Next Glass searched for the three sticks he needed to support the deadfalls. The downed cottonwood provided an array of choices. He selected three branches about an inch in diameter and broke them off at a span about the length of his arm. Next he broke the three sticks in two. Snapping the first stick sent a jarring pain through his shoulder and back, so the next two he leaned against the cottonwood and broke with one of his rocks.
When he was finished he had a stick, broken in two, for each trap. Reassembled at the break, the broken stick would support, albeit precariously, the weight of the leaning rock. Where the two pieces of the support stick came together, Glass would wedge a baited trigger stick. When the trigger stick was bumped or tugged, the support stick would collapse like a buckling knee, dropping the lethal weight on the unsuspecting target.
For the trigger sticks, Glass selected three slender willows, cut to a length of about sixteen inches. He had noticed dandelion leaves near the river, and he gathered a large handful to bait the traps, jabbing a number of the tender leaves on each trigger stick.
A narrow trail covered with droppings led into the thickest part of the downed cottonwood. Glass selected this location for the first deadfall and began to assemble the components.
The difficulty with a deadfall lay in striking a balance between stability and fragility. Stability kept the trap from collapsing on its own, though too much would prevent it from collapsing at all; fragility allowed the trap to collapse easily when tripped by its prey, though too much would cause it to collapse on its own. Striking this balance required strength and coordination, and Glass’s wounds robbed him of both. His right arm could not support the weight of the rock, so he perched it clumsily against his right leg. Meanwhile, he struggled with his left hand to hold the two pieces of the support stick with the trigger stick wedged in between. Again and again the entire structure collapsed. Twice he decided that he had set the trap too firmly, and knocked it down himself.
After nearly an hour, he finally struck a proper balance point. He found two more suitable locations on the trails near the cottonwood and set the other deadfalls, then retreated away from the cottonwood toward the river.
Glass found a sheltered spot against a cut bank. When he could no longer stand the pangs of hunger, he ate the bitter roots from the dandelions he had plucked for the traps. He drank from the river to wash the taste from his mouth and lay down to sleep. Rabbits were most active at night. He would check the deadfalls in the morning.
Sharp pain in his throat awakened Glass before dawn. The first light of the new day seeped like blood into the eastern horizon. Glass shifted his position in an unsuccessful effort to relieve the pain in his shoulder. As the pain eased he became aware of the chill in the early morning air. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his shredded blanket tightly around his neck. He lay there uncomfortably for an hour, waiting for sufficient light to check the traps.
The bitter taste still lingered in his mouth as he crawled toward the downed cottonwood. He was vaguely aware of the rotten stench of skunk. Both of these sensations evaporated as he imagined a rabbit roasting on a spit above a crackling fire. The nourishment of flesh; he could smell it, taste it.
From fifty yards, Glass could see all three deadfalls. One stood unmoved, but the other two had been tripped—their rocks lay flat on the ground, the support sticks collapsed. Glass could feel his pulse pounding in his throat as he crawled hurriedly forward.
Ten feet from the first trap, he noticed the multitude of new tracks on the narrow game trail, the scattered piles of fresh scat. His breath grew short as he peered around the backside of the rock—nothing protruded. He lifted the rock, still hopeful. The trap was empty. His heart sank in disappointment. Did I set it too finely? Did it collapse on its own? He crawled rapidly to the other rock. Nothing protruded from the front. He strained to see around to the blind side of the trap.
He saw a flash of black and white and heard a hiss, barely perceptible.
Pain registered before his mind could grasp what had happened. The deadfall had pinned a skunk by its foreleg, but the animal’s capacity to spew forth a noxious spray was very much alive. It felt as if burning lamp oil had been poured into his eyes. He rolled backward in a futile effort to avoid more of the vapor. Completely blind, he half crawled, half rolled toward the river.
He crashed into a deep pool by the bank, desperately seeking to wash away the searing spray. With his face under water, Glass attempted to open his eyes, but the burning was too intense. It took twenty minutes before he could see again, and then only by squinting painfully through bloodred, watery slits. Finally Glass crawled to the bank. The nauseating reek of the skunk’s scent clung to his skin and clothing like frost on a windowpane. He had once watched a dog roll in the dirt for a week, trying to rid itself of skunk. Like the dog, he knew the stink would ride him for days.
As the burning in his eyes slowly subsided, Glass took a quick inventory of his wounds. He touched his neck and looked at his fingers. There was no blood, though the internal pain continued when he swallowed or inhaled deeply. He realized that he hadn’t tried to speak for several days. Tentatively, he opened his mouth and forced air over his voice box. The action produced sharp pain and a pathetic, squeaking whine. He wondered if he would ever be able to speak normally.
By craning his neck, he could see the parallel cuts that ran from his throat to his shoulder. Bridger’s pine tar still coated the area. His entire shoulder ached, but the cuts appeared to be healing. The puncture wounds on his thigh also looked relatively healthy, although his leg still would not support the weight of his body. From touching his scalp he could imagine that it looked horrible, but it no longer bled and it caused no pain.
Aside from his throat, the area that most concerned him was his back. He lacked the agility to inspect the wounds with his hands, and unable to see them, his mind conjured horrible images. He felt strange sensations that he assumed were the repeated breaking of scabs. He knew that Captain Henry had tied sutures, and he occasionally felt scratching from the loose ends of thread.
More than anything he felt the corrosive void of hunger.
He lay on the sandy bank, exhausted and utterly demoralized by this latest turn of events. A clump of yellow flowers stood atop a slender green stalk. The stalk looked like wild onion, but Glass knew better. It was Death Camas. Is it Providence? Has this been placed here for me? Glass wondered how the poison would work. Would he drift off peacefully into a never-ending sleep? Or would his body contort in an agonizing death? How different could it be from his current state? At least there would be certainty that the end was coming.