the fifth, who quirted a balking pinto. Two of the Indians laughed, and all of them seemed transfixed by the struggle with the horse.
One of the Indians wore a full headdress of eagle feathers. Fitzgerald was close enough to see clearly a bear-claw necklace around his chest and the otter pelts that wrapped his braids. Three of the Indians carried guns; the other two bows. There was no war paint on the men or the horses, and Fitzgerald guessed they were hunting. He wasn’t sure of the tribe, although his working assumption was that any Indians in the area would view the trappers with hostility. Fitzgerald calculated that they were just beyond rifle range. That would change quickly if they charged. If they came, he would have one shot with the rifle and one with the pistol. He might be able to reload his rifle once if the river slowed them down. Three shots at five targets. He didn’t like the odds.
Belly to the ground, Fitzgerald wormed his way toward the cover of the higher willows near the creek. He crawled through the middle of the brigade’s old tracks, cursing the markings that so clearly betrayed their position. He turned again when he reached the thicker willows, relieved that the Indians remained preoccupied with the stubborn pinto. Still, they would arrive at the confluence of the creek with the river in a matter of instants. They would notice the creek, and then they would notice the tracks. The goddamn tracks! Pointing like an arrow up the creek.
Fitzgerald worked his way from the willows to the pines. He pivoted to take one final look at the hunting party. The skittish pinto had settled, and all five Indians now continued up the river. We have to leave now. Fitzgerald ran up the creek the short distance to the camp.
Bridger was pounding venison against a stone when Fitzgerald burst into the clearing. “There’s five bucks coming up the Grand!” Fitzgerald began wildly stuffing his few possessions into his pack. He looked up suddenly, his eyes focused in intensity and fear, then anger. “Move, boy! They’ll be on our tracks any minute!”
Bridger stuffed meat into his parfleche. Next he threw his pack and possibles bag over his shoulders, then turned to grab his rifle, leaning against a tree next to Glass’s Anstadt. Glass. The full implications of flight struck the boy like a sudden, sobering slap. He looked down at the wounded man.
For the first time that morning, Glass’s eyes were open. As Bridger stared down, the eyes initially had the glassy, uncomprehending gaze of one awakening from deep sleep. The longer Glass stared, the more his eyes seemed to focus. Once focused, it was clear that the eyes stared back with complete lucidity, clear that Glass, like Bridger, had calculated the full meaning of the Indians on the river.
Every pore in Bridger’s body seemed to pound with the intensity of the moment, yet to Bridger it seemed that Glass’s eyes conveyed a serene calmness. Understanding? Forgiveness? Or is that just what I want to believe? As the boy stared at Glass, guilt seized him like clenched fangs. What does Glass think? What will the captain think?
“You sure they’re coming up the creek?” Bridger’s voice cracked as he said it. He hated the lack of control, the demonstrable weakness in a moment demanding strength.
“Do you want to stay and find out?” Fitzgerald moved to the fire, grabbing the remaining meat from the drying racks.
Bridger looked again at Glass. The wounded man worked his parched lips, struggling to form words through a throat rendered mute. “He’s trying to say something.” The boy knelt, struggling to understand. Glass slowly raised his hand and pointed a shaking finger. He wants the Anstadt. “He wants his rifle. He wants us to set him up with his rifle.”