The Revenant

But Major Palacio was not in a hanging mood. The week before, he had sentenced to death a young Spanish soldier for falling asleep while on sentry duty, the proscribed punishment for the infraction. The hanging had left him deeply depressed, and he had spent the better part of the past week in confession with the local padre. He stared at the two prisoners and listened to their story. Was it the truth? How could he know for sure, and not knowing, by what authority could he take their lives?

Major Palacio offered Glass and Greenstock a deal. They were free to leave San Fernando de Bexar on one condition—that they traveled north. If they traveled south, Palacio feared that other Spanish troops would pick them up. The last thing he needed was a reprimand for pardoning pirates.

The men knew little about Texas, but Glass found himself suddenly exhilarated, about to embark without compass into the interior of the continent.

And so they made their way north and east, assuming at some point they would collide with the great Mississippi. In more than a thousand miles of wandering, Glass and Greenstock managed to survive on the open plain of Texas. Game was plentiful, including thousands of wild cattle, so food was rarely a problem. The danger came from successive territories of hostile Indians. Having survived their traipse through the territory of the Karankawa, they succeeded in avoiding the Comanches, the Kiowas, the Tonkawas, and the Osage.

Their luck ran out on the banks of the Arkansas River. They had just shot a buffalo calf and were preparing to butcher it. Twenty mounted Loup Pawnees heard the shot and came thundering over the crest of a rolling butte. The treeless plain offered no cover, not even rocks. Without horses, they stood no chance. Foolishly, Greenstock raised his weapon and fired, shooting the horse from one of the charging braves. An instant later he lay dead, three arrows protruding from his chest. A single arrow struck Glass in the thigh.

Glass didn’t even raise his rifle, staring in detached fascination as nineteen horses barreled toward him. He saw the flash of paint on the chest of the lead horse and black hair against the blue sky, but he barely felt the round stone of the coup stick that crashed against his skull.

Glass awoke in the Pawnee village. His head throbbed and he was tied at the neck to a post driven into the ground. They had bound his wrists and ankles, though he could move his hands. A crowd of children stood around him, chattering excitedly when he opened his eyes.

An ancient chief with stiffly spiked hair approached him, staring down at the strange man before him, one of the few white men he had ever seen. The chief, named Kicking Bull, said something that Glass could not understand, though the assembled Pawnee began whooping and howling in obvious delight. Glass lay on the edge of a great circle in the middle of the village. As his blurry vision began to focus, he noticed a carefully prepared pyre in the center of the circle and quickly surmised the source of the Pawnee glee. An old woman yelled at the children. They ran off as the Pawnee dispersed to prepare for the ceremonial conflagration.

Glass was left alone to assess his situation. Twin images of the camp floated before his eyes, merging only if he squinted or closed one eye. Looking down at his leg, he saw that the Pawnee had done him the favor of plucking out the arrow. It had not penetrated deeply, but the wound would certainly slow him down if he tried to flee. In short, he could barely see and he could barely walk, let alone run.

He patted the pocket in the front of his shirt, relieved that a small container of cinnabar paint had not fallen out. The cinnabar was one of the few trading goods he had grabbed in his escape from Campeche. Rolling to his side to conceal his actions, he pulled out the container, opened it, and spit into the powder, mixing it with his finger. Next he spread the paint on his face, careful to cover every inch of exposed skin from his forehead to the top of his shirt. He also smeared a large quantity of the thick paint into the palm of his hand. He recapped the small jar and buried it in the sandy soil beneath him. Finally finished, he rolled onto his stomach, resting his head on the crook of his arm so that his face remained hidden.

He stayed in that position until they came for him, listening to the excited preparations for his execution. Night fell, though an enormous fire illuminated the circle in the center of the Pawnee camp.

Glass was never really sure whether he intended his act as some type of symbolic final gesture, or whether he actually hoped for the effect which in fact occurred. He had heard that most savages were superstitious. In any event, the effect was dramatic, and, as it turned out, saved his life.

Two Pawnee braves and Chief Kicking Bull came to carry him to the pyre. When they found him, facedown, they read it as a sign of fear. Kicking Bull cut the bindings to the post, while the two braves each reached for a shoulder to pull him upright. Ignoring the pain in his thigh, Glass sprang to his feet, facing the chief, the braves, and the assembled tribe.

The collected Pawnee tribe stood in front of him, openmouthed in shock. Glass’s entire face was blood red, as if his skin had been stripped away. The whites of his eyes caught the light of the fire and shone like a fall moon. Most of the Indians had never seen a white man, so his full beard added to the impression of a demonic animal. Glass slapped one of the braves with his open hand, leaving a vermillion hand print etched on his chest. The tribe let out a collective gasp.

For a long moment there was complete silence. Glass stared at the Pawnee and the stunned Pawnee stared back. Somewhat surprised at the success of his tactic, Glass wondered what he should do next. He panicked at the thought that one of the Indians might suddenly regain his composure. Glass decided to begin shouting, and unable to think of anything else to say, he launched into a screaming recitation of the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name…”

Chief Kicking Bull stared in complete confusion. He had seen a few whites before, but this man appeared to be some type of medicine man or devil. Now the man’s strange chant appeared to be putting the entire tribe under some type of spell.

Glass ranted on: “For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever. Amen.”

Finally the white man stopped yelling. He stood there, panting like a spent horse. Chief Kicking Bull looked around him. His people looked back and forth between the chief and the crazy devil man. Chief Kicking Bull could feel the tribe’s blame. What had he brought upon them? It was time for a new course of action.

He walked slowly up to Glass, stopping directly in front of him. The chief reached around his neck, removing a necklace from which dangled a pair of hawk’s feet. He placed the necklace around Glass’s neck, staring questioningly into the devil man’s eyes.