The Revenant

Glass braced himself and the medicine man poured.

The astringent ignited the most intense pain that Glass had ever felt, like molten iron in a mold of human flesh. At first the pain was specific, as the liquid seeped into each of the five cuts, inch by excruciating inch. Soon though, the pointed fire spread into a broader wave of agony, pulsating with the rapid beat of his heart. Glass sunk his teeth into the soft wood of the stick. He tried to imagine the cathartic effect of the treatment, but he could not transcend the immediacy of the pain.

The astringent had the desired effect on the maggots. Dozens of the wriggling white forms struggled to the surface. After a few minutes, the medicine man used a large ladle of water to wash the worms and the burning liquid from Glass’s back. Glass panted as the pain slowly receded. He had just begun to catch his breath when the medicine man poured again from the big gourd.

The medicine man applied four doses of the astringent. When he had washed the final traces away, he packed the wounds in a steaming poultice of pine and larch. Yellow Horse helped Glass into the medicine man’s teepee. A squaw brought freshly cooked venison. He ignored his stinging back long enough to gorge himself, then laid down on a buffalo robe and fell into a deep sleep.

He passed in and out of sleep for almost two straight days. In his moments of wakefulness, he found next to him a replenished supply of food and water. The medicine man tended his back, twice changing the poultice. After the jolting pain of the astringent, the humid warmth of the poultice was like the soothing touch of a maternal hand.

The first light of early morning lit the teepee in a faint glow when Glass awoke on the morning of the third day, the silence broken only by the occasional rustling of horses and the cooing of mourning doves. The medicine man lay sleeping, a buffalo robe pulled over his bony chest. Next to Glass lay a pile of neatly folded, buckskin clothing—breeches, beaded moccasins, and a simple doeskin tunic. He raised himself slowly and dressed.

The Pawnee considered the Sioux their mortal enemies. Glass had even fought against a band of Sioux hunters in a small skirmish during his days on the Kansas plains. He had a new perception now. How could he be anything but appreciative for the Samaritan actions of Yellow Horse and the medicine man? The medicine man stirred, raising himself to a sitting position when he saw Glass. He said something that Glass could not understand.

Yellow Horse showed up a few minutes later. He seemed pleased that Glass was up and about. The two Indians examined his back and seemed to speak approvingly at what they found. When they finished, Glass pointed to his back, raised his eyebrows questioningly to ask, “Does it look okay?” Yellow Horse pursed his lips and nodded his head.

They met later that day in Yellow Horse’s teepee. Through a hodgepodge of sign language and drawings in the sand, Glass attempted to communicate where he came from and where he wanted to go. Yellow Horse seemed to understand “Fort Brazeau,” which Glass confirmed when the Indian drew a map showing the precise placement of the fort at the confluence of the Missouri with the White River. Glass nodded his head furiously. Yellow Horse said something to the braves assembled in the teepee. Glass could not understand, and went to sleep that night wondering if he should simply strike out on his own.

He awoke the next morning to the sound of horses outside the medicine man’s teepee. When he emerged, he found Yellow Horse and the three young braves from the Arikara village. They were mounted, and one of the braves held the bridle of a riderless pinto.

Yellow Horse said something and pointed to the pinto. The sun had just crested the horizon as they began the ride south toward Fort Brazeau.

FOURTEEN

OCTOBER 6, 1823

JIM BRIDGER’S SENSE OF DIRECTION did not fail him. He had been right when he urged Fitzgerald to cut overland and away from the eastern turn of the Little Missouri River. The western horizon swallowed the last sliver of sun when the two men fired a rifle shot to signal their approach to Fort Union. Captain Henry sent out a rider to greet them.

The men of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company treated Fitzgerald’s and Bridger’s entry into the fort with somber respect. Fitzgerald bore Glass’s rifle like the proud ensign of their fallen comrade. Jean Poutrine crossed himself as the Anstadt paraded past, and a few of the men removed their hats. Inevitable or not, the men found it unsettling to confront Glass’s death.

They gathered in the bunkhouse to hear Fitzgerald’s account. Bridger had to marvel at his skill, at the subtlety and deftness with which he lied. “Not much to tell,” said Fitzgerald. “We all knew where it was going. I won’t pretend to have been his friend, but I respect a man who fights like he fought.

“We buried him deep … covered him with enough rock to keep him protected. Truth is, Captain, I wanted to get moving right away—but Bridger said we ought to make a cross for the grave.” Bridger looked up, horrified at this last bit of embellishment. Twenty admiring faces stared back at him, a few nodding in solemn approval. God—not respect! What he had craved was now his, and it was more than he could bear. Whatever the consequences, he had to purge the awful burden of their lie—his lie.

He felt Fitzgerald’s icy stare from the corner of his eye. I don’t care. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could find the right words, Captain Henry said, “I knew you’d pull your weight, Bridger.” More approving nods from the men of the brigade. What have I done? He cast his eyes to the ground.

FIFTEEN

OCTOBER 9, 1823

FORT BRAZEAU’S CLAIM TO THE appellation of “fort” was tenuous at best. Perhaps the motivation for the name had been vanity—a desire to institutionalize a family name. Or perhaps the hope had been to deter attack through sheer force of nomenclature. Either way, the name exceeded its grasp.

Fort Brazeau consisted of a single log cabin, a crude dock, and a hitching post. The cabin’s narrow slits for shooting represented the only evidence that any consideration had been given to the martial aspects of the building, and they did more to impede light than arrows.

Scattered teepees spotted the clearing around the fort, a few pitched temporarily by Indians visiting to trade, a few pitched permanently by resident Yankton Sioux drunks. Anyone traveling on the river put in for the night. They usually camped under the stars, although for two bits the prosperous could share space on a straw tick in the cabin.

Inside, the cabin was part sundry shop and part saloon. Dimly lit, the main sensations were olfactory: day-old smoke, the greasy musk of fresh hides, open barrels of salted codfish. Barring drunken conversation, the primary sounds came from the constant buzz of flies and occasional buzz of snoring from a sleeping loft among the rafters.